Grief at Nearly Four Months

Writing through the month of November (I completed a draft of a novel for @NaNoWriMo) allowed an outlet for processing the loss of my mother. Writing about building community allowed me moments to reflect on how good my mother was at that, and the value she passed to me about community. Writing about memory was a way of thinking about what an odd and critical thing memory is.

December has been different. I'm still writing every day in memory of Mom, sure. And I'm honored to have passed the practice on to a friend, who is taking on her own practice (not with writing) in memory of her father who died near Thanksgiving. That sharing of grief has been powerful, to me.

As I went through the first Hanukkah without my mother. She made Hanukkah so special. I feel like Hanukkah was definitely missing something this year, like I was just going through the motions, trying to make it special, but not quite succeeding.

Twenty years ago this month, during the holiday of Hanukkah, my brother died. This year I have thought about him and Mom meeting up in Olam Haba, having a conversation, reconnecting, connecting spiritually perhaps in a way they never could in life. My grief for him was enhanced this year by Mom's death, and my memories of and compassion for her deepened as the two losses mingled in my heart.

Today, as I drove through my neighborhood, I remembered a friend who lived a few blocks away, one of Mom's favorite people in the world, someone special to our whole family. She died a few years ago - I can't even remember - and sadly her husband moved out of the neighborhood before we moved in. Today, I imagined Mom and Lois meeting in Olam Haba. Again, a mingling of losses.

So here's my big confession. With all that, I haven't been crying since Mom died. Maybe the first couple of days I cried a little. I have worried at how few tears I have shed - been embarrassed by their absence. I know grief doesn't happen in a certain way. I know I grieved many pieces of the loss before she died - her loss of voice, a loss of relating on a certain level. Still, even as friends and colleagues have counseled me not to, I have felt guilty about not crying.

Yesterday, I cried. It was a silly thing - a friend's post on FB about a mom being surprised by a son returning home, bringing an adopted child, a grandchild. But there I was, in tears - for a good twenty minutes.

I miss my mom. Terribly. I have a hard time looking at her picture, because I miss her so. Writing helps me to hide my grief, to keep me busy, to get me through, as it were, as much as it helps me feel like I am honoring Mom's memory. Indeed, the honor almost comes out as a bit of excuse to write, where the writing itself seems an escape - into characters, ideas, story.

After nearly four months of grief, I sense I am only just beginning. Yes, I have grieved before - I have lost favorite people - friends, a brother, grandparents. Each loss has been different, and grief comes back again in waves, as it did this week for my brother Ben and for my friend Lois. It is sure to be that way as I continue to remember Mom, through this first year without her and in every year to come. Grief simply is.

Where Have I Been Writing?

Where have I been, dear readers? Where have I been writing?

Three months ago tonight, my mother died. In the turmoil of the week that followed, I struggled with remembering her - with honoring her. In Judaism we typically do this by reciting Kaddish daily - and with an effort and support from other I live in a community where I could do that. But the first handful of times I recited Kaddish it just felt ... powerless. The words are all too familiar, the ideas in it archaic, and most of all the way we recite it - quickly and then on to announcements or wishing each other a good day - seemed to draw me away rather than connect me to my mother's memory, God, a spiritual feeling.

Even without my telling her about this, my boss and colleague suggested study in lieu of (or addition to) whatever Kaddish I could manage to recite. This sounded terrific, and I looked at my bookcases and at texts I have interest in - but nothing caught my fancy.

And then it came to me. My mother is a writer. Was. Sorry, I forgot to say "was." It's only three months, you know.

My mother was a writer, and as I considered whether I could actually finish any of her projects (jury still out, by the way), I realized that what I can do, what I am very well equipped for (not that I'm not equipped for study), is writing. 

I am a writer, and my mother was a writer. And I can write in her memory.

Now, I write every day. I journal for 18 minutes every morning, and I write creatively once a week, and I was doing a pretty good job at keeping this blog up. To honor my mother, I felt like I had to add something. So I added 18 minutes a day of writing - memories, fiction prompts, essay-like things.

I know I stopped writing the blog. I was writing, but I wasn't writing anything I felt I could share. I was in a bit of a block on that front. But I was writing.

And then, on October 26th, in response to a fantasy-like prompt from my writing friend, Sarah Mendonca, I hit upon a short story that, over the next couple of days became a long journey. And so, I signed up for NaNoWriMo, began to outline, and on November 1st began to write in earnest. More than 60,000 words later, on this last day of November, I have a complete draft of a novel and seven short stories based on the novel.

And today, I can come back to you and say, what a WILD experience. The words flowed in November - I didn't really have a plan, I didn't know at all where the story was taking me. I learned about mdy characters as I went, and I became invested in them the same way I get invested as a reader - I didn't want to stop writing the way I can't put down a book.

I won't tell you it's perfect - it's not. It needs a lot of work, now. Because I learned more and more about my characters as I wrote, I know I have to go back and correct things. 

But folks, I wrote a book. I did it on my lunch hour, and in my journal writing time, and in my writing-in-memory-of-mom time, and in my blog time, and in my spare time, and in the middle of the night.

I let go, and a book came through me. My husband said at one point - about his own non-fiction writing and my fiction - that it's like Mom is behind us, out there in Olam Haba (the world to come), urging us to write. 

Tonight, as I put the novel and short stories aside, to be revisited in January (I tell you, I can't wait to meet up with my characters again, but I know it's time to put them away), I am wondering what I will write tomorrow, when I wake up and don't write my novel. A week ago, I already returned to journaling in the morning, since the novel was done and I was working on the short stories. 

Tonight, I return to the blog. I want to tell you I will keep up with it, but I don't know that I will. I want to think you care about this post, that it is meaningful to you. It is meaningful to me - I have been on a journey with my characters, and this blog didn't know. And this blog is a part of my journey as a writer, too. Perhaps I will blog again next week. Or perhaps I will be writing something, somewhere else. I can't promise which. 

I can promise that I will be writing. I am a writer, and I am writing in memory of my mother, Julia, who was a writer.