Year Eight - Finding our Rythym
Today is eight years since Mom passed. Many religions and spiritual practices believe that 8 is a compelling number. Between 7 and 9, the number represents balance and harmony.
So much of life is finding that sweet spot. Over the last year, in the context of Mom, this has been one of the big revelations. My year has swung wildly between many unique gifts and some pretty harsh lessons, and as with any dramatic year, I wished Mom was here to hold my hand through it all.
Thomas, Lila, and I moved into our new home overlooking Lake Michigan. The home we now reside in was once an impossible dream. I worked on the weekends for a real estate agent who had invested well and sold condos overlooking Millenium Park in the early 2000s when so few people lived downtown.
My job was to set up the apartment for potential buyers and decorate it with rental furniture. I remember looking out at the lake and praying into the Universe, hoping to wake up to a view like that one day.
Water bodies have always fascinated me. When I was in college and would return home for the summers, Mom and I drove around the Arabian Sea and listened to songs. We would stop and get out so we could feel the salty sea breeze on our faces, and we would think about all of the things we wanted to do when we got older. We always wanted to have a home overlooking the water because of the powerful reminder of resilience and the beauty in all of us.
The lake has replaced the sea for me. This body of water doesn’t sing the song with the moon and retreat and grow. Instead, it mimics the sky and the seasons and paints a new picture daily. I have seen it freeze over in the winter when it’s white and full of snow, looking almost like the Tundra. I have seen it thaw out during the sunlit winter skies, where pieces of ice mesmerizingly float over and sparkle against silver skies. I have seen waves on high wind days where it roars as the Arabian Sea did, and then I have seen the same body of water can become as tranquil as the Caribbean blue when the skies are full of perfect fluffy clouds.
Over the last two decades, this lake has been the backdrop to so many big and small moments in my life. When Thomas and I were in the high spring of our love, we would take long walks with our gaggle of friends at the Field Museum. Then, we would get on a boat and take a lunchtime spin on the water to Navy Pier. Finally, we sat in the many parks along the shoreline and watched fireworks in the night sky. I couldn’t ask for a more picture-esque setting that allowed for reflective conversations on the big questions in life.
Mom and I used to go shopping on Michigan Avenue and then end up at a restaurant overlooking the lake, eating ice cream and chatting about everything that filled our world.
Dad and I have gone on long walks listening to the waves crash against the sidelines while he chanted his prayers.
Since Lila has been around, we have had endless summer hours at the beach with her making sandcastles and watching her dive into the lake even when the water was 60 degrees. She is convinced that because she was born in a snowstorm, that cold doesn’t affect her, and we let her believe it. Who knows, she might end up a scientist in the Antarctic!
The lake has witnessed many happy times for us, but it has also been where we had one of our most harrowing moments. It is where mom’s ashes lay, and while I don’t believe it’s her final place, I imagine it’s where she crossed the threshold to whatever comes next in her soul’s journey.
Having earned our way to what we had once thought was an impossible dream, we are incredibly grateful for the contemplative backdrop to be part of our daily lives. I can look over at the expanse and be reminded that all will be ok if the day has gone wrong and tomorrow will be another day.
I don’t take the daily sunrise for granted because we have seen so many more cross over the threshold for many years since Mom's passing.
I have learned from nature that no two days are the same, even if I have the same ingredients daily for painting my story. We have the gift of twenty-four hours and must use them wisely. We must bookend the mundane things that take up so much of our day with activities and people that bring us joy. Every day doesn’t need to be spectacular, but we have to get through the ordinary routine and in between.
My life didn’t start with observing nature; I was offered solace and contemplative moments by watching my parents. I was a bystander to these incredible humans who woke up daily and got through whatever lay ahead. They didn’t let the bitterness of life ever enter the sanctum they created and approached everyone, and every curveball life threw at them with much kindness.
I feel blessed that my parents were so transparent about their full range of emotions with me because it allowed me to do the same. They tweaked and tuned their experiences, and I got to exist in the background of their rhythm, which has created such powerful roots in mine.
As I witnessed in nature, Mom and Dad treated every day like a fresh start to be the best version of who they were meant to be. They didn’t allow the noise to overtake the gentle spirit that lay within. The light they created became a safe harbor for those struggling, and when they bought their tired selves, my parents would use the ingredients they had access to (time and money) to indulge everyone around them and make them feel special.
I spent years watching how this service to others replenished them. It did what all meaningful experiences do - it created a connection to a higher self and gave them the ability to sleep well at night and wake up the next day to start over again.
My dad continues to have this special reserve of lightness in his being and remains fluid in his expectations of the world around him, allowing him to dream big, take risks, and live every day with delight.
Thomas, Lila, and I are finding our rhythm in this dance of life. We hope that as we go into this eighth year without her, all the lessons that have been coming our way will teach us how to live with an unwavering faith that we all are where we are meant to be, surrounded by those that are meant to participate in our lives and are blooming in the context that was meant for us.
Wishing all of you find your balance and harmony. Thank you for being on this journey with us and for your notes, voicemails, and connections as we think of Mom today.
