THIRTEEN months old
You are Eternal Beings. And when you re-emerge into Non-Physical, you do not become less-than. You don’t become nebulous, unfocused energy that just swirls around in nothingness. You assume that perspective of All-Knowingness. You remember all that you are, not just the personality that you were.
But when your daughter, or someone who loves you, recalls that which you were and approaches it from a positive vibrational standpoint, you can reconstitute that energy and be, for a moment in time, that focused energy.
When I have a little girl, I want to decorate her room in mermaids.
Random, I know. But I was scrolling through bed sheets on Target’s website and stumbled upon a mermaid set, thinking how cute it’d be to have a little Maine themed room, with seagulls and sand dollars and white clouds pouted on the walls. I can picture it all perfectly.
And speaking of Maine, we have our dates set aside for this October. Instead of waiting for Chris to say yes, I simply took the initiative and started small steps, like saving my yoga money in a stashed envelope, booking our hotel, and gathering enough gumption to ask Papap, the vetted pilot, to fly us there in his airplane–which will be an experience all together on its own.
Everett is walking now. He hasn’t completely committed to two feet, but he’s been successfully taking steps and strides across the room. I’d say in a month, he’ll be running around the yard, chasing after Clifford.
People keep saying, “Good luck once he’s walking!” But I’m glad he’s so close; I honestly cannot carry him everywhere anymore. My back and spine have several muscled knots, caused from heaving around my cute twenty-seven-pound ball of chunk.
I seem to be having more and more fun with him, the older he gets. Every time he learns something new or makes a first face or tries a new sound, it’s exciting. I know and understand why mothers get upset thinking of their babies growing up, but they’re supposed to evolve forward. For some reason, my baby growing just makes me proud, not sad. If he was my last, I think I’d feel differently, but the plan is that eventually, there will be several more children to follow.
We’ve been playing outside on our porch a lot. Chris just painted its wooden floor, and I purchased an outdoor table, along with a new three-wick candle to top its center. Maybe tonight we’ll eat dinner out there, call it a romantic date. We’re having pork chops and Caesar salad, tossed with Fodder’s dressing recipe. I love making it and thinking of your Dad, the two of you together, wherever you are now.
Yesterday, Everett and I spent the day out at Nana’s. She took us to a local greenhouse, where we picked out perennials in the welcome-back warmth of the sun. Nana bought me a lavender plant, and another little one called a “creeping jenny.” I had to have it because of my middle name, and it’s now snuggled in the spring dirt outside my house, ready to creep, I guess.
We then went to Home Goods and shopped for stuff we didn’t need, but I enjoyed browsing the store while Everett sat in the cart, snacking on crackers and making eye contact with everyone who passed. He loves going places, observing and interacting with willing strangers who always ooooo and ahhhh over his blonde twirly curls.
Chris was already home when I returned, so I was able to swiftly leave for yoga while he handled Everett. I was grateful to go. I hadn’t practiced for two weeks.
During my commute, I asked aloud if you’d be in class with me…I asked for some kind of awareness of your presence. Because sometimes when I practice, when both my mind and body are still and unified, I feel you. I swear I sometimes even hear you, like this flowing voice coming through me without a hinge of pause, and you completely fill me up.
And minutes later, when I walked into the studio, sitting on the check-in desk were lily of the valley flowers, set in a little Dixie cup. You might as well have been standing there saying, Now how much more obvious do I have to be? Because I know when those lilies show, it’s you.
At the end of this yoga class, during the final resting period, I laid on my back with my arms draped up and over my head, physically exhausted, with my mind completely turned off. I was so relaxed, I wasn’t even aware of my body. I was just being, temporarily existing in what felt like a balloon of bliss that was impossible to puncture. It was incredible.
Tears began to spill out from my closed eyes; I was overwhelmed at the feeling of feeling you, like your spirit had melted right into mine. You were real, simply having become focused energy, being called from my positive vibrational standpoint.
I suddenly understood that I chose you to be my mother, even though I always knew you’d have to leave me someday. It was as if something other than myself was funneling this thought into my brain for processing, and it pulsed through every fiber within me.
And Mom, if I ever got the chance again, I’d still choose you. For reasons that may never make sense, I was supposed to only have seventeen physical years with you.
No longer do I feel like my life was permanently ruined when you died. No longer do I feel like our family was cheated. No longer do I feel like it all isn’t fair. Because those mind-sets only leave me vibrating low and helpless, far far away from where you exist.
I reason the weirdness this way: if my body could conceive and grow and birth a human, why is it so hard to believe that on some level, I can connect with your energy?
Before Everett, I had limits as to what I believed to be possible. If I thought I felt you in yoga, after seventy-five minutes of moving meditation, I’d dismiss it and think that’s just my brain trying desperately to believe you were real for a moment.
But my child is the perfect proof I’ve always needed to have a little more faith in the unknown–to have a little more trust in what I feel, rather than in what other people tell me, or in what I’ve always been taught.
I look at Everett and still cannot comprehend that he was once never here. I cannot understand how he started as a tiny tadpole in my stomach, who grew to full baby size and then came out and literally through me, into this world. I have no words for it, but he’s simply my evidence of an unexplained miracle. Sure there’s science behind conception and birth but come on, really–how does that all happen and evolve and come to be?
I’m sure there are some people who think I haven’t healed or moved on since you died. Because even after all this time, I still talk about your death and about missing you and wondering where you are. Maybe a few even worry if I’m doing “O.K.” And I get it, I understand their possible concern.
But what kind of daughter would I be if I just accepted your death one way and one way only, never to think or ponder or question or strive to find more answers that continually bring peace to my heart? I may never stop all the wondering, all the searching. And that very statement, has come to identify the biggest parts of my person; I am who I am because of both your life and death.