Keep Walking

March 25th marked the two year anniversary of my father's death. As I contemplated what I wanted to write about this week, it seemed only natural to share a letter that I wrote for the first writing class I joined just six months after my father's passing in September 2010. Our class assignment was to write a letter that could be sent as a message in a bottle. Wearing my grief and innermost feelings on my sleeve has always felt inherently unnatural for me, but it was as if a force greater than myself was at work pushing my pain through my pen, exposing my grief, vulnerability; squeezing pieces of my very soul out onto the white pages I passed out to a dozen or so perfect strangers each Tuesday night. It was an amazingly cathartic first step towards healing- reaffirming to me that as we allow ourselves to surrender completely to the moments, we are strengthened, reshaped, and refined in ways that are impossible to comprehend while in the process. Our growth is limited and often arrested when we clench tightly instead to our own perceived powers, abilities, and limitations. Today, I marvel at my experience; my capacity to trust in myself, those thirteen fellow writers and a teacher who read, listened, and even wept with me as I openly grieved the passing of my beloved father. Two years later, I miss him everyday as I Keep Walking and writing...


Dearest Beachcomber,

If you find this letter, know that it was written as a token of gratitude for the sea more than anything else. I wonder what beach you're standing on? What burdens you might carry with you today; whether your favorite beach is as comforting a place for you as my little beach has been for me...or if what I have to say will resonate with you in anyway? Who have you loved and lost? Did you have someone beside you to lean on for repose when you thought your heart would surely break... or did you stand alone? I wonder if you will think I am just a crazy middle aged woman who still believes if you write a letter and seal it up in a bottle, someone will actually find and read it? Perhaps what I write won't interest you in the least. I just know I must release this and keep walking...

My year has been as unprecedentedly cold and gloomy as the weather here in Carlsbad. I too have been socked in. How glad I am that the sea and her marine layer didn't mock me with warmth and light. It made it easier for me to come lay my burdens at her feet. I walked miles each week, marveling at her ability to mirror me on any given day. On those occasional, beautiful Southern California days we had this past summer, I intuitively came to her anyway, knowing she always gave to me exactly what I needed. I lapped up her warm, delicious offerings like a hungry, orphaned child.

As I met with the sea at her shoreline, I mourned the loss of my father: my person, my whole life through. I questioned with her out loud the notion that God never gives to us anything we cannot handle. She let me ask all the questions, knowing that when I was ready to receive the answers, they would come to me. Many times when simply walking beside her was not enough, I would throw off my gauzy cover up, stepping into her, as if to say, " I need a hug today." Within her, all my thoughts and feelings (moving as freely as her liquid currents) poured out to her in perfect trust. I would then lay back into her releasing what seemed like buckets of salty tears and choking, childlike sobs into her buoyant, maternal creche; somehow I was preserved for just a moment. She felt kindred to me. Her ebb and flow not much different than my own soul's stillness and searching, or my heart's break and continuum, reaffirming that with every breath there is a rise and fall in each of us. I heard her whisper to me, as if entrusting me with a great confidence, "This is the rhythm of ALL living."

As I walked each day, I stopped to gather pieces of her to take home with me: smooth stones, diminutive driftwood, small shells and cloudy shards of glass. I took this precious time to gather me as well: lost pieces of self, either forgotten or shelved. How could my father's death, the worst thing that has ever happened to me, hold the possibility of bringing out the best in me and help me find my way? My suffering forced me to go deeper, contemplating who I was and what I wanted to do with my life before I die. Six months spent in thoughtful introspection, brought with it the realization that I had made life too small for myself. I was living a boxed life and had only a few small air holes poked at the top in which to breathe. My profound loss and desperation forced me to begin to loosen my tight grip on life, allowing me to both reach and surrender: a parting gift from my free spirited father.

And so along with this letter in a bottle, I share with you, my beach combing friend, my love and gratitude for these: my personal gifts from the sea. I hope and pray that you might find all that you are searching for today, as you too keep walking...

Julia

Fly Away Home

My daughter Megan headed back to NYU on Sunday morning. I spent the entire day in my flannel pajamas and moped for as long as I could stand it, knowing it never really does me any good. I watched a depressing movie (thinking it would be cathartic) only to realize it made my heavy-heartedness, well...heavier. I then stripped her bed with the same bravery I exact when ripping a band aid off of a wound that has not yet healed, but I must clean and inspect for improvement. Clutching her well-worn, white sheets to my chest, I took in a deep breath of her and with great reluctance let her out again. Am I any better at this after seven months of saying goodbye for long periods of time and then hello again for what seems like ten minutes? No, not really... I am just faking it for now. I tell myself that she is at nineteen a young woman of the universe. She was never really mine. I had temporary responsibility to care for her until she was old enough to leave home; boy did she. New York may as well be China on most days- she is so far from my reach. I don't know how mother birds do it? They are so brave; so trusting. We humans are tempted to clip our children's wings with our own fears, insecurities, and opinions. In doing so we hinder their ability to grow from dependency to freedom. This is selfish on our part. I must practice letting go of my daughter on a daily basis, grateful she is fiercely independent; a remarkably capable girl who I raised to FLY. I mustn't encumber her with responsibility for my well-being and the emptiness that now occupies my maternal heart. The big question is still, "What do I do now?"

I am proud that we weren't helicopter parents so typical of our generation. We began practicing a more passive kind of parenting Megan's last two years at home, allowing her some earned freedoms, and a bit of adult autonomy during her senior year. Megan never disappointed us. This only solidified in our hearts and minds she was indeed ready to leave. I was the one who wasn't ready. I prepped her with self defense classes, later curfews, and championed her prayerful consideration of colleges and ultimate choice of attending NYU. Unfortunately, I didn't think about my personal readiness while embarking upon this intensely emotional and constantly evolving maternal process. Sure, I did some preparatory grieving during her senior year mourning all the lasts. However, I was unprepared in anticipating the real sense of loss I would feel without the intense, daily engagement I once had with my girl. My life changed dramatically in just a year. I think I miss most the quintessential mother/daughter things: manicures and pedicures, breakfasts and lunches at our favorite little cafes, our conversations about everything and nothing, sitting on her bed watching her get ready for dates, (while interjecting the need for her to apply a little lip gloss or voting for a favorite accessory) watching her rehearse at the ballet studio, and snuggling with her on the couch watching a girl movie. Weaning myself from these types of interactions never occurred to me. If it did, I am not at all sure I would have been willing to have sacrificed even one of them for my ultimate well being in the end anyway.

Even the loss of the most elemental experiences are still difficult for me: church on Sunday, cooking dinner, shopping, driving on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching Glee and Project Runway, Pilate's class- because none of it is the same without her. To be truthful, some of it I have had to just avoid for now. I instead began replacing these things with different kinds of activities to help with the adjustment. I wish I could tell you it's easy and working fine for me. The truth is I'm still trying to find my equilibrium. I know I must look to my own happiness and not look back too much. It's hard. A lot of what I have tried feels like empty filler, but I continue to persevere managing life's changing chapters in my own life, while celebrating hers. I am so happy to hear she got an A on the paper, the interview went well, her roommate cleaned their room, and she wants to stay in New York during the summer and get an internship (What...? My mother's heart screams). Realizing she won't want to keep calling and talking to a weepy mess who hasn't got a life outside of hers is motivation enough to go get myself a life and appear happy while trying. I never want her to feel responsible for my happiness and I hope she'll return the favor. I have lived that kind of love; it's an impostor. I owe it to myself and to Megan to thrive. I had a mother who didn't and I know from experience it's burdensome.

I am looking at the box of worn pointe shoes Megan sorted through while she was home on spring break; the bags of her clothing and cast away items I must take to Good Will this week. As we prepare to down-size to a smaller place, we asked her to go through closets, drawers, shelves, and dance bags to decide what she wanted to keep or not. Seeing the trash bags: carelessly discarded yesterdays tear at me. I WANT TO RIP OPEN the white plastic and hold on to every item because what I really want is to hold on to my little girl. Her room is still intact. Depending on the day it's either heartbreaking or comforting to sit on her bed looking around her teen room. The bold art posters, the eclectic bulletin board with concert stubs, notes from friends, photos, and school memorabilia are all pieces of the girl she once was and the woman she is becoming. As I sift through the throw away pile, I pick up a pair of satiny, blush pink pointe shoes that represent so much: my daughter's pink and white dreams, her passions, dedication, discipline; her gifts. I mentally pat myself on the back, knowing that I am responsible in part for dreams realized because I loved and nurtured the spirit she came with, parenting both the child and the gifts until she was capable of doing it for herself. That day has arrived. I just never expected it to be so bittersweet.

We're given approximately eighteen years to love our children as children, care for their basic and sometimes extravagant needs, raise them in a hopefully happy, supportive environment, encourage their desires, help foster their gifts and talents, and shape their character. I know if we can't let go of our grown children it limits the lives of all concerned. Adult children lose confidence in their own powers when parents exercise too much of their own (power) over their grown children. I've done my job. I can really say that with conviction and pride. Knowing this, I believe in my daughter and in her ability to govern her own life. I am here for support and gentle guidance. My new job: to maintain my personal happiness and enjoy my life, marriage, and new found freedom to come and go as I please, perhaps join my husband on business trip or two, and explore new possibilities for myself. It's not all bad. Just before Megan came home this month, I had a few weeks that I actually began settling in and started enjoying my new life for the first time since we left her in NY. I had a little setback this week and needed to remind myself once again that it took time to settle into parenting and it will take perhaps even more time to adjust to not having to parent a child on a daily basis. As I have spent three days wondering how I can make this better for myself, I realized I need to look forward to my daughter's visits, not live for them. Well intended comments from older parents such as, "Once they leave for college they never really come back" or "You're not letting them go- you're letting them grow" begin to slowly penetrate my consciousness.

 I know I must recover a truer sense of autonomy. I examine ongoing ways I must nurture and accept myself as more than a mother. I will continue to explore avenues to strengthen my spiritual and creative base, and therefore my own power. I am comforted by the assurance from having two older sons that I will never cease being Megan's mother. For now, I just miss my baby bird and hope she always flies west for the winter. Spring and summer would be a nice bonus, but I am realistic. New York in the fall is already on my calendar, but today I commit to living in the moment; to finding and creating my own joy on a daily basis, realizing this empty nest thing is a journey...

The Good Wife

I am hostessing a bridal shower for my niece on Saturday. As I clean, plan, create, and envision the perfect peacock themed party for my darling niece, I'm feeling overly nostalgic as I contemplate her wedding. She is the first girl in our family to get married in a very long time. My daughter, my two nieces, and our beautiful bride to be have been dreaming up their weddings since they were little girls. It's a beautiful thing to see my sister's daughters and my own be included as bridesmaids. It seems like these four little girls should still be having Barbie weddings on their bedroom floors. It's hard to believe this new generation of Fillweber women are in the pursuit of love and lifelong commitments and not Beanie Baby acquisitions. Preparing to get married is an act of hope, optimism; an affirmation of life. I'm happy to take part in some small way. It's almost impossible not to reflect on my own marriage in the process. Marrying my husband was the best decision I have ever made. Instinctively, I knew almost immediately Pat was a good man and he would make an amazing husband. I haven't always been the best wife... just an ordinary woman still in pursuit of becoming a better one.

Marriage: I have found strength and God in the pursuit of this lifelong commitment. It continues to refine me. I have thought a lot this week about the Good Wife described in the book of Proverbs 31:10-31. Living up to the virtues so eloquently described in these verses is intimidating... even now. I don't think they're meant to be. Instead, I think it's a charge to rise and live up to our inherently divine nature as women. It's really quite beautiful. Again, I am weepy.  I should have contemplated these verses more over the years and made them my creed. I am thinking about having it typed and framed in a modern way and giving it to all of the girls before they get married. It reads as follows:

Who can find a virtuous woman?
For her grace is far above rubies.

The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her,
So that he shall have no need of spoil.

She will do him good and not evil
All the days of her life.

She seeketh wool and flax,
And worketh willingly with her hands.

She is like the merchants' ships;
She bringeth her food from afar.

She riseth also while it is yet night,
And giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.

She considereth  a field, and buyeth it:
With the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.

She girdeth her loins with strength,
And strengtheneth her arms.

She perceiveth that her merchandise is good:
Her candle goeth not out by night.

She layeth her hands to the spindle,
And her hands hold the distaff.

She stretcheth out her hand to the poor;
Yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

She is not afraid of the snow for her household:
For all her household are clothed with scarlet.

She maketh herself coverings of tapestry;
Her clothing is silk and purple.

Her husband is known in the gates,
When he sitteth among elders of the land.

She maketh fine linen, and selleth it;
And delivereth girdles unto the merchant.

Strength and honor are her clothing.
And she shall rejoice in time to come.

She openeth her mouth with wisdom;
And in her tongue is the law of kindness.

She looked well to the ways of her household,
And eateth not the bread of idleness.

Her children arise up, and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praiseth her:

"Many daughters have done virtuously,
 But thou excellest them all."

Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain:
But a woman that feareth the Lord,
She shall be praised.

Give her of the fruit of her hands;
And let her own works praise her in the gates.


(Sigh...) I didn't always "do him good" all the days...he entrusted his heart to me and there were times I stomped all over it. Giving someone your whole heart is no small thing. Megan and I will have a conversation about this. These are the kinds of things I wish my mother had talked to me about. A marriage is fragile and precious. You must guard and protect it. I want to scream this from the roof top to my young gender! They need to know this!

 I think back to Pat's brother in law's funeral many years ago. I sat next to my husband and watched him fight to keep it together as best he could, for as long as I could. He loved his brother in law and it pained him to watch his poor sister and their four children during the funeral mass. His face was contorted in attempted control. I grabbed his cheeks, kissed his forehead and pulled him into my chest. He sobbed for a very long time. I also remember my husband having to tell me he didn't get the job. He was sure he would- we both were. I could see the devastation in his eyes after six long months. I was very "afraid of the snow for my household", but I told him I knew he would get another job, a better job. I've had my share of virtuous, good wifely moments, but there were so many other days (less obvious maybe) that I turned away in my busyness. Shamefully, there were those times that I hurt and I knew he was hurting too, but my pain somehow trumped his. I think I don't even want to get into my "tongue" breaking "the law of kindness." I am a criminal. At almost fifty, I know we don't get "do overs", but I know I could be so much better at this if we did.

I'm thinking this is what we need to wrap up and give to our daughters, nieces, granddaughters and the rest of them as shower gifts: Our experience (both good and bad), our commitment to God to be examples of the womanhood He created within us; giving voice to our virtue, our potential, our strength, and tenderness. Our birthright as women is a priceless gift. This being my opus, I want more time to practice and share it. I hope I'm gifted many more years because twenty were obviously not enough. I am seriously rethinking all of the fun and funky Anthropology kitchen stuff so nicely wrapped for Saturday. I want to have a dozen prints of Proverb's The Good Wife stashed- ready to wrap... anybody know of a good typographer?