Auntie Marion

My Auntie Marion died last week. Her funeral was held today in St. Louis, and my heart and mind have been there too even though my body was stuck in Seattle, over 2000 miles away.

I have been trying for days to think of an eloquent post through which to pay tribute to her, but it becomes too painful to think of what to say and so I become distracted, and it's just easier not to face the fact that she's gone. My words fall flat when compared to the dynamic, three-dimensional person she was.

Auntie Marion was truly one of the most remarkable people I have been privileged to know. She was generous beyond reason, and invariably chose joy and gratitude though her life could have be written up as a heart-breaking tragedy. She was feisty and a little eccentric, and had a funny little cuckoo clock and piano-playing bear in her apartment that was bursting with relics of the life she had lived (she called it her museum). She could tell stories from her life that seemed too outrageous to be true: stories of hunting and fishing with the men decades ago (when it was very taboo); of river boat cruises on the Mississippi; of adventures and a life well-spent; of a real-life Native American princess who was an opera singer.

Auntie Marion lived to be 99, so in many ways she already seemed immortal to me; certainly this is part of why it's hard to believe she is gone. I really cannot fathom how different my life would be without her influence and support. She put me through school; she encouraged my music unfailingly; she loved Orion and the kids hugely. We were not related by blood, but there are bonds stronger than blood.

Tonight I played Rachmaninoff for you, Auntie Marion. I hope it can begin to express how grateful I am for you.

Love you much.

Frayed

"There's Uncle Rigel's piano!" the two year old cheerfully exclaimed from the living room last night, and I nearly collapsed to the floor in sobs.

I was in the kitchen. Again. Cleaning up a meal. Again. After I'd made a meal. Again.

What do my children see when they think of me? They don't even know that I am a musician. They see others at the instrument more often than they see me there.

"Hey Silas, you can be the fire chief and I'll be the firefighter, and Annalyn can just be the one who stays home and makes supper."

And another piece of my heart broke. Is this what my sons see modelled, day in and day out? Is this what I am? Is this all I am?

I am so aware of my limitations, and right now my limitations are cutting away at my wrists and my heart. I sacrifice things I love for other things I love, but sometimes all it does is hurt.

I would never, ever, ever trade away the time I get with them. I have felt my heart get larger and stronger over the past year - enlarged with love for them: more room for each wildly unique soul. Drawing near and being intentionally present with them is my choice, and it is oh so rich. I love sitting close and drawing near, walking with them as they discover and learn and grow. The privilege of knowing them and watching their eyes open further is unparalleled. I know that we are choosing a rich life, a life of nurturing each other and showing up for each other, day after day.

But I'm tired and discouraged. The lies are blaring.

A friend was once explaining the concept of gifts to her son, and as he thought of things people in his family were good at, he declared "Mom, your gift is working!" And she died a little inside.

I am not looking for a lecture on how this is a short season, on how I will never regret this time. I can not even let myself begin to imagine life without them, because the pain of even imagining becomes stifling in a heartbeat.

Sometimes I wonder if I love too many things, and I'll always be hurting because I can never have enough of any of them at the same time. Sometimes I have more questions than answers. I don't even know what balance looks like, or if it exists.

But really, all I am saying in this moment of vulnerability and humility is that sometimes the sacrifice hurts.