Mother's Day 2023 knocked me on my ass in grief, for a number of factors:
In order to get to my brother and sister's home for the Mother's day meal, we had to cross the bridge where the man I love was killed.
I realized sitting around the dinner table that day that he would not only never get to roll on the floor with my oldest nephew or hold new baby Turner, but also that he would never have biological children of his own. That I would never carry them.
It was a rough day, to say the least. And it led into a rough week, one which incapacitated me with sorrow. Until my mom called with words she had heard from the Spirit one morning:
"Don't look back and mourn what could have been. Look forward to the joy that will be."
Her words literally lifted me out of a pit of sorrow the depths of which I hadn't experienced since B's passing.
I have honestly always been on the fence about having kids. They are wonderful, but this world can be terrible. I love their presence; how when you are with a child you have to be right there with them, in each moment, each laugh, each heartbeat. I wonder if this is why B was so good with kids. His spiritual gift, in addition to his many natural ones, was authenticity of presence. B would walk into a room of completely different people, with his asymmetrical haircut, his wicked humor, his pirate attire, and disarm everyone in the room. He walked into my parents dining room for Thanksgiving with a bandana around his neck [to protect them from any risk of COVID] and I had to tell him, "Babe. Not here. At the table. At thanksgiving."
This was his superpower, [in addition to all his natural powers of being able to learn any language he set his mind to, escort even the most uptight into joyful laughter, being a one man band]. He was so freaking present. Even now, in his absence, he still is present to those of us who need him.
Last week, I flew to Hawaii for a girls trip with my mom, aunt, cousin, and sister. These five superhero, Black women, who have endured heartbreak, cancer, chemotherapy, grief, fatigue, betrayal, and pain left it all behind... to be present together in the middle of the sea.
We laughed, a lot. We ate. We swam [well, some of us]. We adventured. We discovered. We wondered at the banyans and native plants. We were together. Like B, we lay down our superhero capes to be present with one another, on the beautiful island of Oahu, a place of rest, healing, and beauty.
One night, some of us attended a lantern lighting ceremony, where lanterns were released to honor those we had lost, with the Hawaiian community on A la Moana beach. We released some things and clung to others.
Like the lanterns released on the beach, out to sea, we were lit up from the inside. Laughing. Joyful. Longing. Holding the complexity of joy and pain. We were as present as B is. Sharing love and light and laughter, together.
Community is not only "it", ya'll. Community is "lit."
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