I’ve been without my mom for several years now and each Mother’s Day offers a fresh glimpse to my relationship with grief. My mother passed in the month of July so I had almost of a full year to emotionally prepare for the day in which we honor the women that give us life. In so many ways, that Mother’s Day passed relatively normally. I had found my own therapy by way of collecting flowers and was well on my way to acceptance. I would wonder the yard inspired by sticks and petals, picking them up as I paced. It was much like a moving mantra. Just something mindless and comforting but not really sure why… Eventually, I found my mother. Dead for less than year at that point yet proving to me she was very much alive. She was in the dried petals falling from her favorite orchids outside, and salvaging those bits of nature, even thought they were withered, helped me feel connected to her. She had been a florist, one of the best in Broward, and with every leaf and petal I’d find hidden in the grass, I started to understand her appreciation for flora. The colors and textures were mesmerizing. Each uniquely beautiful and thriving in the face of my grief…

If you spend enough time in nature you’ll notice that time doesn’t necessarily heal. Storms blow through and take out trees and gardens with with little regard to how you might treasure them. Nature is the sound reminder that some wounds never heal. Trauma can extend beyond repair and it’s unfortunate that we comfort ourselves with antidotes rather than concur that death is fundamental. And just as we celebrate the joy of new life, we should also hold space for the delicacy of what’s been lost. There is more to grief than a funeral. For many of us, a funeral is just the beginning of an intimate relationship with the deceased. Perhaps this all sounds a bit too morbid but finding the beauty in what remains of the dead flowers in our yard has been my antidote for life after death. She’s still here…

She’s still here, she’s still here, she’s still here! But she’s not… And fast forward a few years and the longing for a hug from my mom, the person to tell me everything will be ok, even as the world falls apart, amounts to a painfully silent echo “you must be your own guide”.

We make jokes about “adulting” but the truth is you remain a child so long as a parent can provide you council. That voice of reason, even when irrational, telling you not to travel to X location because it’s “not safe”, or cautioning you about a bad bank loan or a relationship, or the pragmatic suggestion you become a lawyer rather than a musician… That voice, with all its irritations and one sided perspectives is still a voice that’s looking out for your best interest. That parental concern is in YOUR best interest, regardless of whether the advice is what you want to hear. But at some point, that voice is gone and you realize that every relationship you have, not matter how genuine, will never carry the concerns that one’s parent held for it’s child. Even with the best of intentions, it’s still not the same, and nestled within those moments is when grief pays a visit. A reminder that each step forward is solitary and each decision is merely a guess, and the best you can hope for is that you are doing things right.

This year feels especially tough to not have a mom (and made crueler without a dad). The world feel dangerous with uncertainty and I can’t help but wonder if I’m making smart decisions. Am I doing this right? Am I being responsible? Should I sell the house? Is it safe to go back to work? Is it safe to go back out to sea? Am I OK? Should I be afraid?

The truth is, I am afraid. The world has turn wild and unpredictable and going it alone feels scary. “You must be your own guide… be your own guide…be your own guide…” The echo remains. The only comfort I find is accepting that my own life is ephemeral. I look to nature and all her beautiful dead flowers and remind myself that “we too, shall pass”…

This year I only made one Mother’s Day Box of Mother Earth. I carved a coffee scoop from salvaged wood and I nestled it into a dried sugar pumpkin that I preserved and then painted the inside. I then packed the pumpkin with dried flowers that I curated with care; a gift I know my own mother would treasure.

I’m thinking of all of you with mom’s that have left us too soon. Below is a little reminder of where they are now. Take love!