Passion
Take a moment and look back. Do you notice a recurring theme in your life? What has fueled your existence so far? What has made life worth living? What adds color to your life?
The color… life-fuel I call it, is Passion. Without it, life fades into shades of gray and becomes little more than an act of wandering from one day to the next. If you are lucky enough to have discovered more than one Passion, be ever so grateful, as one may sustain you during a difficult period when another has been extinguished.
What happens when your Passion has been stomped out by overwhelming responsibilities?
When the crescendo of stress threatens to crush you, how can you go on?
Begin with one simple choice. So much in life begins with a choice. We never lose the power to choose, even if the only choice you have is your attitude about something or someone. So, here's a chance to do just that. Choose to kindle an ember of Passion. Even if you choose to try for only a few minutes today, the ember may glow a bit. Tomorrow, vow to fan that tiny ember again. And, the next day choose to give it more attention.
And then a discovery! Passion is not lost, but rather waiting, patiently. It was there all the time.
Today, you can not only hang on, you can remember your passion and embrace it again.
…
Chapter 2
A Full Heart
After spending the summer months absorbed by the writing process, the doll making book became a reality. Putting my energy into writing helped diffuse my overpowering emotions as I anticipated our son, now grown, preparing to leave the safety and familiarity of home.
Simultaneously, my aging parents were needing additional attention which resulted in them absorbing larger and larger blocks of my time. Within me I could feel a dormant rebellion stirring. I loved and respected my parents, but I couldn’t help recalling their disdain from long ago when I married. They vehemently disagreed with my choice of husbands who was, “too old and only wanted me to take care of his daughter.” They were so opposed to him, that my father refused to escort me down the aisle and made certain that I understood their disapproval with his conversation and letters. When my parents finally appeared at our wedding, I saw their choice of seats—the back pew. I was their last child to marry, but they chose the back row in the church to put an exclamation point on their aversion to my action.
Reflecting on my parents’ appearance that day, I suppose that I should have been able to give them the benefit of the doubt as they had buried their second-born daughter, killed in a car accident, only a few months before my wedding. Their grief convinced them that when I married someone other than their choice, they would be losing another daughter. Our marriage was still strong after more than thirty years, but reliving my parents’ rejection of long ago still stung. Struggling with their increasing dependence, I experienced conflicting emotions every time they needed me. I wanted to reject them as they had rejected me, yet somehow I couldn’t. My conscience convinced me to set aside the old anger and wounds as best I could. I knew that none of us could go back to hit the re-do button, and I certainly didn’t want to spend the time I had left with my son swallowed up by resentment toward his grandparents.
In late October, 2000, our son began his journey from the Midwest to California. I rode with him in his classic Mustang as far as a friend’s home in Colorado and then through a flood of tears, bid him good-bye and Godspeed. To see him drive away was nearly more than my heart could bear. For my only son to find the courage and self-confidence to build his life in a place completely unknown to him, filled me with myriad emotions. I was elated by his courage to pursue his dream, followed quickly by my fear of the future and a longing for those years when his tiny hand always found its way into mine. I could barely take it in. All the years… all the feelings… all the love… Everything was acute and unfocused in the same instant, punctuated by the searing pain in my heart as I watched him leave.
But, the clock never turns back and watching my best launch into adulthood, without looking back at me, happened whether I was ready or not.
In a full heart there is room
for everything…
− Antonio Porchia
…
Reflection
Mixed Emotions
Emotions are funny things. It’s possible to feel something so strongly that you can’t imagine its intensity will ever lessen. The feeling rolls over and over in your heart, demanding all of your attention. And it’s possible to feel nothing at all. Empty… void… blank… Amazingly, it’s also possible to feel opposites at the very same time!
Well-meaning people may try to convince you that only certain emotions have value. Sometimes they even label the way you feel as good or bad. And you may even do that to yourself. If you’re not alert to the danger of emotion-labeling, you may succumb to an illusion that tricks you into thinking you cannot identify or trust what you feel.
The Truth is that every emotion is absolutely valid and holds its own lesson. Being the amazing humans that we are, we can feel multiple and seemingly opposing feelings at the same time! How little sense that seems to make and how very confusing. But contained within simple acceptance is freedom.
You are free to feel exactly what you feel. There is no good or bad, no right or wrong. Feel what you feel. Express it by talking or writing or just sit in the mix of your feelings, whether exhilarating or debilitating or in between. Simply recognize emotions for what they are—teachers. In time you will learn their lessons. For now, there is no need to rush into understanding.
Just feel what you feel.
Nobody has ever measured,
not even poets,
how much the heart can hold
− Zelda Fitzgerald
…
Chapter 3
Changes at Home
Upon returning home from the trip with our son, I learned that my parents had slipped significantly further down the slope of aging while I was away. One of my sisters, Sanctimonious Shirley, (who knew best about everything because of her perceived extra special God-hotline) had planned one of her brief rare visits in their home. Her intention had been to leave after just a few days, but as Dad was ailing, she extended her stay until I returned. Mild discomfort had evolved into constant pain and Dad was miserable.
Sanctimonious Shirley, usually piously quiet, left long winded messages on my answering machine about our parents’ situation, including her opinion about the cause of Dad’s symptoms.
"I need you to go to the copy store and pick up the pages of information that my husband is faxing to us. He has spent hours researching one of Dad's prescription drugs that we are certain is causing his problems. With my husband's extensive chemistry background, I'm sure that he is correct in his conclusion about this situation."
Not leaving my mother out of the equation, Sanctimonious Shirley continued, "Mother is not doing that well either. She's getting weaker and I'm noticing that simple tasks are sometimes well beyond her comprehension or ability. Each time I see her she is more confused, but Dad's issues seem to have somehow propelled her into being nearly immobilized. This situation is getting worse by the day. Dad is becoming more impatient with Mom as her confusion increases and Mom doesn't understand why he is so short with her."
Nowhere in my sister's plethora of observations about Mom and Dad did she bother to ask me, "How are you?" My entire life had changed in ten days. Emptiness occupied the