A sunny Tuesday morning. It is still cool at 2℃. It is a cozy 18.2℃ in the greenhouse. Everything is thriving. The lettuce is ready for picking. The spinach a bit behind. The snowpeas are climbing the wall. The radish has a way to go yet. All the seedlings are looking green and hearty. It is a slow spring and a slow me. But I will have a wonderful garden. I’ve seeded one raised garden bed with more lettuce, spinach and kale. In a day or 2, I will plant the cauliflower seedlings gifted by my sister. Everything will come and be okay in their own good time.

I have been reading and listening to Cheryl Richardson off and on through the years. The other day, her blog post on the birth that follows goodbye landed in my mailbox. It spoke so much to me, having lost my mother 6 months ago.

“The birth that follows goodbye

The note was simple, yet weighty. Words so potent I had to catch my breath.

“I’m very sorry for the loss of your Mother,” she wrote in the kind of cursive handwriting that betrays age. “When I lost my own Mother many years ago, someone sent me this quote and I’ve held onto it ever since. I hope it speaks to you.”

I turned the page and found this:

“Your mother gives birth to you twice – once when you are born and again when she dies.”

As I reread the words, I felt the truth of its message seep into my bones. I’ve thought about this quote nearly every day since receiving the card. It gave context to my experience. Upon my Mother’s death, I felt thrust into a birth canal against my wishes, pushed toward something I couldn’t name. The labor pains of grief and heartbreak were shaping and molding me into a version of myself I hadn’t met yet. A woman without a face or name.

This morning, while sitting in my cold tub, sunshine at my back and jays squawking overhead, I had the first inklings of rebirth and understanding – an opening in the dark tunnel of sorrow. I felt the presence of my Mother and a voice that said, “You are the elder now, my darling. The mantle has been passed.”

Just a few months ago, my reaction to this message would have been a resounding, No! I want my Mother back. I don’t want to be the new adult in the room. But today is different. I gently accept that a rebirth happens when the last parent dies and we become the next elder. It’s a stage of life that offers us the chance to elevate the aging experience, to move beyond extending or preserving life, and explore what it means to live and leave well.

On the first Easter without my Mother, a woman masterful at loving others, and my Father-in-Law, a fierce protector and provider, I embrace this new beginning and think about the kind of elder I hope to become. What words would describe me and the essence of my life when the next elder steps into place?

More on this in the coming weeks as we continue to explore the Wisdom Years. Until then, Happy Easter, little bunnies .

Love,

Cheryl “

I know that I cannot have my mother back. I do not want to be thrust into new world of being the elder either. But here I am anyways, standing on my own two feet. I cannot turn and run away. I still have a father to look out for.