Last Sunday, I woke up; poured myself a cup of coffee; snuggled up on the couch with the newspaper; and immediately thought, "Oh, I need to get ready for bingo."
I don't need to get ready for bingo. My bingo buddy died four years ago today. Very early on a Sunday, by the by. I got the call while I was there on the couch. With my coffee. And the paper. Right before I got ready for our weekly bingo date.
Ah, well. Memories. You never know when they'll pop up. Happily, after four years without Mom, a bingo flash doesn't spark tears. I'm more likely to smile, raise my coffee cup in a silent toast, and go about the day.
That's not to say I don't miss her, of course. Heck, my grandmother died 46 years ago and I still miss her all the time. But the trite expressions are true: The passage of time does smooth the rough and jagged edges of grief.
Today, on Mom's yahrzeit, I have a candle burning in her memory. And, I want to share the lesson she taught that is shaping my life as I ease into retirement:
Be willing to be delighted.
What are you doing today? Resting? Driving home from a family gathering? Shopping? Doodling? Reading? Playing bingo? Whatever is on your list, go into the experience with Lillian's perspective. Be willing to be delighted. Look up. Look for the good.
God knows it's easy enough to see all the awfulness these days -- so don't take the easy way out. Look for something wonderful and unexpected, even if it's tiny. The perfect sentence in that book you're reading. A bite of food with exactly the right mix of turkey and stuffing. A friendly grin from the stranger at the service station, a silent acknowledgement that you're both freezing while pumping gas. Whatever.
There are delightful moments all around us, waiting to be seen. Or heard. Or felt.
|Lillian Marie Sokoloff, my favorite poet|
"B7, Go to Heaven!"
God love you, Mom.