Seek and Ye Shall Find

One day Ter spoke to me from the kitchen. “You may have noticed the box of little meat pies in the freezer.”

I hadn’t, so without looking up from my crossword, I replied, “I don’t look on the upper shelf.”

“It’s not on the upper shelf,” she said. “It’s on the lower shelf, with your tea treats.”

Wait a minute. That’s my go-to shelf, where Ziploc bags of cookies, tarts, brownies and muffins are stacked one atop the other. I go in there twice a day, yet I had seen no box of little meat pies.

I finally looked up at her, puzzling. “Under the pizza crust?”

“No,” she said patiently, “on top of the muffins.”

I had taken out a muffin for breakfast the previous day. You would think I’d have noticed a sizeable box of little meat pies, but nope. I hadn’t.

I can’t even say that was a one-off. A week or two earlier, I’d spied a box of apple cinnamon Cheerios next to the box of originals on top of the fridge and asked Ter when she had bought it.

“Two days ago,” she said.

I’d eaten a bowl of originals that morning and not seen the bright green box standing beside the bright yellow one? Really? Really?

If I’m not looking for it, apparently I won’t see it. This applies to more than meat pies and cereal boxes, incidentally. In this era of extreme hyper-sensitivity (hyper-hyper-sensitivity?), eventually someone somewhere will take offense at something you say or do. Some folks are so touchy that they’ll even take offense on behalf of others, without consulting those others, by the way, but merely on the presumption that others might be offended if they knew what had been said or done. The self-appointed PC police go digging for titbits to be offended about, then spread the word. People get upset about things they had no idea existed. Sometimes that’s good. We must be aware of what we can change for the betterment of all. At its worst, however, it’s petty, destructive, frustrating, unproductive, or just plain stupid.

Which brings me to my point:

Taking offense is a choice. If I’m not looking to be offended, insulted or pissed off, chances are I won’t be offended, insulted or pissed off. I admit, personal circumstances can make me more sensitive than usual—being human is a tougher gig than any of us imagined when we signed up for it—but in the long run, the decision to be offended is mine, no matter what the perpetrator’s intent.

Forget ignorance. Oblivion is bliss.

A Brief Word with God

I sat with God. Together we watched the moon rise over the ocean, splashing butter-coloured light over opalescent waves.

I asked him for nothing and he gave me no direction. Eventually, I told him that I’m happy. I love my life, but if I want to change anything, I trust him to help me.

The moon ducked behind some cloud and the sky was suddenly dappled, deep blue and pale gold. God said nothing, but I felt him beside me, close and comforting in a way that made me feel safe and loved and not alone.

“I know you’re there,” I said, my gaze yet on the water. “I’m glad you’re there and always will be.”

Though he said not a word, I felt him smile.

A Year to the Day

We’re approaching a bunch of first anniversaries: Ter’s retirement from public service (May 25), me visiting Mum at home (May 28), me visiting Mum in hospital before her diagnosis (June 14), me visiting Mum in hospital after her diagnosis (June 16), Mum’s last conversation with me (June 22), the day she went to hospice (June 26) and finally, the day she passed (June 29).

I won’t post about every one of those dates (I know—thank the gods!), but today marks the first Mother’s Day without my mother. It also marks the last time I saw her dressed and out of the house—we’ve never been big on Hallmark occasions in our family, but Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were excuses for Ter and me to meet the folks for lunch, and last May was our last excuse to do it with Mum.

I didn’t know it at the time, of course. Ter had an inkling, but not me, the Queen of Denial.

A year later, it’s Mother’s Day once more. I’m glad our clan never made so big a deal of the occasion that it’s an anniversary of great sadness, because it’s not. But I did spend a few minutes in the Ocean Rom this morning, thanking Mum for being exactly what I needed exactly when I needed her—even if I didn’t always appreciate it. I’ve spent some of the past twelve months regretting things I did or said to her in my formative years, until a friend observed that we can’t expect our present selves to have done anything differently from the way our past selves did it then.

I’ve also learned that everyone means something different to everyone else. Mum will be viewed through a different lens depending on which of us is looking—though I’m pretty sure each of my sibs, and Dad too, will tell you that she was as good a mother as any of us could have hoped for. She always did her best, even when not at her best, even if she didn’t know it.

Truth is, that’s how it is for each of us. For you, for me, for my parents and sibs and friends and colleagues and neighbours and countrymen—all we are doing at any given time is the best we can do. On another day we might do better, but not today. Today is as good as today can get.

Love you, Mum.