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Mother’s Day, Motherless – Continuing To Explore The Tsunami of Grief

When is celebrating Mother’s Day appropriate for you? Could you handle commemoration now? Is the timing right? Would it upset you to choose, accept, carry a carnation, rose, or tulip, its pristine whiteness blaring your private pain, rather than a blood-red one, its elitist color assigned to those whose mothers may still be hugged? cbd oil

To “commemorate:” How leaden that sounds, so heavy, historical, ancient, cold, as if death’s sooty touch had despoiled our lives centuries past, and not just, as it feels, a roiling moment ago. Must it intrude — now — in a particular season, during a month, on a day, when your heart thrashes at the thought? Many countries hold holidays at disparate times. What about your doing so?

What is your mother’s birthday or poignant anniversary? What is her favorite day of the week? Activity? Philosophy? Poem? Song? Artwork? Dessert?

To hail our mothers, and the unsung mother-type figures in our lives, let’s reflect: Why buy a carnation, if your mother favored the tiger lily? Why the second week in May, if your mother’s soul danced at sight of leafy hillocks ablaze, during glorious Autumns?

What may be the best present we proffer, despite the sheath of sadness enwrapping us? I feel confident in suggesting that the unconditional essence of Love, otherwise known as nearly every mother, would utter one request. It would be that Love’s hurting offspring release deep sadness, or at least not exacerbate it. If such an offering requires eschewing a one-size-fits-all Mother’s Day, so be it.

We may truly venerate our mothers by recuperating, a sign of her inherited resiliency, her strength, within us. I think back to several years ago, per my family, when nearly all we had was demolished by Hurricane Charley. Mildly cognitive, my mother surveyed our debris: the jumble of walls, car, roof, momentos, half of my framed diploma, clothing, grapefruit-tree, her heirloom piano, book-shelves from the lanai, pureed encyclopoedia pages, just-bought groceries, back-yard patio chair, tool shed cresting the splash-pool, neighbor’s staircase, street sign, our lawn mover straddling the upended washing machine. She turned to me and advised with halting tone but clear intent, that we were alive, that for us it had not been a tragedy, but rather “just an annoying adventure.” How wise. How evident, besides, her plucky resolve.

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