Over the past few months I've traveled back and forth between Virginia, where I live my so-called grown-up life, and Indiana, where I did much of my growing up. With all this air travel I now have my favorite slip-on shoes for getting through security lines, my favorite airport cafe that serves a savory tuna salad sandwich, and my favorite place to sit with my laptop while I wait to queue up in Southwest's lines.
(I don't know why, but I like lining up. Must be fond memories of kindergarten or something.)
My reason for coming home is not a pleasant one, unfortunately. I'm coming back home to see my mom, who has suffered multiple strokes and other major setbacks, and my dad, who is relentless in his care of my mom. Their tenacity truly inspires me to be a better, more gracious person.
These life-changing events have also necessitated writing in my journal daily, something I'd previously neglected to do on a regular basis. And I've found that this routine of writing has led me to a more emotional connection to my words, similar to when I was a professional actress for many years, always aiming at the most authentic, visceral connection to a character that I could muster.
I began writing about the sadness of watching my amazing, creative, intelligent mother struggle with words and breath, the edginess that occurs every time my dad and sister and I wait for the results of one test or another, the cautious optimism that I allow myself to feel, or the fear that grips me when I imagine a future without my mom in mind, body and/or spirit. I scribbled down some of the childhood memories that come flooding back to me as I pass my old high school, look at old pictures and find momentos of when "my family" referred to just me, my sister, Mom, Dad and a couple of lovable Golden Retrievers. I tried to putting them on my blog; however, at least at this time, on this particular day, I'm finding many of these thoughts are best confined to the pages of my journal and intimate conversations among family.
There are some conversations, however, best shared out loud both for the sake of my own emotional needs and for the sake of others who might just relate to feelings of loss, hope and everything in between. But instead of words to begin the conversation, I've been taking lots of pictures. Being what one might call a "visual person", taking photographs are my saving grace. Because while I cherish beautiful words and exquisite conversations, I've hardly mastered either, and capturing interesting images, colors, shapes and textures seems to me a great place to start for someone with my visual penchant.
I began taking pictures primarily for my mom, who, I don't believe for one minute, has lost her love and keen eye for aesthetics, and I know she yearns for a connection to the world outside her hospital room. But I also feel compelled to also share them with you, my friends, my other saving grace. So look for more photos of Indiana, like the one above that I took a few summers back when my (grown-up) family came to visit Mom and Dad.
So thank you so much for listening, looking and hoping that there are more good days to come.
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