Dusted golden embers
The kindling of spirit beneath the chill of sorrow
Two weeks ago, I found myself sitting among a swarm of souls celebrating the life of a dear friend's mother. Happiness and sorrow floated in the air and hung in the sky the way the moon does when full, illuminating the delicate, noble, and holy.
As my friend recounted sweet stories of her mother and childhood, I received a collection of joy, gratitude, and sadness for my friend, her mom, and her family, and for my father and childhood. I soaked in prized memories with her family: trips to Capistrano Beach and Disneyland, holiday parties, family get-togethers, weddings, and milestones.
Similar to when I stood on stage reciting love poems and prose for my father at his celebratory honoring last October, I was saturated with her mother's scent and a sense of awe at the level of love and overlapping faces that swelled and flooded in devotion and reverence for a grand and beautiful woman whose essence and charm far from absent rippled into the arms, attentions, and hearts of many.
In her mom, I witnessed courage and suffering and retold the story of a brave man who endured and struggled the latter years of his life and left our earth too soon.
Doesn't everything die at last and too soon?
The death of a parent is confrontational, revealing a remembrance of youth and bringing forth layers of yearning and grief for what was. It is devastating and disorienting and has the uncontrollable ability to rattle us to our core, forcing us into the quicksand of instability and reorganizing our roles and relationships within ourselves and others.
The song of time and the cry of death call forth a longing to be in the company of closeness, belonging, and solitude.
Like a favorite melody I repeat, there is a desire to replay the events of the festivities for her mother and my father because, in those moments, marking what is deceased but present in love, I feel close to the dead.
I long to return to my friend's childhood home. To a life deemed simple and a residence reminiscent of teenage moments: crushes, firsts, laughs, lyrics of TLC and Van Morrison rocking me to sleep, a pantry filled with affection and handfuls of Goldfish, a back door open, an invitation to oversized couches and comfort.
The death of a parent seals the lid on our childhood and is a sure reminder that we will never return to that place of purity. It discloses our hidden mortality leaving us bruised and bleak with an inconvenient amount of space to grieve and a blank canvas and polaroid palpable yet to be painted and developed.
As I stood with my friend in the crisp spring evening in the driveway of her childhood home after a day of remembrance for her mother, reminiscing on the good times, the past was pardoned. There was mutual acceptance and appreciation for all that was, the innocence, the joy, the heartbreak, and the oath in our hearts.
To know you are part of the 'deceased parents club,' one you did not choose but, if timely, is inevitable to avoid, is soothing. It adds a depth of understanding to the experiences that carve our existence and enrich the texture and tint of the canyons and crests of who we once were and continue to be and become.
When reflecting on her mother, my friend's sister shared how she saw her mother's life as Kintsugi, the broken Japanese pottery mended in areas of breakage with polish dusted or mixed of powdered gold, silver, or platinum. A belief that recognizes cracks and healing as part of the history of an object rather than something to conceal.
The fractures and imperfections, relationships, and experiences of our lives are lush in value and integrity, not to be disguised but to be restored and glossed with wealth for the world to see.
Like forgotten antique silver, once dull and tarnished, now accentuated and polished, death has unlocked a well of forgiveness for the cuts of my history. It has lent a stronger admiration for relationships that weathered the test of time and for the select few who served a purpose and passed on appropriately or abruptly.
Everything has a season and a style of touching us in ways we never expected.
My heart has a novel tenderness exposed to the rituals and acknowledgments of the former and current, melancholy and mourning, and to the collected kindling of faithful friends that stay afire and passionate.
The golden flames that withstand the seasons of age and change. Promises fostered on circumstance and choice, rooted in common ground, and branch beyond the intersections and decades of our life.
Those special someone's who know your secrets and humiliation and receive you as you are as they, too, have lived your accounts. A treasure of companionship that, despite your best efforts of awkwardness and foolishness, your alliance grows stronger with elegance and era.
The barren edges of sorrow and the wild flames of my grief have ignited and expanded my perspective, generously brightening what is most meaningful and precious. It has aided the burns, offering a silent indebtedness for the bits and pieces of my past, traits, and relations that died and the current collection of characters and cherished companions that infuse life's rich and abundant landscape.
Some people and things span across a lifetime; some leave too soon, and some not soon enough. But in the end, we, and all we love, will die, but the essence of who we are remains a mystery. Love lives in the platinum lockets around our hearts; it is the kindling of spirit beneath the chill of sorrow and the dusted golden embers of our souls.
Written on a Sunday in Intuitive Writing for Women
Prompt
You might begin by writing with one of the following:
wealth for the world to see
wild flames of my grief
dusted golden embers
Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page. See what words flow.
Comment if you try. I would love to hear about your journey and experience with intuitive flow writing!
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This was wonderful babe.
Heartbreak is life educating us.
Pure love ❤️!