A quote:

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

Rumi

He is God and his guides are His angels. They are always with us in one way or another. This quote helps me to see that through the gray and melancholy comes golden light, peace, and joy! But we have to sit with the complexity of human emotion, like depression, anxiety, fear, anger, grief, in order to address what is bothering our emotional beings, our souls. If we choose to turn on talk radio, plug our ears with I-Pod buds, or watch TV, then we are simply running away from sitting with those uncomfortable feelings long enough to find a deeper meaning as to what is going on inside ourselves, which is usually unconscious to our very own awareness. How are we to grow spiritually or emotionally if we keep numbing our depression, fears, and anger with booze, drugs--prescription or not--and other externals like TV, radio, facebook?

I did this very thing after my mother died. I avoided facing my real emotions and grief by immediately picking up my cell phone to make a call, or turning the radio on in the car. One frozen January evening, I drove home from an appointment and my hands automatically reached for my phone and the radio dial. I stopped myself! It wasn't easy--believe me. I kept nervously reaching for a way out of the silence. My fingers were fidgety, like Dennis the Menice's small fingers-- in the cockpit of an airplane with shiny silver knobs, and colorful buttons blossoming from every inch--with a flashing sign that said DO NOT TOUCH!!! I would have tried sitting on my hands until they both became prickly and numb, had I not been driving.

The silence worked. It stirred up a part of my unconscious memory and transplanted me smack in Hiawatha, IA in late May 2008. The sky was gray and it was sprinkling in the court yard of the peach-colored Hospice House. We were waiting for my mom to die. This was the third day that we waited after she stopped talking. Her breath was heavy and a patch was placed on her neck to silence the rattling sound of her last days of breathing. The nurse placed the patch there to spare my daughter, sister and I and aunts from the awkward and truth-piercing sound of the inevitable.

The end was nearing--sooner than we'd like. It happened faster than the nurses predicted. Her body was preparing for death but her young 53-year -old heart was not ready to stop. It was strong and would take longer to wear out, they kept telling us. We had said our goodbyes the last evening she had been somewhat awake, as advised by the nurses. She weakly sang "Have a holly, jolly Christmas" with Haley, her four year old hands playing with the hospital sheets. A classic Burl Ives number on the Christmas CD my mom had given Haley the year before. Haley listened to it all year, even during the summer and spring when her granny was losing her hair, with slivers of hope still alive by being hooked up weekly for high doses of chemo.

Mom took her last breath on a Thursday afternoon. The 29th of May in her hospice bed. My sister, dad, and I were in the room. Although, my parents had been divorced for nearly 7 years and had only spoken once during that time, she waited for him to come. The nurses kept saying she will go when her heart stops and when she's ready. To talk to her because she could still hear us. We did this, giving her our permission to go and be with Jesus and her mother. She kept holding on, until my father arrived, that Thursday afternoon. He told her that he was there.

And in her last act of motherhood on earth, she took her last breath, being sure not to do so until my dad was there to pick my sister and I up off of the floor. I wondered why she didn't do it sooner, because two of her sisters were there the entire time to support us. I concluded that she wanted our father there, to provide us with the support that only a parent can. Her last gift to us.

Her last few breaths were heavy, but peaceful, long but sounded with much relief. She fought so hard. Then she was pale, paler than the snow, paler than anything I've ever seen. And then nothing. Silence.

I sobbed so hard a strange sound escaped my throat. I clutched the steering wheel hard, my knuckles white and red. A deep unconscious memory unclogged my heart and mind. I felt like crap for a while, facing head on such an intense and sad memory. As I drove on, my desperate sobs evaporated into sniffles and breathy sighs. I reached home and climbed the stairs to my third floor apartment. I was relieved. I knew in that moment that I needed to unclog that memory. I had tried to suppress it for so long, and my body and mind needed to let it go in order to move on and be healthy, just like a flu bug moving it's way through our system in order for us to find physical, health and balance once again. Had I not let go of that emotion, I'm sure it's intensity would have manifested in a physical or mental illness eventually.

I laid down on my bed, still wrapped in my red pea coat. My face cool and tight with dried tears. I rested in a state of awaken sleep, until eventually I peeled my coat off and turned off the light. All that was left was the echoes of cars on the road outside and the familiar smell of Gain detergent on my pillow case. The same comforting smell my mom used on my high school basketball jerseys and the sheets to my water-bed. The same smell of her closet, the one she left behind.