My blog stats tell me I haven't posted a new entry in 74 days.  I have thought about it almost all of those 74 days. 

When I write here, it is because there is something significant, or beautiful, or inspiring or interesting that I want to share.  The reason I haven't written in so long is that I didn't feel I could continue until I addressed the most significant thing that has happened in my life.  And I just wasn't ready.  I didn't know what to say.  I did have lots to say, but it was too personal. 

Today I continue.  That "most significant thing in my life" was on May 27 losing my mother. 

March 19 she got results of a PETScan that showed cancer, cancer everywhere.  This portrait was taken that same day (after she had received the news).  She was surprised.  She was not afraid.  She still appeared "radiantly healthy," which was her own vision for herself.

April she spent entertaining visitors - her family who traveled to see her one last time to be with her and tell her what she meant to them.  She was radiant in those visits, "holding court," telling story after story of her long life.  She was 88.  Most of her children and grandchildren at some point threw themselves on her mercy and confessed their love and gratitude and sadness at having to say good-bye.  As we cried and held her, she never once shed a tear, but became more calm and sanguine as she comforted each one.  She tried to instruct us in what was happening to her and how it is not to be feared or resented.  She saw death as just another step in Life.  She knew her spirit would continue on, would see her husband and parents and brothers who had gone before her.  The visits and conversations with us all really healed her spirit and brought her more joy than she has probably ever known. 

She liked the idea of when getting to the end of one's life, she might be able to balance her life against the weight of a feather.  The way you do that is to be able to look back on your life and see no pride, no resentments, no unforgiven sins, no grudges.  Each of those things weighs you down.  As you let go of all that and realize who you really are as co-creator, who the You inside really is, you replace every weight and blemish with Light.  That April she filled up with Light.  She was so light and bouyant that she could only welcome going home.

In May, she was slowing down.  Instead of no nap, or maybe one a day, she was lying down several times a day.  Any pain was controlled with mere over-the-counter Tylenol.  She decided she wouldn't be getting dressed up daily, since she spent so many naps in bed.  So for Mother's Day, I sent her a soft, easy-to-get-into nightgown and a short robe for the warmer months.  She posed for a picture, all rosy cheeked and smiling with her jack-o-lantern eyes, toe pointed, and hand holding the nightgown out in a flare.  Adorable.  Radiant.

While I was with her in April, we had talked so much about her process of dying and about what she hoped for and expected.  I was given several "tasks" to take care of - like writing the obituary and creating a funeral service, and writing her thoughts about her passing.  She was so integrated about it all, and so happy to be "heading home."  I told her I couldn't imagine not being there when she crossed over.  It would be like helping her plan a party and then not being able to attend.  So she said yes, I could come back when "it was time" and I could help usher her to her Welcome Home party.

That time came a the end of May.  She waited for me to get finished with a conference in Orlando from May 16-24. She waited for the last round of grandchildren to come visit that same week.  She had gotten up and got dressed in a flouncy skirt and comfortable top, and had sat out on the patio while everyone had dinner.  She "held court" for the last time.  After that evening, she was done.  She was too tired.  She said for me to come, and she gave in to her disease - perhaps for the first time.

It was clear that she was ready now and so she didn't want to delay.  I arrived on a Sunday and was treated to a beatific smile from her, looking up at me saying, "You're here! I'm glad."  It was Memorial Day weekend.  All the visiting family went home and it was me and my sister, the youngest and the oldest, to count the hours, provide the comfort and the morphine and keep the vigil.  We felt honored and a little awestruck at how Mom had orchestrated all this, how present, and radiant and wonderful she had been right up till the end. 

Mom had always told me that when she died she intended to just choose the day and do it.  She never intended to have a long illness or struggle.  She just wanted to put her affairs in order and then lay down and die.  That's exactly what she did.

When the end came, just 10 weeks after that PETScan diagnosis; just 18 days after her posing adorably in her new nightgown, just 6 days after greeting her last group of visitors, just 4 days after my arrival, my sister and I sat on either side of her, holding her hands and counting the seconds between her breaths.  I felt her pulse flutter, stop, and then felt one last beat.  She left.  Somewhere in the Energy in the room, I felt and saw a great jolt of Joy and I laughed out loud and cried, "She did it!  She did it!  She made it!  Oh, good for her!!"  and I saw the image of a great, powerful horse crashing through gates and running away in freedom.  We laughed and we cried.  The laughter was all Mom - her spirit's joy infusing us.  The crying was all us - our mother had left, and the overwhelming love we felt just poured out our eyes.

I'm okay.  I am still surprised that she died at 88.  I really expected her to live well into her 90's.  She did too.  I still miss her and I still get waves that make me cry.  Like this past week when her birthday rolled around.  I cried for an hour on the bus on the way to work.  'Probably confused the heck out of the bus driver who could see me in his rear view mirror, and who knows me as a smiley middle aged lady who always has a kind word for him.

One of my other sisters said that when Mom died, the world changed forever.

Mom said in April that she liked the idea of what St. Teresa said:  "I shall spend my Heaven doing good on Earth."  So, maybe her influence is still here.

I know that the way she approached her death was the same way she approached her life: intentionally.  She taught us all a lot in those last days and the lesson I take away is to live life with intention.  On purpose.  Like you mean it.  Live it fully right up till you die.  Okay.  I can do that.  I want to do that.  If I can leave this world with the overwhelming kindness to my family that she showed to us, that will be a wonderful thing.

I still miss her.  I carry some of her traits in me.  I have her seriousness of purpose, her curiosity, her deep love of nature, love of stones and rocks.  I have her strength and work ethic, her love of reading and learning, her eccentricity and her love of rich food.  I love life and my family.  And I am not afraid.

So, that is the event I had to write about before I wrote about anything else.  I remain full of gratitude and hope.  So now, deep breath; let's continue.