In the spring of 2021, I began making a two-hour drive down to Vancouver, Washington every weekend to care for my sister Mary and to help her family. She had entered hospice care for a rare type of cancer that had spread to her brain and spine, and we had to face the fact that she was not going to live much longer.
None of us knew how tenacious she would be.
I made this drive from the beginning of March until the first week of July. In the beginning, I struggled with the abrupt change to my atmosphere each weekend. During the week I lived in my home--a virtual zoo with all of my pets, my husband, and my young son. I was surrounded by the clutter of things I loved that gave me comfort even though that clutter also frustrated me. We had lived here for over ten years. Our home had a truly lived-in feel with all of our collected things and the memories we'd shared.
The atmosphere in my sister's home was much different. She had only recently moved there with her family so it did not have a lived in feel at all. In fact, many of their things were still in boxes. The large and lovely place had high ceilings and big, clean spaces. It was was deeply quiet—the kind of quiet that I have found comes with those who are terminally ill. Mary could not engage in conversation at this point and my family in Vancouver did not talk loudly either. It was hard to be lively or talk about everyday things when we knew her death was coming. It hung in the very air.
When I first arrived at Mary's house each weekend, I almost felt like I was walking into a wall of sterile silence. I took breaks from that oppressive silence and the unfamiliar orderliness by going for daily walks. But I continued to struggle with the beautiful and orderly pressing stillness.
When I would return home, I felt comforted by my usual family chaos but that also took some adjustment. I went from a home hospice setting to the routines of getting a young child to school, feeding my pets, and commuting to my teaching job.
With each trip back and forth from Vancouver, I felt a bit of a shock as I readjusted.
I wanted very much to be with my sister and I also needed to be there for my family during the week. Both and. I began to look for ways to make the weekend transitions easier on my mind, body, and spirit.
Because Mary had cancer, her family members all had access to the free counseling services at Swedish Hospital where she received treatment. Just as she entered hospice care, my sister had connected me with her art therapist; I had begun seeing Bonnie online around the same time that I began making the drive to Vancouver. I found that working with drawings and painting soothed me in ways that simple talking could not.
When I told Bonnie about my struggle with the transitions between the two houses, she suggested that I choose a transitional object. I ended up making a mala, or string of prayer beads, from a kit that I ordered on Etsy. The process of choosing the project and then creating the mala was healing in itself. Making that long necklace of beads helped me to work through many of my feelings about the two different spaces.
After I finished, I hung the mala from the rearview mirror in my Subaru. It sparkled in the sunlight as I drove from one place to another, helping me to stay anchored even as I changed locations. The hours I spent in the car changed from a long, tiresome drive into a deliberate time of transition between the spaces—a liminal space. Having my prayer beads with me in both locations helped me to feel connected to my sister when I was away from her. It also tied me to the rest of my family when I was away from them.
Of course, after Mary passed away and I finished with that weekly transition, I faced many more. I made a transition out of my old job and into new work. My older son graduated from college. My younger son moved from elementary school to junior high. My husband changed jobs. I welcomed many of those changes. Some were extraordinarily painful.
And although I'm still living in the same house, things have changed here too. Neighbors have died and new neighbors have moved in. Things have broken and we've made some major repairs.
Life does not stand still. It is always changing and that can be as exciting as it is heartbreaking.
Here are a few things that I have found helpful in that one constant of change:
Find a transitional object that means something to you. It can be especially helpful if you take your time with this project and maybe even make it for yourself.
Look for the ways that nature is constantly changing. I think we notice the changing seasons most in those more transitional seasons of spring and fall. Those are the months when we are between the bright high heat of summer and the deep cold dark of winter. But really, the earth is constantly changing in every season.
Connect with others who are also navigating ongoing changes. This is easier to do when you realize that everyone around you is changing and surrounded by change.
And if you'd like more guidance and a place to share with others, we'd love to have you join us at our retreat: Leaning into Life's Transitions on Saturday, November 2nd. For this one day, we'll take the time and the space we need to step away from the everyday, create transitional objects and art, lean into spiritual spaces, and to grow with one another.
It's my hope that this space might become a bit like those hours I had in the car. A time to move ourselves gently from fall and into the quiet of the winter before we again transition back to spring.
Yorumlar