The sun is shining, the bees are buzzing, and a soft breeze is puppeteering the cedar branches outside my window to dance lively.
I welcome all of this during these late May days that have also included the 69th anniversary of my oldest brother’s birth. He died ten years ago of renal failure. I didn’t do the math about how I’m now older than him in earth years until this past weekend, while visiting my mother and sifting through old papers, including his graveside memorial booklet and childhood photos.
Life pushes on and as a friend of mine quipped this week, the dead are still dead. And yet we carry bits of them in our proverbial knapsacks and we store them away, too; tucking their things in our attic spaces which might be a metaphor or might be actual vs. psychic real estate.
This past weekend I was helping my 91-year-old mother clear out some of her stuff from her assisted living studio suite storage shelves, closets, and tabletops. Despite spending three days on the project and loading boxes and bags of donation stuff and garbage out, I felt like I had barely scratched the surface of things. And yet, things look decidedly less cluttered and surely there must be a correlation between external mess and internal clutter.
There’s solace in hanging on, be that to a moment in time or memory-filled items. Especially in these chaotic times. And yet shift happens each time we practice letting go. We make way for grief, gratitude, and spaciousness, while at the same time allowing for something new (like say, an identity) to emerge. Such moments are sentinels for healing and integration.
Scattered is a way of being for us ADHD folks. I’m one of those people easily led astray by other people’s requests of my time, energy, and talents. Heap that atop my own life “stuff” and desire to be an informed and engaged citizen, and it’s little wonder that my mind, body, and soul feel tattered and torn on a good day.
This month, I want to honor Scatterings in every sense of the word. We will consider what it means to feel fearful, fractured, and/or emotionally laden. And we’ll look at life’s turning points through the lens of baggage checks and airport security. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?
OK, let’s go. And yes, first a poem about facing what scares us.
Fear
by Raymond Carver
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I’ve been told won’t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children’s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they’ll die before I do, and I’ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.I’ve said that.
from All of Us (Vintage, 1996).
