RV Poetry

This morning, I realized that though for some “overwhelmed” can be caused by too many people dumping too much on them to do at once, for others it really means they, themselves, “underdid” too many months.

So, to those of you who are overwhelmed by someone else (or the many), I feel for you! For those of us who brought it on ourselves by my definition, suck it up and start on one thing and repeat. And that means me, too. Just as soon as I have tea and a Kashi bar. We overslept and the keyboard found me before I had self control to say, “No.”

Ok, the above is true, but a teeny bit in jest, but this is not spoken in jest:

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I have already seen people around me who have lost their mothers welling up and some on the verge, already, of being overwhelmed with grief revisited or not yet worked through. Hang in there.

Death is final in that we are left behind and they move on to a better place; where, depending upon their beliefs. Once we have gone through our grief to the point that we realize part of them is left behind with us, in our hearts, in our memories of shared experiences – we go on to understand that part is a much bigger piece of our everyday lives than we could have possibly realized. It is true they live on within those that knew them well.

I know most people want to be remembered, and many think they won’t be, but if you sit down in quiet and think about all the people you have known that died before you, you may be surprised to realize just how much they have been remembered both consciously and unconsciously all along.

It is how you will be remembered that is up to you, ’cause it is your actions and reactions, your lack of, your smiles, your frowns, your treatment of others that will be remembered, but that is a whole other post.

Speaking of posts, I did a photo and short poem post last night about the color, “tentative red” – and where it comes from, titled Women, In Memoriam. Actually, as the norm for me, my unconscious wrote it, the words just poured out, in part evoked by the photo itself, in part by the death of a woman I do not even know, but someone else cared deeply for her. I find the poem’s premise possible, but then, I believe in miracles and that possibilities of what is and what is not are endless. I’ve also gone long past the stage of grief to almost always being able to think about my mom as if she is here, though she is physically not – and without sadness or tears. She is that much a part of me, my life. Same with my dad.

May you come to that point sooner than later. Happy Mother’s Day!

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