Tag: comfort

Life Topics

Anything

Jo McLaughlin

 

How come you ask nothing of me?
I say, “let me know if you need anything?”
Do you think that is just polite?
Is that empty to you?  Am I not in some small way, a
part of your precious life?  Am I overvaluing what
we mean to each other?  I pray not.

Maybe you don’t believe in me, trust my
character.  My tears are not empty, they carry
sorrow, hope and a promise.  A promise to be
present for all of it.  But most of all they carry strength,
commitment and love.

I will miss you for all that you are.  Every little
piece of your complicated life and the wit you’ve
displayed that has made me laugh from deep inside
my soul.  Few have gone there.  Most never will.

But I’m here NOW, and so are you.  I’m trying to
come to terms with the inevitable, it is unimaginable.
God have mercy.  Please see that I am available,
and willing to help in any way possible.  My heart
was made to care and my hands were made to comfort.

Life Topics

Just Words

Jo McLaughlin

My whole life I wanted to be a writer, not a ballerina, teacher or nurse, not even a Mommy, just a writer.  To be capable at an art form that can releases myself from myself.  However, it can be difficult task.  Putting the right words and thoughts together sometimes feels like climbing a mountain.  You start with focused intention and gather sentences that will make sense, scaling up to the audience to reach the peak.  It’s labor intensive and mentally coarse, as you reach deep inside yourself.  Writing, editing and re-writing is an exhaustive effort that you hope will results in something readers can enjoy and relate to.  Writers should raise us up, stories should connect us.

Sharing my life through words brings me happiness.  Although I’m not a professional writer, I do throw myself wholeheartedly into my passion.  The exercise helps me understand myself better while opening windows into other lives.  And, like any artist, I want to express myself to get a genuine message out.  It’s like standing naked in the town square when you finish a piece of work, exposing your inner thoughts and desires for all to judge.  You should be comfortable in your own skin.  Through my creation of authentic stories, I hope to be an instrument to start discussions or to just share basic emotions.

When I was little, I’d create little, short stories and draw pictures.  I didn’t do it a lot, but when I did, I was totally enthralled.  I think I liked doing the pictures best.  Reading wasn’t a big thing in my house, so I didn’t grow up with any literary influences. It wasn’t until my 20s when I became a conscientious reader, and then my world opened up.   I started out devouring novels but would end up falling in love with the authors, the amazing craftsmen.  I’d ask myself, “how did they put this awesome book together?”  The descriptive prose flowed from the pages directly into me.  The combination of kind, bold or even gentle words was totally fascinating.  I knew that I wanted to do that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a level of excellence, but I remain quietly confident.  I like to hear myself think.  To aptly capture a true moment or situation is all I can do to fulfill my simple dream.  A book might be a worthy goal in the future.  I don’t really know.  I’ll keep practicing in order to comfort myself, and to grow as a competent storyteller.  I am always humbled when readers like my words, giving me their valuable time and attention.  It means so much to me.  And so, through my streaming insight and solid commitment, I will keep writing until I run out of words. And if you know me, you know that will never happen.

Life Topics

Nana

Jo McLaughlin

Irish-Soda-BreadI ran down the long staircase, rushing as I lost my breath.   She was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for me.  Nana had passed 10 years ago, but there she was standing on an oriental rug silently watching me, dressed in a wool coat with her back against the front door.  I saw Auntie Mary standing next to her, looking into the room to her left and right.  Mary had died a few years before Nana, which broke her heart to pieces.  It broke everyone’s heart really.  They were now constant companions in their world, just as they were in life.  The three of us stared at each other as I caught my breath, standing on the landing.  Why were they here?

The house was an old Victorian where I lived with my then husband.  It was a magnificent house that showed off the glory of it’s time.  Crown molding, hardwood floors and fireplaces anchored the rooms with splendor.  I loved the house, but hated the marriage.  The growing struggle to keep a meaningless marriage together was exhausting, set against the grand harmony of this structure.  I had to get out.

Both Mary and Nana were now totally focused on me.  I tried to talk, but words wouldn’t come out. There was an expression of sympathy from Mary, and I slowly nodded my head to signal to her that I was OK.   But, I wasn’t OK.  There were so many things that I needed to talk to Nana about, to have her save me.  She brought comfort to me when she was alive, just by giving me tea or feeding me her incredible butter-slathered Irish Bread.   So many times, after she passed, I looked for the nourishment only a grandmother can give.  I wanted Nana to talk, but she just smiled at me.

Turning, she opened the door and walked out to the front porch.  I could see Mary move into the formal parlor out of the corner of my eye, as I slowly followed Nana outside.  It was a cold autumn evening that smelled of maple leaves and frost.  I followed in a hypnotic daze, as my shoes crunched on twigs and leaves.  She stopped at a bench that I don’t remember ever being on the property, and we sat down.

I put my head in her lap and started to cry.  I cried for bad choices that I had made, I cried for getting into a bad marriage,  I cried for not being a better mother, I cried for not being the ideal daughter, I cried for global warming for God sakes, I cried for nothing at all, and I cried because I simply missed her.  She had been gone much of my adult life.  Still silent, she rubbed my back and arm and told me without speaking that she loved me and will always watch over me.  I would have loved to hear that sweet Irish brough, but it wasn’t important at the moment.  Everything was said.

I haven’t been visited in my dreams by Nana since that night, but she does live in my heart.  I think of her often when I need relief, the way she rubbed my back on that bench.  I have a wonderful mother, who is an incredible grandmother to my children.  She comforts them, and gives them tea when they need it.  Her Irish bread is good, just not as good as Nana’s.

Life Topics

What is Coffee?

Jo McLaughlin

IMG_0093A friend asked me to care for her mother, while she brought her daughter to school one day.
A simple favor.

Lil’s bedroom gave no indication that the former sun room was makeshift in any way.  The area rug next to her high loft bed and homemade quilts absorbed the rays of light through the blinds. There was little physical mention that the family once gathered here, except for some neatly stacked games and stuffed animals stored along a few walls. It was comfortably furnished, providing Lil with precious dignity and the privacy they wanted to gift her  in this tiny house.

I peeked into Lil’s room, silently observing her morning routine. She hiked up her nightgown to her upper thighs, as she sat on the edge of her bed. Holding each sock in front of her, she looked at it for a moment and dressed each foot, one at a time. Then carefully unlacing her sneakers, she repeated the sock routine with each shoe. She slowly tightened and tied them, tucking the extra laces in the side, above the arches. Every part of this ritual was new to her. She stood up and looked at the pants on the rocking chair with a quizzical expression. I thought this was a good time to greet her, and see what I could do to help.

She was diagnosed a few years ago, while she was still actively swimming and in the midst of her husband’s illness. She loved her cats and she loved her family but soon everything would slip away. She cared for her husband as best as she could, but would forget to turn things off, and would often drive to unknown locations.  Her daughter once received a call from a gas station manager telling her that her mother was there and confused. He said that he understood because his mother was ill too. It didn’t attack Lil all at once.  No, that would be merciful. It just creeped into all their lives, as the family looked for answers to this dreadful disease.

“Hi Lil” I said as I entered the room. She said hi, without any emotion, not knowing who I was. I had met her several times, but didn’t expect any recognition or greeting. My job was to just take care of her for this sliver of time. I suggested we take her shoes off, and get her pants on. I knelt down and undid her laces, as she watched with confusion. She was cooperative, but guarded, so I tried not to create stress for her. I told her who I was, as she gave me a blank stare.

My eyes were burning, as we made our way to the kitchen. I knew there were cats in the house, but I would only be there for a little while. Her breakfast sat on the center island, made by her daughter, Brenda, before she left. I ushered Lil to the table, where there family photos were stacked.  I could tell that Brenda had put these here for her to look at.  She just sat with her head down, looking like a child who had been punished.

“I have some breakfast for you here”, I said.

She didn’t reply, so I brought the french toast over to her hoping that she would eat.

“Would you like some coffee”, I inquired.
She looked at me with suspicion and slowly said, “What is coffee”?

What is coffee!!!!  It was at that moment that I realized that her life had been stripped of not only memory, but the knowledge of basic enjoyment, like a hot cup of coffee.  How could someone not know what coffee was I wondered?  Then I thought, how can I have a basic conversation with her?  I can’t ask her what she likes to do, or how her day was going.  She had no idea. This was something I hadn’t really thought through.

So, in a desperate attempt to communicate, I decided to sing.  I started to sing a silly song to try to engage her.  Lil perked up and told me that when she was a little girl she sang in the church choir.  Her enthusiastic description of her memories came flooding back, almost like she was waiting all week to tell me.  As we continued to sing, I started to dance, which amused her.  Lil got up and started to side step and move her arms.  I could tell she was enjoying herself.  I had finally gotten through to her. I reached a part of her that was happy and somewhat familiar.

Brenda returned home as we were in mid-chorus, so she joined in.  We had a lot of laughs all while my eyes began to itch and swell (damn cats).  It was time for me to leave, so I finished my coffee and gathered my things.  Brenda thanked me, but I didn’t feel like I deserved it.  The pleasure was all mine.

As I drove off, I realized what an incredible gift I had received that day.  I had to strip my thinking down to the very basics, like singing a song or tying a shoe. It was like caring for a toddler, but slightly bitter sweet.   I had to be gentle and understanding of who Lil is,  while knowing who she was. It was a blessing to be asked to care for her.

Lil has been gone for a few years now, but I hope to remember that day, while I drink a nice hot cup of coffee.

Thank you Brenda.

 

Jo