Writer, producer, and storyteller living in New England among two and four-legged loved ones. I use this space to focus on something I'm grateful for experiencing or remembering, or misremembering.
My Meme (my great-grandmother) immigrated to Worcester county as a teenager and while (as I understand it) she was grateful to escape her native fishing village and troubled father, she was deeply proud of her French-Canadian heritage.
She spoke the language until she died, and close to seven years after her passing, my greatest educational feat would come in speaking her first language fluently, while spending a semester in Luxemboug.
“Je me souviens” is french for “I remember.” It’s the official motto of Quebec and it’s a reference to a critical turning point in a signature battle in Canada’s early history.
Today, as I walk by the humble alter at the top of our stairs that I’ve set up in honor of those who’ve gone before us, who I believe watch over us, I am drawn to the picture of my Meme and I all I can hear is, “Je me souviens.”
It is not until very late in the day that I learn about the devastation in Paris – the hate that has gutted far too many families, destroyed far too many souls, obliterated far too much light…and what I remember is that words can start to heal.
And sometimes, to find true healing, it’s best to rely on the words that have passed the test of time.
And so, on this day, my gift to my Meme, and yours, and all grandchildren, and all mothers and fathers, all sons and daughters, all families everywhere, are the words of The Peace Prayer:
Let us pray that strength and courage abundant be given to all who work for a world of reason and understanding;
That the good that lies in every man’s heart may day by day be magnified;
That men will come to see more clearly not that which divides them, but that which unites them;
That each hour may bring us closer to a final victory, not of nation over nation, but of men over his own errors and weaknesses;
That the true spirit of mankind – its joy, its beauty, its hope, may live among us;
That the blessings of peace be ours – the peace to build and grow, to live in harmony and sympathy with others, and to plan for a future with confidence.
Today, I will remember love and peace – because the world is in desperate need of both – and I know all I can do is let it begin with me and share with you.
I’m sitting in a bar across the street from the very prominent place I used to work. I’m visiting with a good friend. Someone who is smart, and driven, and clearly destined for wonderful things.
There was a time when this friend believed that I was very good at my job – and while that may have been (may even still be) the case – the way in which I used to go about my work, was anything but good. In fact, it was hurtful – driven by a crippling need to “prove” and lack of self-worth to ever say “no.”
And while I assumed my gift would be confiding in my friend and picking up the check, (both of which I still do) turns out, it was something a little different.
While my friend and I are visiting, a league of former colleagues begin filtering in. Someone from another department has scored an excellent opportunity in New York City, and this is the goodbye party.
I didn’t expect to see so many people that I used to work with at one time. I’m aware that it makes me a little anxious. A group of six has suddenly (or so it feels) circled around me and I’m struck when one of them asks:
“So, Amanda, are you loving the new job?” (I haven’t worked with these good folks for nearly eight months.)
“The Foundation where I’m at now does excellent work and I’m very proud to be associated with it,” I start, and then, am very surprised to hear myself go on, “but to be honest I’ve been out on a leave for nearly eight weeks. I go back to work on a part-time basis beginning Tuesday.”
A sort of collective, “Oh,” arises.
“I was diagnosed with the Depression and General Anxiety Disorder more than six months ago,” I offer. “But, I was managing symptoms way before that. I hit a point where I couldn’t manage them anymore, and so I got help, and now, honestly, I can say I’m good. I’m really good and looking forward to easing back into work again.”
My honesty is met with sheer kindness.
“That’s amazing,” one former colleague remarks.
“I’m so happy for you,” adds another.
“It’s so good to hear,” from yet another.
Before being mindful about this practice of Thanksgiving, I never could have received the sincere concern, admiration, and gratitude that so clearly came through from my former colleagues. It simply used to be impossible for me to hear. The same lovely, well-intended words would’ve been brutally butchered through my worse-case scenario internal interpreter. Leaving me only to feel judged, defensive, and ultimately, lonely.
But, now, sitting in this warm, charming, quintessential New England watering hole, I feel the way one should feel when among friends; happy, open, and thankful.
I didn’t plan to live out an age-old cliché today, but you know, when the truth sets you free, I’ve learned it’s good (really good) to just go with it.
It’s Veterans’ Day. A day dedicated to the recognition of service. And I choose to spend it with the person I am most grateful to serve—my son.
My service to him (and to my own inner-child) is my life’s only true work. I believe it’s the entire point—of everything.
I know that there are parents who may interpret “service to my son” as a perpetual state of giving in, being pushed over, or lack of resolve to stand my ground.
I promise, it is none of that.
There are bedtimes and consequences, routines and expectations. But above and beyond all else, there is love. Just love. Unconditional, never-ending, forever-forgiving love.
I want my little boy to grow into a young man. A confident gentleman. An admired old sage, who will know upon instinct that his Mom and Dad have always (will always) believe in him. I want him to know on a cellular, molecular level, that regardless of any and every circumstance, he will never (could never) be alone.
And while I won’t always be able to grant all of his wishes, when he tells me on this morning that he’s not feeling one-hundred percent (his words), and that instead of playing with his friends at daycare, he wants to stay home with me, I happily (and lovingly) make it so.
There’s nothing particularly grand about our day.
An easy trip to Market Basket. A quick stop at the pharmacy. A movie on Netflix.
A little indoor hockey. A little more cleaning accompanied by the Uptown Funk station on Pandora. Constructing some wooden railways in the living room.
A glorious nap. Even a little yoga. (Seeing him do Namaste breaks my heart in all the right ways every single time.)
No, the day is not grand. And neither are the gestures.
But my service is meaningful and I am honored to do it.
(I promise if you watch the video below, it’ll be the cutest and most patriotic thing you’ll watch all day. A throw back courtesy of Briggs circa 2013 :))
Today I’m taking my Mom to lunch. Not just because she and I share a deep love for everything on the Indian buffet, but also, so that I can begin interviewing her about her childhood and her mother.
I think I might want to write about it, sometime, in some way.
This work of Self that I have been engaged in since late August, along with this on-going practice of Thanksgiving has lead me to recognize my two principle identies: My Inner-Child and My Devoted-Mother.
Little Amanda is the one who loves to be on stage, to write these posts, to watch too much TV, and hang out with her family and friends for hours on end at any given game night or casual get-together.
She’s also the one who always said, “yes,” (regardless of the consequences) to any request at work, living in constant fear that failure to comply and produce would reveal that she, in fact, was merely silly, stupid, and completely unqualified.
Mother Amanda is deeply concerned (and now) connected. She has always (even before treatment) been acutely aware of others. How they feel. What they need. How she can be of service. She is the one who has always felt joy in feeding those she loves – be it with Sunday Supper or an open ear or gentle embrace during a mid-week check-in.
She is the one who was strong enough to find peace for her family in the NICU – and she’s also the one (prior to getting help) who tore into herself with fear and guilt, accusing her for being the reason her son required intensive care upon birth in the first place.
Learning to recognize when My Child and My Mother come out has been wildly helpful in gaining the love, understanding, and patience required to move further and further away from my Depression and Anxiety.
And all of this investigation has brought me even closer to my actual Mom, Deb, who’s suffered much greater trauma than I ever have.
What I’ve always known, but never truly been able to understand until now, is that my Mom has never had a mother.
Her Child has never spent a single day, a single moment, in the deep and restorative power of her mother’s embrace. She’s never been held. Not really. Not in the way that could make her believe the entire world could crumble around her, but as long as she stayed in her mother’s arms all would be fine – good, and safe, and fine.
She’s never been the center of anyone’s world – the way every child deserves to be the center of her mother’s world.
The last time she talked to her mother, when she 19 (still a baby – a married, baby – but a baby nonetheless), her mother said:
“This can’t be my daughter. I don’t have a daughter.”
And then, she hung up.
My Mom – my beautiful, loving, strong, complicated, passionate – Mom, tells me this at lunch and my heart breaks all over my chicken curry and jasmine rice. It makes me ache – not just for my Mom – but for her’s, too. For that grandmother I’ve never met and for the mother she never found the strength to be.
She missed it. And I don’t know all the reasons or the full story, but what I am sure of, is that there cannot possibly be any greater pain than missing this gift of being a Mom. Of being and staying connected to your child.
The Child in me hated my completely absentee grandmother for a very long time – mostly out of misguided loyalty to my Mom. But, the Mother in me now is just filled with sadness.
I am so sad that she didn’t have the means to ask for the kind of help she so clearly needed.
I am so sad that no other mothers around her could see what was going on and had the tools and the courage to offer real support – free of judgement or obligation.
I am so sad that she missed seeing her daughter become the Mother she didn’t even know how to wish to be.
But, more than my sadness, I am overwhelmed by admiration.
Because the truth is, a child without a mother, will ALWAYS be a child without a mother. But, she may still turn into a mother with a child. And, in my Mom’s case, a mother with four of them. All girls. All possible (and two already definite) Mothers.
And to be a Mom – a true and present Mom – while all the while also being a Child who will NEVER be able to fully learn by example (by feeling and touch and emotional memory) – that is more than amazing…
For the very first time in my life I can truly see my Mom for what she is: a miracle.
So, yes, without question, without even a thought, My Child, My Mother, My everything will treat my Mom to lunch and conversation on this day, and on any other day she wants.
My four year-old, Briggs threw up last night, or more accurately, very early this morning.
He actually doesn’t have a stomach bug, but rather horrible post-nasal drip. His coughing is painful to listen to, and what’s worse is that I find his persistent hack dreadfully…annoying.
The irony of this is not lost on me. After pushing and punishing my body for years, my immune system finally gave out on me around July 4th and I remained in (what felt and sounded like) a perpetual bronchial state for more than three months. Though, I didn’t have bronchitis (allergies and exhaustion) and neither does Briggs. His lungs are clear. Temp is normal. No sore throat, change of appetite, or spikes in white blood cells.
He’s got a cold and a steadfast refusal to blow his nose. Hence the chronic post-nasal drip and mucey-pukey wake-up call at 2AM.
Though watching him fall (peacefully) back to sleep in our bed remedies any annoyance that crept in from my lower (as opposed to my higher) self. When I wake up four hours later to practice yoga, I know that he needs the gift of deep sleep and decide that I won’t bring him to daycare until long after he wakes up on his own time.
This means morning drop-off is putt off until nearly 10:30, and that I’m rushing to get to therapy by 11, and that I can’t start wrapping up some deadline driven proposals for work until 12:30, and when I see that it’s suddenly 4:00, I remember that I signed Briggs up for a Bubble Class at our library that is supposed to be a really big deal. But, that starts at 4:15 and so if I decide to go for it, it will mean rushing to get there as well.
And I need to drop something off at the post office. Instead, I consider dropping the post office and library all together, but before I do I stop. Breathe. Remember:
Instead of pushing to get out the door, you let your son sleep in. Shared tea and juice on the couch. Enjoyed a breakfast of apples and hard-boiled eggs.
He was well-rested and so happy to see his friends at daycare.
You weren’t late for therapy.
You submitted your work before deadline.
You ate lunch.
Treated yourself to a decaf iced coffee.
Had a lovely (random) conversation with a Mom who is desperately missing her (only) son who’s on his fourth deployment – who said that you noticing her Army Parent pin was the nicest thing that had happened to her in a long time.
This is a nice letter you’ve written – it deserves to be sent to your high school friend. Briggs loves the post office. If you’re five-minutes late to the library class, they’ll still let you in.
It’s a good day. All is well. Keeping giving.
And so, I do.
I pick up Briggs (he’s pumped for bubbles), the post office goes remarkably smooth (and I pick up the new Peanut stamps for my Christmas Cards), but, when Briggs beats me on our fun-run to the children’s section, he’s the first to find out that I’ve made a mistake.
“Mom, she says I’m not signed up for today!” he calls from the check-in desk.
“No, no, you are, I know I registered you with Miss Lisa at story time two weeks ago.”
I make my way over, repeat his name, my name, bring up the email confirmation on my phone…when, the kind woman at check-in and I both come to the realization at the same time:
Bubbles is next Monday.
“Today,” she tells us, “is a class on service animals. But, two kids did just drop out, so, Briggs if you want to stay, you can.”
He does and I’m thankful.
I get him set up with his name tag and then wait out in the hall with my book and the other Moms until the session has wrapped.
40-minutes later Briggs comes dashing out, insisting that I “HAVE” to meet Ireland.
Ireland is a beautiful black lab who bares a striking resemblance to Stuart Little.
Stuart was a part of my original family (Mom, Dad, and three sisters) for a little more than 13 years. He saw all of us girls through our high school dramas and traumas. Through my mother’s diagnosis, treatment, and remission of breast cancer. Through my son’s very fragile first few months following his 61-day stay in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU). And Stuart’s death, I believe, was the final heart-ache my Dad had to endure before recognizing this his Depression was too big, and too heavy, and too painful to keep carrying on his own.
It’s hard to keep from crying when I see Ireland, and I ask his trainer, John if it’s okay to pet him. He says it is and Ireland lovingly leans right into me.
“Thank you so much for bringing him in today,” I say.
“Oh, you’re welcome. You’re Briggs’s Mom, right?”
“Yes, he loved the class.”
“I’m so glad you stopped by, because the strangest thing happened when it was Briggs’s turn to have a moment with Ireland. Ireland actually put his head right on Briggs’s lap and, this might sound odd, but Ireland does this sort of smile thing. He smiled right at him and then laughed.”
Now the tears were unavoidable. Stu’s smile was his calling card. He was the only dog I’ve ever met who would smile on command – or even in response from a big smile from a known loved one.
And his laugh – though it always sounded more like a sneeze to me – was infectious.
“Thank you so much for telling me that,” I said. “We weren’t even really supposed to be here today, but I’m so thankful we were.”
“Briggs was a great addition to the class. We’re thankful he was here,” John said.
I left reassured that the schedule you fall into is the schedule you’re meant to keep, and that all dogs most certainly do go to heaven…and some even come back for a moment of heaven on earth.
Through acts of mindful generosity I’ve found a way to carry my Depression and General Anxiety Disorder over to a path of healing. I still have an infinite number of questions and very few answers, but the point of It (now, I’m convinced)is to live in a state of perpetual gratitude.
Perpetual gratitude (what others might call enlightenment), I believe is the reward for mastering the practice of Thanksgiving – that beautiful everlasting cycle of giving and receiving. A meditative mantra of, “thank you,” and “you’re welcome.”
This blog, amandathanks is an extension of the work I started with the 29-Gifts prescription. It’s a place to share my on-going practice of Thanksgiving and an invitation to begin a practice of your own – however and whenever feels right.
I’m deeply grateful for each moment you spend with me and my words.
amandathanks 