Beautifully Blue © Joan Z. Rough, 2002
“This is the way I feel inside. Turmoil in twisted knots. Beautifully blue. And Black. And Purple. A bruise. But one that will heal to be more like the smaller, green outer pages, Still somewhat chaotic but fresh and very much alive. Still breathing. “
I made this collage in my journal and wrote those words on July 18, 2002. I was a year into taking care of my mother as her health declined. I invited her to come to live in my house. I thought I could help her through her final years. Bill thought it was a good idea, too.
On a day when Bill was leaving for a week in New York, Mom fell and broke her wrist. I was left alone with her to deal with her pain, her depression, and her growing neediness. It was not a life threatening situation. But it was an inconvenience. I felt overwhelmed and abandoned. I wasn’t ready to be a caretaker. I had no idea what I was doing. I had panic attacks, slept only a few hours each night, worrying about my mother. I was angry about the disturbance in my life, about Bill being gone. I wanted Mom to go away. I didn’t think about what she was feeling.
It was the beginning of a steep learning curve that brought me to my knees on many occasions. I was constantly confused and wanted out. But at the same time I wanted to take care of her. There were moments when I knew I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. And times when taking care of her meant the world to me.
In the car one day as I was driving Mom to see her doctor, she sighed and said, “If those old trees could talk it would be interesting.” I was deeply moved by what she said. She never talked about her emotional state during her last few years. I wasn’t ever sure that she was processing what was happening to her. But when she spoke those words, I knew that she was thinking about life and death and the passage of time. Later that evening I took her words and wrote the following poem.
She Said
“If those old trees could talk it would be interesting.”
And so we sat and listened.
She began to tell her own story
And when she was finished
The trees bowed to her in the wind.
The river never slowed its pace.
Looking back and rereading what I’ve written in my journals, I often feel guilt and heartbreak. But also very grateful. There is beauty in pain as well as healing.
I’m on retreat, at the beach in Duck, North Carolina. Today is my last day here. We’ll head on home tomorrow, leaving the calming sound of the ocean right outside our door. It’s a great time to be here. There are few people about and the beach is almost always empty. The sand is covered with shells of all shapes, colors and sizes and the weather has been spectacular. We had one very windy, cold day and it was wonderful to cozy up inside, watching the sea as it crashed on shore. The rest of the time has been fairly warm, and sunny. The house we’re renting is tucked behind a dune and it’s pleasant sitting outside around noontime with only a light jacket needed.
Wow! Did I just say that? Well, alwritey then. I guess I’m going to do it. It may not be a final draft, but it will be a draft of some kind. And if I don’t count December, because it’s an insane time of year, I’ll have nine months to do the work. That’s how long it took for my kids to cook in my belly. Mark needed a little extra time, taking ten months. So maybe when September rolls around and I’m not quite done, I can give myself another month?
After this week of rest, relaxation, and writing, I’m ready to head back into the month of gift giving. I still have a list I need to tackle, but much of it is easy and homemade. But the best gift I’m giving this year is to myself … Nine months to finish growing my book. Wish me luck!