My Collection

When I was under ten, I used to collect little ceramic/porcelain animals. I loved them. They were so delicate and miniature. I had a special shelf that I kept them on and dusted them lovingly. Great joy was in the finding, admiring and keeping of these little animals. Eventually I grew tired of this collection and got rid of them. One big factor in this move was moving itself.

Over the years, I have had several collections. In The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin writes about collections and that she has never had one. This, I doubt. I think she is not looking close enough. She may be thinking very narrowly, as in picturing a glass curio cabinet with breakable china or a room overflowing with teapots. If she looked closer, she would find that she does, in fact, have collections. For this book she wrote, for instance, she collected other writings on happiness, though she didn't call it a collection. She certainly has a collection of books in her house. Most people do. And, most people have a collection of friends, family photos and clothes. She actually decided to collect bluebirds in the course of her book and found several select bluebirds (of happiness) for her office while she worked. Perhaps she is defining a collection as something whose sole purpose is to be collected and then sit idly on a shelf collecting dust itself. To me, this is exactly the wrong kind of collection to have. Or rather, the scope of this definition is wrong, as it is far too narrow.

I, too, have a collection of books. I go through mine periodically and only keep the ones that I would read again, or that are extremely special to me. Probably the subject I have the most books on is childbirth and related subjects. But, rivaling that is my poetry section. One of my former chapters in my life, I spent writing poetry and I still find it an art form that brings me great joy and comfort. It is no mistake that it was a poem that inspired this blog title and content. It was instead, serendipity.

My collections have dwindled over the years, as I had children and came to believe that the more stuff I have, the more I have to dust. And I just don't want to spend any more time dusting than I have to. In scaling down my likes and my possessions, and to some degree separating my wants from my needs, I refined what I really love to be surrounded by and it has turned into a feeling of warmth and authenticity I am surrounded by now.

My most treasured collection that I have is my collection of mothers. I didn't realize for many, many years that is exactly what I have, but it is. And perhaps it seems like it is cheapening their presence in my life to call them that, but I certainly mean no disrespect. Instead, only the greatest Respect. This is a side effect, or rather, a side asset to losing my mother at six, I suppose. And, the first mother I collected after my own mother, was my Aunt Diane. Then came my best friend Erika's mother, Mary. She welcomed me into her arms and her home like I was her own daughter. After that, wherever I moved, I seemed to find at least one older woman who was my friend, first and foremost, but also became like a mother figure to me, in one way or another. This is because women are amazing. Centered women who have found their truth accept you as you are, and that is a true gift. I cherish these women in my life, all of my Mothers. And while I still miss my mother with every cell of my being, I know that she is in my heart, and perhaps she has even sent these other Mothers my way. Regardless of whether that is true or not, I still welcome them and treasure their wisdom, love and acceptance. I am rich.

Do you collect anything? What, if so, and what led you to collect?

Absence makes the heart ache

This week, my dear aunt has been visiting. It has been a short visit and I feel sad about that. On top of that, I also am grieving losing her. She is right in front of me, yet she is not there. And it makes my heart ache.

After losing my mother at six, my aunt was my confidante. In my years growing up, she was the only one I could talk to about my mother and not be told to stop. She would listen and she understood that I needed to know things. She held me while I cried. And cried, and cried. She told me about my mother. She showed me pictures of my mother. Of my mother and me. She took care of me. She loved me like a mother.

My aunt has always been an incredibly loving yet morose person and my visit with her this time has been eye-opening in that she is beginning to face her own mortality head-on. She has early-onset Alzheimer's and she is in the stage where she knows her symptoms. It is so hard to watch, when she can't find her water glass, her (eye)glasses, she frantically searches for something because she thinks she has misplaced it, when the truth is that it is sitting exactly where she knew it was just five minutes ago. She is disabled in a way that does not really get recognized. It's hard to put a finger on. She cannot remember how old my kids are. She can't remember what we did yesterday. She does still remember me, thank goodness. That is a huge blessing. And, when I talk of something that happened long ago, a huge smile appears on her face, partly because she can remember it.

My aunt is very smart. She was a nurse in a cardiac office before she had kids. She used to be a fantastic photographer. She introduced me to the Pink Panther movies and has been one of the few constants in my life. She was published in medical journals in regards to Pacemakers. She exuded love. She is funny, creative and so incredibly loving. Yet all that is being undermined by this deterioration of her memory and this horrible disease that is taking hold of her. She has told me many times in the past two days that you are born with Alzheimer's and that it just gets increasingly worse. I probably have it, and this will too be my path. My maternal grandfather had it, but he had a much later onset than my Aunt Diane. This early onset (she is in her 60's) is so disturbing to me and it leaves the person and all his/her loved ones completely powerless.

I have known and still know people who are oblivious to life, to so many things. It seems to me that the oblivious ones should be the ones targeted with this disease. But that is not how things work. This disease knows no boundaries and it is so painful to see someone who was so in tune to others' pain, so empathetic, so alive despite all the struggles she has had, to be diminished so immensely.

She is right in front of me. I can reach out and hug her. But there is a part of her that I can't reach anymore. And the absence of her makes my heart ache.