Twelve
months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition
and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public
service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee
sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was
some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as
was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of
promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we
envisioned.
Perhaps
we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a
year of positive transition and
change.
Ter’s
intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop
steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a
shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity.
Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a
couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last
day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back
while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so
overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s
when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a
muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan
went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute
threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve
forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of
Transition and Change.
Keeping
the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s
easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going
smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018
was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I
struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that
things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest
of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of
positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in
the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the
heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get
through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.
And
yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I
will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother
died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the
Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown
by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to
the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from
nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And
others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking
karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to
call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because
we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The
list goes on.
Though
I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread
that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself,
that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure
what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of
me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all
about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not
through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks
it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself
to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama
ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident
now than it was even three months ago.
It
occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that
miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:
The
longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the
entire night is bright with light.
Isn’t
that wonderful?
Happy
New Year.
With
love,
