Well, today marks the beginning of my month long dare.
I was listening to CBC radio and heard an interview with Stephen Lewis about the Dare to Remember campaign that was developed to raise funds for his foundation.
I'm a big fan of Stephen Lewis and as soon as I got home I checked out the website (www.adaretoremember.org) and created my own dare.
I dared myself to give up television for one month and, during that period, read at least 10 books. My dare begins today, September 25th, and ends on the last day of the Dare to Remember campaign, October 25th.
My friends, family and colleagues have shown incredible support - I'm well on my way to reaching my $1,000 goal.
The money raised goes directly to those who need it. The Stephen Lewis Foundation, which started just six years ago, "worked to create a new way of funding that is sensitive, responsive and flexible - one that avoids bureaucratic red-tape and ensures that the money goes where it's most needed." My kind of fundraising.
So, to everyone who has supported my dare so far - THANK YOU.
To those who haven't yet visited my page please check it out at http://stephenlewisfoundation.akaraisin.com/p/DeniseShoesmith.aspx
and to those who elect to support different fundraising organizations, keep up the good work.
In the words of the Dare to Remember campaign "Together, ordinary people CAN do extraordinary things."
Friday, September 25, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Linden Tree
My front lawn has the biggest tree in the neighbourhood.
It's a Linden tree and if I had to guess at it's height I'd probably say it was a gazzillion miles high. I love it.
Literally, I love the tree. I feel a Celtic connection to its branches and its flowers and the hard as nails berry-type beads that fall off and cover what little remains of my front lawn.
I was a child when this tree was planted. Its predecessor was a Mountain Ash. My mother hated that tree; well 'hated' is probably too strong a word but she sure as hell didn't like it. The Mountain Ash had berries too but not the dried, hard shell kind of the Linden. Those berries were red and squishy and made a mess all over the front sidewalk. THAT'S what Mom didn't like ... the mess.
Anyway, one year a bunch of teenagers (well, we figured it was teenagers because who else would do it) ripped all the branches off the Ash and left it in shreds on the front lawn. Even though Mom - and by extension none of us - liked the damn thing it was an affront to see it in pieces all over the lawn.
The Linden replaced the Ash and for years I just took it for granted. Until I became the owner of the house and the tree.
You see I discovered that if you don't trim back the branches they grow and grow and make a lovely kind of shelter. It's like being wrapped in the arms of someone you love. Of course by letting the branches grow it blocks out the sun and the grass dies. But I've solved that problem. This year I put in a rock garden. No worries. I get to have my wonderful tree just as big and magnificent as I know it wants to be and my husband doesn't have to moan about the dead grass. He doesn't love the tree. And he doesn't quite understand my attraction to it.
We used to have an elderly lady come and pick the flowers to make Linden tea and last year a neighbourhood youngster would come by on his way to school and hide under the branches. His mother apologized when I happened to be home one day and saw him doing it. No worries, I said, I love it too. I think she got it. I'm sure she did - only someone who got it would have added extra minutes to their walk to school knowing their child wanted to be embraced by the tree.
We had an incredible storm here last week. The wind was phenomenal - it was the storm that launched the tornado in Vaughan - and the trees all around us were bending in its onslaught. I found myself praying for my tree. Certainly I didn't want the tree to fall on my house or on any of my neighbours' but I also, perhaps even more, couldn't bear the thought of the tree being harmed. Thankfully she stood her ground and remains part of my life.
Honestly, I love that tree.
It's a Linden tree and if I had to guess at it's height I'd probably say it was a gazzillion miles high. I love it.
Literally, I love the tree. I feel a Celtic connection to its branches and its flowers and the hard as nails berry-type beads that fall off and cover what little remains of my front lawn.
I was a child when this tree was planted. Its predecessor was a Mountain Ash. My mother hated that tree; well 'hated' is probably too strong a word but she sure as hell didn't like it. The Mountain Ash had berries too but not the dried, hard shell kind of the Linden. Those berries were red and squishy and made a mess all over the front sidewalk. THAT'S what Mom didn't like ... the mess.
Anyway, one year a bunch of teenagers (well, we figured it was teenagers because who else would do it) ripped all the branches off the Ash and left it in shreds on the front lawn. Even though Mom - and by extension none of us - liked the damn thing it was an affront to see it in pieces all over the lawn.
The Linden replaced the Ash and for years I just took it for granted. Until I became the owner of the house and the tree.
You see I discovered that if you don't trim back the branches they grow and grow and make a lovely kind of shelter. It's like being wrapped in the arms of someone you love. Of course by letting the branches grow it blocks out the sun and the grass dies. But I've solved that problem. This year I put in a rock garden. No worries. I get to have my wonderful tree just as big and magnificent as I know it wants to be and my husband doesn't have to moan about the dead grass. He doesn't love the tree. And he doesn't quite understand my attraction to it.
We used to have an elderly lady come and pick the flowers to make Linden tea and last year a neighbourhood youngster would come by on his way to school and hide under the branches. His mother apologized when I happened to be home one day and saw him doing it. No worries, I said, I love it too. I think she got it. I'm sure she did - only someone who got it would have added extra minutes to their walk to school knowing their child wanted to be embraced by the tree.
We had an incredible storm here last week. The wind was phenomenal - it was the storm that launched the tornado in Vaughan - and the trees all around us were bending in its onslaught. I found myself praying for my tree. Certainly I didn't want the tree to fall on my house or on any of my neighbours' but I also, perhaps even more, couldn't bear the thought of the tree being harmed. Thankfully she stood her ground and remains part of my life.
Honestly, I love that tree.
Friday, July 17, 2009
'Nothing to be ashamed of'
From The Globe and Mail, Thursday, May. 14, 2009
'It's a shame about your job," my friend says.
"Yes," I say. "But what can you do? In this economy lots of people are getting laid off."
We both nod and sigh a little. The part about the economy is true. The part about my job is a lie. I've been lying to a lot of people lately.
The truth is that I wasn't laid off from my job. I've been sick, too sick to work. I struggled through most of the winter to make it through those long, dark days at my desk, but eventually I had to quit before the end of a six-month contract. It wasn't a choice. I simply couldn't keep going.
So why didn't I just tell my friend this? Surely he would be supportive. Why would I lie to someone I've known for more than 10 years?
Because the thing I'm sick with usually doesn't generate the same level of sympathy and understanding as other illnesses, even though it's far more common than most people imagine.
Simply put, I'm depressed. Clinical depression, major depressive disorder, severe depression; there are several names for what's going on inside my head.
Major depression is more than just feeling sad all the time. It's a serious illness that can take over an entire life and make a formerly productive person incapable of doing pretty much anything. At least that's what it's done to me. But from my experience fighting depression on and off for the past eight years, most people don't see it that way.
There is a deeply ingrained belief in our society that mental illness is a form of personal weakness and that if sufferers really wanted to they could just (and I detest this phrase) "snap out of it."
Unfortunately, that's not possible. Believe me, I've tried. I've tried talk therapy, light therapy, yoga, meditation, medication, exercise, vitamins, you name it. But my boot straps firmly refuse to be pulled up. None of my efforts or the efforts of several medical professionals have so far been able to pull me out of the swamp of despair that I've been sinking into for months.
I barely remember what it feels like not to be depressed. I've heard depression described in many ways, usually involving the colour black - sometimes as a black wave, black dogs or a black hole. These make it sound like depression is something external to the depressive, as though it comes sneaking up from the outside or is a well-hidden area of quicksand that a person can slip into by accident.
For me it's never been like that. I've always felt like it's something inside me, always there even if I can't feel it at one particular moment. It does feel black, but more like a black swamp, a heavy, wet, cloying ooze that bubbles up from inside my chest and spreads throughout my body, weighing me down.
I tried for a long time to act normal in spite of it, and most of the time I did an excellent job. But I couldn't keep it up forever. I feel the depression so deeply that sometimes I don't understand how it's possible that people don't see it. I feel I radiate misery like a halogen bulb.
Sometimes, if I'm having a really bad day, someone will ask, "Are you okay?"
I want to burst into tears and say, "No, I'm not, please help me." But I never do. Instead I say, "Yes, I'm fine," in the high-pitched voice I always use when I lie.
This is only my personal experience of depression, and I'm sure it feels different for everyone, but I think a feeling of intense despair is common to most depressives, along with feelings of isolation and loneliness.
On top of the despair is the embarrassment and shame that inevitably come with mental illness. Sometimes the stigma feels as heavy as the despair itself. A few close friends and family know what I've been going through, but to the rest of the world I do my best to present a normal front. They ask how I am and I say, "I'm fine."
But I'm not fine. I'm so tired. I'm tired of lying, tired of hiding. I'm tired of feeling ashamed of being sick. And I know I'm far from the only person who feels this way.
Every instinct I have is telling me not to reveal my mental-health issues, telling me to keep struggling to get better in silence. I cringe at the thought of people I know reading this. What will they think of me?
But somewhere along the line, the silence has became more of a burden than the shame and the fear of judgment. There are countless people out there right now in pain and ashamed of their own suffering. So that's why I'm writing this, for myself and for everyone else who struggles with mental illness.
I haven't given up the fight to get better. I know it's possible. But it takes time, resources and, above all, patience. It also takes people to believe in us. We can't be afraid to ask for help. We have nothing to be ashamed of.
~ SARAH McCAFFREY
'It's a shame about your job," my friend says.
"Yes," I say. "But what can you do? In this economy lots of people are getting laid off."
We both nod and sigh a little. The part about the economy is true. The part about my job is a lie. I've been lying to a lot of people lately.
The truth is that I wasn't laid off from my job. I've been sick, too sick to work. I struggled through most of the winter to make it through those long, dark days at my desk, but eventually I had to quit before the end of a six-month contract. It wasn't a choice. I simply couldn't keep going.
So why didn't I just tell my friend this? Surely he would be supportive. Why would I lie to someone I've known for more than 10 years?
Because the thing I'm sick with usually doesn't generate the same level of sympathy and understanding as other illnesses, even though it's far more common than most people imagine.
Simply put, I'm depressed. Clinical depression, major depressive disorder, severe depression; there are several names for what's going on inside my head.
Major depression is more than just feeling sad all the time. It's a serious illness that can take over an entire life and make a formerly productive person incapable of doing pretty much anything. At least that's what it's done to me. But from my experience fighting depression on and off for the past eight years, most people don't see it that way.
There is a deeply ingrained belief in our society that mental illness is a form of personal weakness and that if sufferers really wanted to they could just (and I detest this phrase) "snap out of it."
Unfortunately, that's not possible. Believe me, I've tried. I've tried talk therapy, light therapy, yoga, meditation, medication, exercise, vitamins, you name it. But my boot straps firmly refuse to be pulled up. None of my efforts or the efforts of several medical professionals have so far been able to pull me out of the swamp of despair that I've been sinking into for months.
I barely remember what it feels like not to be depressed. I've heard depression described in many ways, usually involving the colour black - sometimes as a black wave, black dogs or a black hole. These make it sound like depression is something external to the depressive, as though it comes sneaking up from the outside or is a well-hidden area of quicksand that a person can slip into by accident.
For me it's never been like that. I've always felt like it's something inside me, always there even if I can't feel it at one particular moment. It does feel black, but more like a black swamp, a heavy, wet, cloying ooze that bubbles up from inside my chest and spreads throughout my body, weighing me down.
I tried for a long time to act normal in spite of it, and most of the time I did an excellent job. But I couldn't keep it up forever. I feel the depression so deeply that sometimes I don't understand how it's possible that people don't see it. I feel I radiate misery like a halogen bulb.
Sometimes, if I'm having a really bad day, someone will ask, "Are you okay?"
I want to burst into tears and say, "No, I'm not, please help me." But I never do. Instead I say, "Yes, I'm fine," in the high-pitched voice I always use when I lie.
This is only my personal experience of depression, and I'm sure it feels different for everyone, but I think a feeling of intense despair is common to most depressives, along with feelings of isolation and loneliness.
On top of the despair is the embarrassment and shame that inevitably come with mental illness. Sometimes the stigma feels as heavy as the despair itself. A few close friends and family know what I've been going through, but to the rest of the world I do my best to present a normal front. They ask how I am and I say, "I'm fine."
But I'm not fine. I'm so tired. I'm tired of lying, tired of hiding. I'm tired of feeling ashamed of being sick. And I know I'm far from the only person who feels this way.
Every instinct I have is telling me not to reveal my mental-health issues, telling me to keep struggling to get better in silence. I cringe at the thought of people I know reading this. What will they think of me?
But somewhere along the line, the silence has became more of a burden than the shame and the fear of judgment. There are countless people out there right now in pain and ashamed of their own suffering. So that's why I'm writing this, for myself and for everyone else who struggles with mental illness.
I haven't given up the fight to get better. I know it's possible. But it takes time, resources and, above all, patience. It also takes people to believe in us. We can't be afraid to ask for help. We have nothing to be ashamed of.
~ SARAH McCAFFREY
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Will you .....
I was at a food service conference recently and the key note speaker reminded me of something that was instrumental in my spiritual life.
Many years ago, as a member of a small neighbourhood Anglican church, the priest often spoke of his mentor, a professor and member of the Russian Orthodox church, with great love and affection. As we heard Fr.'s stories of Professor S I believe that we came to love and revere him almost as much.
The stories about the Professor's church were most exciting to me. Having never seen (nor really heard of) an iconostasis before made the idea of a gold embossed wall of icons lit only with candles seem like the stuff of a fairy tale. How much I wanted to go to that church.
Then, during one Lent the priest took his warden to a study evening which was being offered by Professor S at that very church. How much I'd wished that I was going. And then, the warden returned with stories of her own about the candles reflecting off the gold of the icons and about the amazing Professor which made my desire even greater.
And so, that Good Friday evening (that would be the Anglican Good Friday. not the Orthodox one) I went to a service at the church.
When I walked in I was struck dumb. The church had been, in its previous life, an Anglican church (ironic eh?) but was now a Russian Orthodox cathedral (albeit with stained glass windows!!). The iconostatis was magnificent, there were only a few pews in the centre and along the sides of the walls. (primarily for the elderly I learned later). The smell of incense filled the air and people walked about.
The service began .... entirely in Russian ..... and I was enthralled. This service taught me that you don't need to understand the words to understand what the words mean. Throughout the service I knelt when everyone else did and I crossed myself (likely 'backwards' in that venue) when everyone else did but I was obviously out of my element. Painfully out of my element. Sticking out like a sore thumb out of my element.
After quite some time I noticed a man off to the side with a few things on a small table. He began to move through the congregation offering the items on the tray to each person. All I could remember was the admonition that had always been included in the stories from my priest ... "whatever you do while in an Orthodox church DO NOT RECEIVE". And so, as the fellow got closer and closer to me I was terrified. Surely, I found myself feverishly praying he'll realize that I "don't belong" and won't put me in a position of having to either (HORRORS) receive what I presumed to be the Host or of bolting out the door thereby eliminating any further possibility for me to ever return and see those glorious icons again.
He got closer & closer and I got more & more nervous. And then, there he was, standing directly in front of me (remember that there are few pews so almost everyone was simply standing around). I looked at him and he looked at me. Well, actually that's not exactly correct because what it felt like was that his soul looked into my soul.
And he offered the tray and said to me .... said to my soul .... "will you share our prayers". It wasn't a question. It was a gift.
At that moment I knew I belonged. I knew that I was welcome and that I was loved. This stranger took away all my fears and hesitation. I accepted what he offered, remained for the balance of the service and then floated all the way home.
The next day I was telling my priest and the warden and as I described the event and the stranger who asked me to 'share our prayers' they both realized that I was describing the illustrious Professor. I'd had no idea that the man in the church was Professor S. But his grace shown through in that moment when our eyes met. It was incredible.
Many years ago, as a member of a small neighbourhood Anglican church, the priest often spoke of his mentor, a professor and member of the Russian Orthodox church, with great love and affection. As we heard Fr.'s stories of Professor S I believe that we came to love and revere him almost as much.
The stories about the Professor's church were most exciting to me. Having never seen (nor really heard of) an iconostasis before made the idea of a gold embossed wall of icons lit only with candles seem like the stuff of a fairy tale. How much I wanted to go to that church.
Then, during one Lent the priest took his warden to a study evening which was being offered by Professor S at that very church. How much I'd wished that I was going. And then, the warden returned with stories of her own about the candles reflecting off the gold of the icons and about the amazing Professor which made my desire even greater.
And so, that Good Friday evening (that would be the Anglican Good Friday. not the Orthodox one) I went to a service at the church.
When I walked in I was struck dumb. The church had been, in its previous life, an Anglican church (ironic eh?) but was now a Russian Orthodox cathedral (albeit with stained glass windows!!). The iconostatis was magnificent, there were only a few pews in the centre and along the sides of the walls. (primarily for the elderly I learned later). The smell of incense filled the air and people walked about.
The service began .... entirely in Russian ..... and I was enthralled. This service taught me that you don't need to understand the words to understand what the words mean. Throughout the service I knelt when everyone else did and I crossed myself (likely 'backwards' in that venue) when everyone else did but I was obviously out of my element. Painfully out of my element. Sticking out like a sore thumb out of my element.
After quite some time I noticed a man off to the side with a few things on a small table. He began to move through the congregation offering the items on the tray to each person. All I could remember was the admonition that had always been included in the stories from my priest ... "whatever you do while in an Orthodox church DO NOT RECEIVE". And so, as the fellow got closer and closer to me I was terrified. Surely, I found myself feverishly praying he'll realize that I "don't belong" and won't put me in a position of having to either (HORRORS) receive what I presumed to be the Host or of bolting out the door thereby eliminating any further possibility for me to ever return and see those glorious icons again.
He got closer & closer and I got more & more nervous. And then, there he was, standing directly in front of me (remember that there are few pews so almost everyone was simply standing around). I looked at him and he looked at me. Well, actually that's not exactly correct because what it felt like was that his soul looked into my soul.
And he offered the tray and said to me .... said to my soul .... "will you share our prayers". It wasn't a question. It was a gift.
At that moment I knew I belonged. I knew that I was welcome and that I was loved. This stranger took away all my fears and hesitation. I accepted what he offered, remained for the balance of the service and then floated all the way home.
The next day I was telling my priest and the warden and as I described the event and the stranger who asked me to 'share our prayers' they both realized that I was describing the illustrious Professor. I'd had no idea that the man in the church was Professor S. But his grace shown through in that moment when our eyes met. It was incredible.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The 'Anti' Role Model
A few years ago I was very active in a local Anglican church. Sadly the Diocese closed the church because of - what else - money problems. But during the years that I was there I learned a lot about people and about myself.
When they closed that church I started to attend another one but over time became less and less involved and now find myself sitting alone way in the back pew on Wednesday nights. I still love the essence and the artistry of this particular liturgy but, for me, something is missing and several things are just wrong.
Last week I found myself in danger of becoming like any number of the old dears I used to see at my earlier church. Many of them would find anything - everything - to complain about. Nothing seemed to make them happy and I used to wonder "do you only come to church so that you can complain?".
One of them, lets call her 'Barbara', was particularly difficult. No matter what happened, no matter what changes were made, she hated them. She seemed to hate everything. And yet I sensed that, deep inside of her, she wasn't as persnickety as she appeared on the surface. I thought she was probably very sad and quite lonely and that this curmugeondly facade was a mask of protection.
So when, last week, I found myself detailing & itemizing in my mind a large number of criticisms about what is now happening in my church, 'Barbara' came to mind. And I recalled how my then friend Liz & I had promised each other that should we EVER become like 'Barbara' we would give each other a shake. And since I no longer see Liz I had to give myself a shake and try to put things into perspective. OK, so there's things happening that annoy me. Things that distract me from my worship. So what? Get over it. Focus on what's important and ignore those minor irritations. Because that's all they are - minor - and if I let them fester and grow then I too will become a 'Barbara' .... sad and lonely and generally miserable. And I promised Liz I would never let that happen. But more than that even, I promised myself.
So thanks 'Barbara' for being a reminder for me as to what not to do. Thanks for being my 'anti' role model.
When they closed that church I started to attend another one but over time became less and less involved and now find myself sitting alone way in the back pew on Wednesday nights. I still love the essence and the artistry of this particular liturgy but, for me, something is missing and several things are just wrong.
Last week I found myself in danger of becoming like any number of the old dears I used to see at my earlier church. Many of them would find anything - everything - to complain about. Nothing seemed to make them happy and I used to wonder "do you only come to church so that you can complain?".
One of them, lets call her 'Barbara', was particularly difficult. No matter what happened, no matter what changes were made, she hated them. She seemed to hate everything. And yet I sensed that, deep inside of her, she wasn't as persnickety as she appeared on the surface. I thought she was probably very sad and quite lonely and that this curmugeondly facade was a mask of protection.
So when, last week, I found myself detailing & itemizing in my mind a large number of criticisms about what is now happening in my church, 'Barbara' came to mind. And I recalled how my then friend Liz & I had promised each other that should we EVER become like 'Barbara' we would give each other a shake. And since I no longer see Liz I had to give myself a shake and try to put things into perspective. OK, so there's things happening that annoy me. Things that distract me from my worship. So what? Get over it. Focus on what's important and ignore those minor irritations. Because that's all they are - minor - and if I let them fester and grow then I too will become a 'Barbara' .... sad and lonely and generally miserable. And I promised Liz I would never let that happen. But more than that even, I promised myself.
So thanks 'Barbara' for being a reminder for me as to what not to do. Thanks for being my 'anti' role model.
Monday, May 11, 2009
When one of us is threatened, we are all at risk.
A mouse looked through the crack in the wall
to see the farmer and his wife open a package.
"What food might this contain?" The mouse wondered.
He was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.
Retreating to the farmyard,
the mouse proclaimed this warning :
"There is a mousetrap in the house!
There is a mousetrap in the house!"
The chicken clucked and scratched,
raised her head and said, "Mr. Mouse,
I can tell this is a grave concern to you,
but it is of no consequence to me.
I cannot be bothered by it."
The mouse turned to the pig and told him,
"There is a mousetrap in the house!
There is a mousetrap in the house!"
The pig sympathized, but said,
"I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse,
but there is nothing I can do about it
but pray.
Be assured you are in my prayers."
The mouse turned to the cow and said,
"There is a mousetrap in the house!
There is a mousetrap in the house!"
The cow said, "Wow, Mr. Mouse. I'm sorry for you,
but it's no skin off my nose."
So, the mouse returned to the house,
head down and dejected,
to face the farmer's mousetrap
. . . Alone. . .
That very night
a sound was heard throughout the house
-- the sound Of a mousetrap catching its prey.
The farmer's wife rushed to see what was caught.
In the darkness, she did no see it.
It was a venomous snake
whose tail was caught in the trap.
The snake bit the farmer's wife.
The farmer rushed her to the hospital.
When she returned home she still had a fever.
Everyone knows you treat a fever
with fresh chicken soup.
So the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard
for the soup's main ingredient:
But his wife's sickness continued.
Friends and neighbors
came to sit with her
around the clock.
To feed them,
the farmer butchered the pig.
But, alas,
the farmer's wife did not get well...
She died.
So many people came for her funeral
that the farmer had the cow slaughtered
to provide enough meat for all of them
for the funeral luncheon.
And the mouse looked upon it all
from his crack in the wall
with great sadness.
So, the next time you hear
someone is facing a problem
and you think it doesn't concern you,
remember ---
When one of us is threatened, we are all at risk.
We are all involved in this journey called life.
We must keep an eye out for one another
and make an extra effort
to encourage one another.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Weigela
Weigela is - according to Wikipedia - a small genus of about 12 species of deciduous shrubs in the family Caprifoliaceae, growing to 1-5 m tall and named after a German scientist Christian Ehrenfried Weigel.
The reason I know this is (apart from looking up the specifics on Wikipedia) that I have a Weigela bush (also spelled Weiglia) in my backyard. I suppose I should say that my mother had it and I took it on when I bought the house. For years I would say to her, 'what's the name of that beautiful flowering shrub in the backyard' and year after year she would say 'Weigelia'. I would reply 'oh right, I can NEVER remember that'.
But I knew that I really didn't have to remember it because I could always ask her - and she would always tell me. And then she got sick. Welll, she got Parkinsons and as the disease began to ravage her already tiny frame I realized that I couldn't always ask her because she wouldn't always be around.
And so one final time I asked her what it was and I wrote it down and I stuck it on a bulletin board that I look at each and every day. Weigela. Just that one word written on a scrap of paper. Weigela.
The summer after she died my son was getting married and having the photo's taken in the back yard. We were all sad that Mom hadn't lived to see him get married - she loved him so. But standing in front of the shrub I realized that it had flowered more than it had done in many years and I knew that Mom was with us anyway ... maybe not in body but certainly in spirit.
Today I trimmed the Weigela. Cut away all the dead branches so that the new ones can grow and the flowers will bloom beautifully this summer as well and I thought of Mom. With me in spirit - now and always
The reason I know this is (apart from looking up the specifics on Wikipedia) that I have a Weigela bush (also spelled Weiglia) in my backyard. I suppose I should say that my mother had it and I took it on when I bought the house. For years I would say to her, 'what's the name of that beautiful flowering shrub in the backyard' and year after year she would say 'Weigelia'. I would reply 'oh right, I can NEVER remember that'.
But I knew that I really didn't have to remember it because I could always ask her - and she would always tell me. And then she got sick. Welll, she got Parkinsons and as the disease began to ravage her already tiny frame I realized that I couldn't always ask her because she wouldn't always be around.
And so one final time I asked her what it was and I wrote it down and I stuck it on a bulletin board that I look at each and every day. Weigela. Just that one word written on a scrap of paper. Weigela.
The summer after she died my son was getting married and having the photo's taken in the back yard. We were all sad that Mom hadn't lived to see him get married - she loved him so. But standing in front of the shrub I realized that it had flowered more than it had done in many years and I knew that Mom was with us anyway ... maybe not in body but certainly in spirit.
Today I trimmed the Weigela. Cut away all the dead branches so that the new ones can grow and the flowers will bloom beautifully this summer as well and I thought of Mom. With me in spirit - now and always
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