Snakeskin Journey

I’ve booked a flight for my return home and the clock is ticking.  As long as I told myself my stay was indefinite, I could put off facing the very plain fact that my visit has not changed much for folks here.

I would have liked, of course, to leave a nicely tied bow around them all…a gift of time and energy to be opened and enjoyed in my absence.  But that is not possible, nor was it expected.  The situation here—parents aging in both mind and body, sisters worn from their vigil of care, everyday patterns created from decades of rubbing shoulders—it is what it is.  No temporary infusion from me or anyone else can alter this course although I gladly bear witness to the importance of trying to make a difference.

Contemplating the possibility of my mother’s death only to have my mother-in-law die suddenly instead, has raised the issue of what is truly important.  Trying to make a difference is important to me, for instance.  Being quiet is important, especially when one is weary of the drama.  Hugging is important, as is receiving the hugs that come your way.  Oh, and eye contact—looking directly into another’s eyes (windows to the soul, as they say)—now that is important.  Laughing…black humor will do in a pinch…is important.  And crying, that crying I’ve yet to do over the losses and sadnesses that have piled up in the past month, that is important and shall surely come.

Things, all the heaps and mounds of things we humans tend to collect over the course of a life are not so important.  At best they remind others of a life well lived, at worst they divide and sow seeds of discontent.  As I begin to anticipate a return to the little house filled with all of my comfortable, familiar things I vow to remember what is important.