Reflection

Accept everything about yourself – I mean everything. You are you and that is the beginning and the end – no apologies, no regrets.”
_{– Henry Kissinger}

Dear Mommy,

It’s still easier to type to you and just let the readers of this blog see what I have to say.

I just celebrated my 52nd birthday! While looking for some notable 52s, like 52 white keys on a piano or 52 cards in a standard deck of cards, I found something else:

“Some believe that the 52nd birthday is a time of when you are drawn into greater authenticity and become more like an angel on earth” or “Some believe that the 52nd birthday is a time of metaphysical rebirth, where you shed your false self and become more authentic.”

In September, Tacos and Tiaras celebrated our FIFTH birthday! I was all set to write a blog post, but Chief Daddy was still stuck in skilled nursing rehab… I couldn’t figure out how to make time for a new post, and honestly I really wasn’t feeling called to write. The post would not have been any different from the fourth birthday post (except for writing without reflecting on Jimmy Buffett’s death), and I knew that it would only show me how far off track I had gotten.

I left it alone, knowing that when I felt called to write, I would. And that everything that needed to be said would have already happened. And that I should allow instead of chasing. And here we are.

One of the things that stands out in the fourth birthday post is the last paragraph: “I feel grateful for another year of ALLOWING the flow because I arrive where I’m supposed to be and with everything/everyone aligned with my mission and purpose. And I feel grateful for everything that’s already on its way to me even if it’s still just around the bend and not yet in sight. 💜 🕯️ 💜”

When Daddy died in December, I felt both sad yet grateful. I said my heart would have been breaking except that I felt so relieved for him to finally be released from his earthly body. He didn’t really have failing health, but dementia was progressing. While he was in rehab, it clicked one day. We were approaching six years without you on this plane of existence, and I wondered if it was even possible that Daddy and I were given the last six years of his life to make up for the time we didn’t have together during the first six years of my life. You know that I believe that coincidences DO NOT exist.

We had a third and final appeal with Medicare about covering the latter part of his stay at rehab. I kept thinking of what Daddy told me after you died, how you had worked so hard for him to get 100% disabled veteran benefits before you died. We did our best to fight for him, and when I was speaking to the judge in closing, I told her I was going to be completely direct with her about the impact to Daddy’s welfare – if Medicare would not cover his stay, then it would severely impact his ability to live in a safe and nurturing environment.

I felt it after I said it. I had put it out there to The Universe. We needed Daddy to be taken care of, and going through this situation with Medicare felt like we were doing the same as you did for his disability benefits. We were speaking Daddy’s love language – acts of service. We love him and weren’t going to let rehab just have his money. I know you heard me asking you if you were proud of us.

On the day that Daddy died, the signs were there… signs that dementia was progressing again, signs that he was slowing down, signs that he wasn’t going to be around much longer… I just didn’t know he’d be gone four hours after I said goodnight to him.

And you know how deliberate or even OCD I am with making sure that departing words or hanging up the phone, my last words are always “I love you”. I want my loved ones to know without a doubt that the last thing we said was, “I love you”.

I know you and I didn’t have that in the hospital, but it was true of our last phone call before I left for India and before you were taken to the hospital that night. I don’t know if I even told you “I love you” in your final days. It’s been six years!!! And the same date of our last phone call was the same date Daddy died six years later. And I know for certain that his last words to me were “I love you” because as I was leaving, he said it differently. I had to look at him longer. I almost didn’t leave. Not that staying would have changed his fate. I just would have been there. But maybe it would have changed mine.

When I was in high school and taking voice lessons, you wanted me to learn Romberg’s “One Kiss” from The New Moon. I hadn’t thought about that song until the previous new moon at the end of December, and here we are again in late January under the energy of another new moon. And I didn’t know it at the time, but the new moon that peaked on 30 November 2024 was aligned with the start of a new chapter for me.

You’re still with me through every chapter of my journey. You came to me in a meditation and delivered so much affirmation about my path. I feel your love in aligning everything to happen FOR me, not to me. And that I still have choices to make and sometimes picking one choice means I have more life lessons to learn, but everything nudges me back on track.

I’m back on track. I mean, here I am WRITING again. Unapologetically authentic. Recently Huckleberry said, “Omg. You’re back! I love you!” because as she said, I’m more like my old self again. I was lost. I was stuck. You can see the pattern in the dates of my posts. It was all temporary. And I don’t know if this site or blogging is part of the next chapter. For now it is.

Departures make room for arrivals. I could have felt lost after Daddy’s departure because he was my anchor for the past few years while I stayed afloat, drifting in a harbor, casting my net without knowing that’s what I was doing.

Daddy’s departure made room… and I feel so grateful for what has arrived and what is still on its way to me. I feel conflicted when I cry because it’s sadness and joy at the same time. I miss you both so much, but I feel happy for you to be reunited on another plane of existence.

Thank you for all of your love and all the ways you stay present in my life, all of the ways you’ve delivered what I need, when I need it. Much like it was when you were alive, sometimes you send what I didn’t ask for because you know how much I’ll appreciate it.

Love never dies.

I feel the weight of grief and the lightness of hope.

Love,
Me

Luceat lux vestra.