Rose, Bud, Thorn

The terns have returned to St. Thomas. Their soft white bow shaped bodies cut through hydrangea blue skies, flit over the point's obsidian rocks, dash above the waving palms. In the seasonal switch, the birds mark a shift along with the temperatures. The winds still whip, scratching white caps onto the wavy indigo seas. The sun rises at 5:30 am and sets over Inner Brass around 7pm. These brilliant days of sunshine and cotton ball clouds, sometimes laden with Saharan dust, string along summer's entrance. The fullest expression of daylight occurring a little less than a month from now on the summer solstice.

I ready myself for the next season, packing for multiple climates and occasions, preparing for a family trip to the Faroe Islands and a couple of months on Martha's Vineyard at Granny Sue's. The excitement runs deep, to explore a new land and return to one as I've done since I was 17. A snowbird in training, I see the life I've created is working out to be one where home is more fluid than fixed. And as I nest for a couple of weeks at home, I reflect on what has passed and what comes before summer's uprooting.

In the forefront, there was Hugh's graduation at USC which wove fireworks and marching-band-worthy fanfare alongside heartfelt congratulations for each seniors' capability and legitimacy. Inspiring speakers, family gatherings and thematic soirees dotted our days as we united around Hugh's seminole moment. All four of us got to witness him in the clutch of an ending, whilst adjusting his compass towards new beginnings; preening in celebration while also preparing for further proving and reaching. His graduation marks an official stepping into adulthood and Hugh follows a path he chose as a 9 year old boy, filled with excitement and doubt, qualifications and inexperience, training and naivety, knowing he's got some trail cutting to do.

The thorns of parenting never fade. A forever existence of dualities in joy and heartache, in the both/and of embracing and letting go, in the space of wearing whatever "hat" I can to bear witness and support my children with enough faith nestled within in my heart and gut that all is well and as it should be. With Hugh, I'm brought back to days of watching crew races from the sidelines in the freezing rain, cheering him on, though it was unlikely he heard me. Or sitting a few pews behind him as he played Bohemian Rhapsody at Talmadge Hill Church for the end of year concert, holding my breath and trying not to cry with pride as he spanned the ivories, in awe of his ability and determination knowing he'd nail it even if he missed a key. And when he got his acceptance letter from USC, tears in his eyes that he'd been invited to attend to one of the best film schools in the country and was going to be living over 3,000 miles away to pursue his dream. These thorns are raw, memories poking at my sides like a threadbare boned corset, showing me the rules of parenting with their cold and pointy rigidness, forcing the inevitability of my children turning into adults.

And then there's the bud. Observing the reaching and grasping; childing and adulting; dreaming and conjuring. The Peter Pan and Wendy dynamic- a child who refuses to grow up and a child who already knows how to be an adult. As a mother, I root for them both. The child who can defy norms, trust his gut, play out his fantasies and look at the world with innocent and curious eyes. As well as the child who knows how to make his bed, pay his bills, talk in an interview, make a well-balanced meal, and nurture healthy relationships so that they might feed him courage and confidence when he needs them. Mothering in this space of potential, all I can do is offer assistance that keeps him reaching towards the sun like Icarus, but praying he doesn't get burned in the process. We both know that the only option he has right now is to try, to stretch, explore and put himself out there as a director, an editor or a cinematographer, no matter what.

And finally, the rose. The full bloom. The rich, dense, fragrant petals, that when touched are textured with vigor and vitality. Hugh is a fully formed human- his sweet tempered, intelligent, compassionate personality is already embedded, his focus and work ethic already tested, his capacity to put himself out there for opportunity and back it up with drive and commitment already proven. Even though I might keepsake his seedling self with endearing visuals in my mind: the boy who rowed in the rain, who went for it with an epic 6 minute song, who applied to an "extreme reach school" against his college counselor's advisement, I now get to savor in this harvest.

On the other side of the coin sits my mother. Instead of potential and possibility, my sisters and I shrinky dink her life, moving her out of her home for the last 25 years and into a 2 bedroom apartment in a senior living community in Florida. Layer by layer, her collections and curios, clothing and stillettos, art and photos get sold or packed up for the next chapter. As the dismantling happens, I see her how her world has been all about her things, how she'd cocooned herself like a mummy in a tomb. Avoiding intimacy in relationships, preferring luxurious accoutrements in their place. This realization is the thorn, the recognition that my mother's life was external, not maternal, and even though I'm no longer hurt by it, I learned to protect myself from wanting more from her.

Never considering that downsizing and memory care might have been necessary, she didn't procure options for this eventuality nor did she prepare for this horizon stage in life. She's not ready or able to reflect as the sun sets, to take on the life she's lived, the choices she's made and share her discoveries. Rather, my mother is stunted by a brain marred by early signs of dementia as well as the residual effects from heavy alcohol consumption. She's turned into a child with a checking account, stuck in a loop of confusion with a very limited short-term memory. She makes the choice to be in Florida, refusing the option to be in Connecticut with family close by as there were "too many old people." Perhaps this beholding of my mother's refusal to plan for later life thereby forcing the issue to her children is my bud. The reality that I won't do this to my children. The fact that Dave and I will have a plan in place. The metaphor of a tender sprout that wants to open- its inherent job to bloom if the conditions are right- in this scenario of coming up with a solution within a 60 day closing period is that I'd rather walk out of a burning building than be smoked out. Aging is inevitable. Preparing for it is kind.

As it were, this emotional experience of daughtering was all about the sistering. The banding together of my sisters and our husbands in order to get this almost impossible task completed. To be second string in the line of defense, as it were, and watch Alex and Brad create options for our fickle, deranged, in denial mother and then divvying up tasks to our small army so that we could ensure my mother's wishes be carried out. It took a village to make this happen and while the building is still burning, the closings of the properties have yet to be signed, my mother and her husband still have to get to Florida and the capabilities of our aging mother wanes, at least there's a plan in place for her later years. Through the thick and thin, my mother's crisis has strengthened my sisterhood. That's my rose.

Over the last month, in the celebration and chaos, I've been the river and the stone. Carrying currents, being still and stoic against the flow. The both/and duality pervaded. Holding the roles of mother, daughter and sister in my palm- I see that each required nurturing and non-attachment. The realizations and aha's came hard and fast, the emotions peaked and valleyed, giving presence to each moment was my ultimate goal. Validating my joy and anger, weepiness and contempt, I bore witness to the different kinds of love in my life. The willingness to do anything no matter what, the obligation to perform out of compassion, the comradery of a cause so a loved one doesn't have to do it alone. While exhausted, I realize I may be a little bit wiser.

With time and reflection, my heart is has been revived on my island in the tropics, my observances are no longer sticky because I've named them and my growth is palpable in reflection. I know this Maycember has been a wild time for many. Perhaps you have your own roses, buds and thorns to work through. My wish is that reading my words might help you center in your own chaos and sparkle insights into your own progressions through the challenges, for whatever stage we are in, we're always responding, reaching and opening to what comes.

Thank you for bearing with me.

With love and gratitude,

St. Sunshine