When the Calendar Taunts
Birthdays. Anniversaries. They're generally happy events. Opportunities to create treasured memories with those we care about. But special dates can become prickly reminders when the celebrant is no longer here to honor, and the gilded memory is all that remains. Bittersweet images of past celebrations, of cakes baked and songs sung, of laughter ringing out around the dining room table.
These recurring cues may plant the seedlings for an appreciative smile, but before they can take root you have to deal with a practical reality: You're going to endure some bruises and scrapes along the rocky, tearful path that eventually leads to settled contentment, especially if you find yourself in a sole-survivor role. Respecting that bumpy stage in the process is important, too.
September 6th. My late father's date of birth. When it rolled into my Fitbit calendar a few weeks ago, I didn't take notice. Not consciously, anyway. But that particular Friday I had no definite plans laid out. And as the empty hours rattled by, a blister of awareness surfaced.
Mental portraits of others who have moved on—dear stepmother, generous mother-in-law, adored father-in-law, beloved husband. Prolonging my focus on those significant losses was like succumbing to the wailing sirens of ancient Greek mythology; it lured me into the gloomy depths.
Well, flounder around in that murky pool too long and you're apt to sink past the point of rescue. But if you're a fellow veteran of the ebb and flow of life's challenges and rewards, you've probably come up with a survival plan for times such as these.
My first step was to do a few windmill exercises to shake off the melancholy. Suddenly, mid arm-swing, that not-so-still, not-so-small voice in my head sputtered, Do something for someone else, you ninny! How many times do I have to remind you?
Got it. Write a few tender words to a shirttail relative who is entering into year two of widowhood. Send a cheery postcard to a dorm-dwelling young church friend. Sigh.
The little voice became louder, bolder. Pull out a project. There's always a project. Card making, writing, cleaning, organizing. Yeesh, kiddo. All you have to do is close your eyes and point and you'll lay hands on a project!
Okay. Clear out a cluttered closet and clean the kitchen. Tidy my crafting corner. Feeling better now. More productive.
And finally, the voice sang out, Play!! Get some balance. Let go of pain and grab hold of joy.
Oh. Boy. Permission to pop in some oldies and dance in the kitchen like nobody's lookin'. Because…nobody's lookin'.
The prescription worked. It always does. And the voice, of course, originates from far, far above my head. It simply gets translated by the sassy little language imp in my brain who then relays the telegraphed message in terms I can relate to.
Next time I catch myself wallowing, maybe I can get through the sad phase a little faster. I'm counting on the imp's "replay" feature to smooth the way.