I’ve been trying to write a post for days. And those that know me know that it’s unusual for me to have to pause in the process. But I have become stuck.
There’s a pain in the chest that reminds me to pay attention, to try to figure it out. My journal- usually filled with clutter and profusion- has stopped. There are only some scrawled words…
10 11 12/ 2013
Darkness behind the smile
I’ve wanted to write about the darkness behind my smiles. The darkness is not always there. But the mask slips at times. I will be in situations at work or over dinner with family or friends and chirp and converse and dialogue and laugh, but as I say goodbye and I turn away, a darkness slips underneath me and I stand on the precipice and I crawl back to the car and my grey, threadbare worn-out clothes droop around me. My ashen old face with its sunken eyes is unveiled. I get back in the car and slump.
But I look over and see my dog looking at me with love in his eyes and I feel the simplicity of love heal me. I can turn the key again and drive into my future- whatever lies ahead, however long or short it may be.
I suppose it’s fatigue. It’s all the projects on the brink of success (“we just need to get there”); it’s the usuals. But I know there has been something else to it.
Driving home today, my mind lingered on my mother. At the red light, I grabbed my phone and searched YouTube for mom’s favorite song, Cohen’s Halleluja.
Ah- there we go. The floodgates opened. I played it about 8 times through before entering the garage and knew those words could be about her, could have been hers. Could be mine to her.
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
– Leonard Cohen
I could feel my mother’s angel wings envelop me and allow me to miss her. For what daughter, so loved by mother [a mother I knew who lived with a broken and fragile soul but who loved me so completely] would not miss a mom like mine. And it’s OK to miss her. It’s OK.
Mourning is not forgetting . . . It is an undoing. Every minute tie has to be untied and something permanent and valuable recovered and assimilated from the dust.
~ Margery Allingham