In Search of Rainbows

Life isn't fair.

I know this.

And still, I find myself railing against injustice, howling into the salty depth, longing for a fair shake.

Yet on other days, I feel as though I'm the lucky one, born with a silver lining, an ace in each pocket, sunshine lighting up the path ahead.

When our cat Spruce-tip walked back into our yard this month, after disappearing for three weeks, Nick and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes and shook our heads, amazed by our good fortune.

Convinced an eagle, bear or coyote ate him for lunch, or a tourist scooped him up from the neighboring trail, we had started to inquire about other rescue cats at the shelter. But we didn't want a new cat, we wanted Spruce-tip, our fiesty, cuddly, dog-friendly feline who doesn't use a kitty litter box because he prefers to shit in the woods.

And unlike last fall, when we found ourselves sobbing after we found our dog Lola on the side of the road, killed by a car, we cried tears of relief as Spruce-tip purred in our arms, home after an extended adventure.

A rare win after a challenging year.

After living on edge for months, Elias wakes up more easily these days, and he generally returns home from school in good spirits.

The bear in my boy seems to have settled; so Nick, Olive and I can settle too, let out our breath, stand down.

(For now.)

Nick and I even left the kids alone for over three house last Sunday, to hike up in the tundra behind our house. A rare date of our favorite kind, outside, off-trail, just us.

Above tree-line, we saw not one but two bears, both at a safe distance, and luckily both acted appropriately at our sighting, by turning and running the other way.

I hope Elias remembers to walk away next time fight or flight kicks into his injured brain.

I'm tired of fight.

Fight leaves me frayed on the inside, my seams slowly pulling apart, as I pretend to be all put together on the outside; but the cracks show, the uncombed hair, the red eyes, the misplaced coffee cup or water bottle.

Fight breaks my heart; but it keeps beating, because dishes fill the sink and someone needs reminding to brush his teeth.

"Mom," he says, "Mom, Mom..."

And it doesn't matter how I feel--if I want to run, hide, mute, sleep, drink, scream, kick--I respond.

I am Mom.

A Forever Mom, a legal guardian, with an 18-year-old child who will never fully leave the nest.

Sure, he might sleep under a different roof someday, but not in the same way I once imagined, or rather, expected.  

I didn't really imagine adult children.

The track just unfurled before me--baby, kindergarten, elementary, middle, high, graduation, college, work--and I assumed we all followed along.

Until a sinkhole swallowed my expectations, and I learned, what we all learn eventually-- and over and over again-- that life is anything but predictable.

There is no set route from childhood to adulthood.

No track.

Just a myriad of possibilities-- a giant hand holding straws, and no matter which one you pick, it will always be shorter than some and longer than others, and never exactly what you expected.

For most of August and September, we've woken to grey skies here in Seward, with more wet days than dry. It's as if grief has permeated the atmosphere, surrounding us in a fog of despair.

It's not just the weather, friends' lives feel heavy, the world too hard to hold.

I know we can't all live forever but far too many good people die far too young. Disease, shootings, accidents, wars, disasters, countless relentless storms of human unrest, happenstance, and natural phenomena.

It's all too much. 

Until a hole of blue spreads amidst the grey, a ray of light within the showers, a rainbow appears--and you stop fighting the darkness to notice something beautiful.

Maybe the rainbow is a phone call from a friend, a child's laugh, homemade cookies delivered to your door. Maybe the rainbow is the opening of a long awaited bloom, a new song on the radio, a hug when you need it most.

It may rain for months but colors still emerge when a rare light shines through. And even if you understand the science behind the kaleidoscope, it still feels like magic.

Some days you bury your dog, years too soon. Some days your missing cat comes home.

And no matter how bone-tired, when you hear the word Mom, you respond, we all respond, regardless of the trail we follow.

Mom, mom, mom...

Yes.

For even when ashes cover the earth for miles, and the smell of smoke fills the air, green shoots appear, long buried seeds burst forth, bringing the hope of something new, something beautiful, just like you.

Comments

[Julie DeBoard]

Oh my….tears, tears, tears! Beautifully written, beautiful friend!!

[Tracy]

I keep reading when you write. Our boys are both 18. 19 next February. I think I started reading when Elias started walking...

I am also Mami and legal guardian. I am starting to see how life will be in the next phase, as we plan for the phase after that. Adult siblings have flown the nest, and it is the three of us at home. I still wonder how far he can go. We still try for another step forward, even as we know that it won't be what we hoped for.

I will keep reading, though my writing is more private these days. We are so very different, yet so much the same. I wish life were different but I am glad to have our Robbie.

Thank you for writing.

[Christy]

Big hug to you Julie!

Tracy, thanks for continuing to check in. I do believe that so many of us have more in common despite our various lives, personalities, beliefs, associations etc. And when we travel this road of parenting a child who is not typical well then yes, our hearts understand each other. I don't yet see this next chapter after HS, and am trying not to worry too much about what's next. Some days I'm better at it than others.