Rest in Peace

I spent the weekend in the community where I grew up, gathered with my family to bury my mother’s ashes. She died 8 months ago, hours before a hurricane which knocked out power for 11 days. The crematorium lost power and we weren’t able to have her ashes in time for her celebration of life. That, by the way, is a worse-case scenario not even I considered.

Reflecting on all of the reasons for booking my trip to Kenya, my mother’s death contributed to my decision to go. It was a reminder to live, and to live well.
A lot of things I dislike about myself come from my mother.  A lot of the things I like about myself come from my mother as well.

My mother was a pretty amazing and talented woman in a lot of ways. She was resourceful and knew every home remedy ranging from how to close a wound with tree sap in a pinch, to how to get white rings out of a coffee table, and everything in between. She sewed her own clothes, and was always crafting things to hand out as gifts to anyone who visited her.  And, she really knew her way around the kitchen! In these ways, her resourcefulness and creativity, I see her in me and I am glad I do.

There are a lot of ways I see her in me, that I work hard against. These Richard hips for starters; but also insecurities that used to manifest in jealousy, negativity or anxiety.

You see, the thing I was thinking about a lot over the weekend was how when my father died, on his request, we sprinkled his ashes in the ocean. He was in that moment, unanchored and set free to drift among the currents and the waves, which is a lot like how he lived in his youth. I feel his spirit in the salt spray whether I am home in Charlos Cove, or home in Lawrencetown.

My mother’s ashes were kept sealed in a little box and then buried in the dark cold ground. And, while that is not uncommon, it was interesting to think about the contrast, and how that ending for her, is much like how she lived.

Further to this, on the night my father died it was the clearest night I can remember, with a full beautiful moon lighting up the sky. I will never forget the calm beauty of that night. My mother died during a hurricane, and I will never forget that either.  While my father had his own fears and challenges, and passed along some unfavorable traits of his own, I have albums full of photos of him in different parts of the world on boats where he worked, often where he is smiling and looks without a care in the world. He had his many cantankerous moments which I remember well, but I mostly remember him being social, and smiling a lot, and always singing as he puttered around the house. Each of my siblings have very different experiences and memories of both of my parents. For me, having been born very late in my father’s life, I witnessed as he seemed to gain a sense of peace as he aged.  I honestly don’t remember my mother being carefree in any capacity, and in photos I have of her when she was young she appears uncomfortable in most of them. She lacked confidence in a lot of ways I expect, and she certainly lacked peace; I believe she was at war with her own fears and anxieties much of the time but wasn’t able to name them.

My mom was fearless in the face of some things – always there to help anyone who came to her in medical distress with no fear of blood, and confident in her innate skills to provide medical aid to my accident-prone uncles on multiple (sometimes traumatic) occasions. And she surely wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or set boundaries; a sometimes positive and sometimes negative trait that I have inherited as well.

But mom was afraid of so many things! Of dogs, of driving (she never learned how), of being a passenger in a car, definitely of any social situations or crowds, of thunder and storms, and sometimes of stepping off her own front porch.

I used to be afraid of underground parking. I found it claustrophobic, and I was nervous to be alone, wondering if as a small woman I am at risk of assault or being abducted in the dark shadows, and I sometimes worried I would get stuck if the little gate didn’t release. When mom was dying, I challenged myself to park in underground parking at the hospital. I really had to have a little talk with myself and make myself do it the first two times. And while I was doing that, I was thinking about how I didn’t want to die in a hospital room after having spent a life afraid of things, and being boxed in by my own anxieties or insecurities, like my mother.

Following her death, I booked my trip.  And I am working everyday to not rest in peace but to live in peace.

Driving home from my weekend in Charlos Cove I thought about my dad’s ashes, my mother’s ashes, and my own. I want mine scattered with reckless abandon in all sorts of delightful places – on the patterns in the sand at low tide, into the air on the day of a hurricane and on the night of a thunder storm, at the top of a mountain that was a treacherous climb, delicately over the side of a row boat on a calm day, and on a trail where the mayflowers will bloom in the spring. Please drop some at the loudest most crowded rock concert you can find, and in the cobblestone at a patio table outside a café in France or Italy. Maybe a few over the side of a hot air balloon. 

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