A LIFE WISH

“The opposite of death is birth. Life has no opposite.” – Eckard Tolle

In a few days I will be flying out to Belgium to be with my brother and his children as they mourn the passing of my sister-in-law. 2012 opened with a death –my husband’s beloved mom- and now closes with another one. Like most of you, I’ve learned to navigate the grieving process as the passing years have forced me to say goodbye to both my parents and my in-laws, a couple of friends, my niece, and now my brother’s life partner. Every single death throws me off balance and brings in a new wave of past sorrows. Quite a downer on this upcoming New Year’s Eve. But does it have to be? In the same few years our family has welcomed nine new little ones, bundles of discoveries and giggles. My daughter has grown into a college freshman eager to learn and taste campus life. My son is counting the days to his learner’s permit as my husband and I laugh (mostly) while adding up our wrinkles. We’ve all made new friends. We’ve all grown and blossomed in our own way. Life has been good to us. And it’s been really tough too. It’s simply been Life, birth and death side by side in a never ending succession of smiles and tears.

The Holiday Season brings the fragility of life to the forefront, from the innocence of the baby in the manger to the absence of our departed loved ones. Surrounded by twinkling lights and presents most of us also unwrap our broken hearts. I am writing today, dear friends, to remind you –and myself- that the champagne flute or beer mug you will raise at midnight tomorrow never stops bubbling with the potential for joy, and to invite you to drink up the possibilities that lie in the mere fact that you’re breathing. I believe that death turns into the opposite of life when we rebel against it and let grief engulf us. When we lose track amidst the darkness of what drives us in the light. On this New Year’s Eve, let’s accept that while death may be the opposite of human life but it does not signal the end of Life. Because Life is our love shining through tears and shared memories. It’s our decision to savor every day and our desire to make a difference. It’s our ultimate choice to embrace birth and death as perfect partners of an imperfect journey.

We’ve all been challenged by Life. All of us. The how doesn’t much matter. What counts is the depth of the wound and, in time, of the healing. I propose a toast, my friends, to our resilience and our willingness to let love touch us, hurt us, and above all, make us whole again. May 2013 bring us the strength to face Life as it is and the blessing of loving it no matter what. From my heart to yours: our combined spirits know no opposites.

 Happy New Year!

Maryse G. Copans © 2012

Breakfast Hook

Nothing like a juicy epiphany in the morning! It’s tastier than a waffle with berries and more powerful than an energy smoothie.

“It’s not because I’m good at something that I have to like it or want to do it. And it’s not because I have no apparent talent for something else that I have to dislike it or not want to do it”. There. Liberating. Don’t you agree? Don’t we all have things we love to do and that we do not excel at (like painting for me) and others that we’re not that keen on and yet do reasonably or really well?

When a few years ago I was told that I had a talent for weaving pictures with threads of clever vocabulary, I took the hint and explored the gift. Several writing classes and blog posts later I came to the forlorn conclusion that I did not love my new talent. But I kept at it, so used was I to pushing through resistance and doubt. Surely, if I had a way with words it was meant to be perfected and shared. But as practicing and publishing continued to drain my joy, I decided to put a stop to my writing ambitions. No need to tell you that any relief I felt was plagued with guilt and a sense of failure.

Today’s breakfast treat has changed all that. I don’t get any pleasure from broadcasting my thoughts on the Internet? Fine. Putting random dabs of color on a piece of paper is thrilling? Why not? It’s ok for me not to like what I have a knack for and it’s cool to enjoy what I’m not great at.  The human journey is not just about sharing gifts and talents but about the joy we glean and spread while doing what we choose to do. Don’t underestimate the impact of what is performed with love and pleasure. And don’t question your right to turn your back on what does not bring you joy. Even if you’re very, very good at it.

This post may not be my finest but it was fun to ponder and create. That’s no small deed for a writer at heart who does not love to write. I invite you to partake in this healthy dose of breakfast wisdom so that your lives may be infused with the wonder of doing what you  enjoy and may inspire others to do the same.

Maryse Godet Copans © 2012

And to all, a merry God-mas!

I knew God through the stories my mother read when I was a little girl: Jesus walking on water or helping the Samaritan woman. I knew God when I prayed the Hail Mary before falling asleep, when I sang “Silent Night” while holding a sparkler in front of our Nativity Set on Christmas Eve. On Confirmation day, when the dark brown cross around my neck threw a shadow on my white robe.  I stood, a red rose in my hand, symbol of God’s unconditional love. I was too young to understand. All I heard were the priest’s lectures about sin, redemption, and human unworthiness.

 

I avoided God through countless hours spent in cathedrals and monasteries all around France listening to my parents’ depiction of devotion and sacrifice in the Middle Ages. I preferred the safety of the postcard stand in the narthex and the timid lights of candles, 10 cents for a prayer heard and received…”Get me out of here!”  I avoided God while practicing with the church choir and dreaming of mass-free Sundays and late breakfasts. The sound of the guitar in those icy walls never warmed my heart to His presence.

 

I swapped God for the race to success and the whirlwind of London’s financial markets.  Professional achievement filled my heart with pleasure and left my soul unsatisfied. I swapped God for the careless attentions of men who never tried to know me, for the mirage of a carefully decorated interior that never reflected the wildness of my most secret hopes. I spread my wings away from home and yearned for the wind that would lift them to new heights. I did not know that it had to blow from within.

 

I heard God whisper in the generous smile of my future husband, in the giggles of my sweet children as a mighty wave of love changed me forever. I heard Him whisper as I held my father’s hand on his hospital bed, and watched in wonder as four days of closeness erased years of discipline and distance. I said goodbye on a freezing January morning finding comfort in the belief that he would remain by my side,  proud witness of my uneven steps towards Grace.

 

I cried to God when the images sent by my battered brain frightened me more than the roaring in my ears, when the endless spinning made me wonder if the world would ever be a safe place again. I cried when I lost Myriam and Maman and woke up at night surrounded by shadows that painted my future in a pallet of anger and despair. I could not make sense of the blows that left me utterly broken. I didn’t know then that tending my wounds would allow my spirit to start talking. My tears did not fertilize a desert. They gently moistened my soul and let hope find a corner in which to rest.

 

I thanked God for the relief of walking unsupported. I thank Him for the opportunity to find out who I truly am, and for the loved ones allowing me to follow my heart. For showing me how illness and struggle open onto creativity; onto words and the journey to write them. I thank God every day for the miraculous world around me and the love that I receive with every breath I take. For the chance to spread it like a cloud of endless energy reaching the ones in need of what I can give.

 

I know God when my eyes are closed and my body is filled with golden trumpets, when the song in my heart explodes in a harmony of fulfilled desires and renewed joy. Or when the wave of grief floods my inner light with doubts and blame. She is with me when my unanswered questions threaten to shatter my heart, when I meditate, or when I wrap Christmas presents. I know God because I choose to feel His gentle touch in my every moment. I know God because I’m alive and I pay attention.

And may you feel too that you belong in the Light. Merry Christmas to you all!

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

 

 

 

 

 

The Lure of the Wild Boar

Si tu réalises que la vie n’est pas là (if you realize that life is not there)  Que le matin tu te lèves (that in the morning you get up) Sans savoir où tu vas (without knowing where you’re going) Résiste (resist)  Prouve que tu existes (prove that you exist) Cherche ton bonheur partout, va, (look for your happiness all over, go) Refuse ce monde égoïste (say no to this selfish world) Résiste. Suis ton coeur qui insiste (Resist. Follow your heart, it insists) Ce monde n’est pas le tien, viens,(that this world is not yours, come)

… Danse pour tous ceux qui ont peur (dance for all those who are afraid)
Danse pour les milliers de cœurs (dance for the thousands of hearts)
Qui ont droit au bonheur (that deserve to be happy)
Résiste (Resist)

[from the song “Résiste” by Michel Berger (1947-1992)]

The Regiment of Ardennian Rifles (Régiment des Chasseurs Ardennais) is an infantry regiment in the Belgian Armed Forces. It was my Dad’s home for most of his military career. Its emblem –a wild boar’s head- hangs on my living room wall cast in a small tin plate. Its commanding motto is printed in my heart and brain: “Résiste et Mords” [‘Resist and Bite’]. My siblings and I grew up in the shadow of this untamed beast. We bit our tongues more than once and resist, we did. The temptation to be different. The lure of foreign battles. We became good army boars, dutiful and resilient, showing respect and obeying orders.

Resistance is not very popular these days. Resistance to mutating germs threatens to wipe off mankind. Resistance to insulin is spreading faster than sweet jam. “What we resist persists”, we’re told. From negative thoughts to illness. We’re to get in the flow. We’re to let go and let God if we have any hope of being showered with life’s material and spiritual riches. Surrender is the preferred choice. The path of least resistance promises to be the 21^st century highway to Heaven. Forget about biting anyone. It’s just not done anymore.  Love is the answer. We strive to connect and hold hands with our fellow men.” And I’m all for it. Indeed I am. But I can’t help wondering about another kind of ‘resist’. The kind that moves us beyond the war zone and the casualties. The strength that propels us through life’s trials and losses. The deep need to venture past what we’ve been taught is acceptable or proper. The desire to shake the darkness until it explodes into a myriad of hopeful stars. Have you ever felt this surge of resistance?

When my father passed away my Mom assured me that she would do everything she could to survive without him (quite a feat after 56 years of marriage). She hugged me tight and declared: “I’m going to be ok. I resist but I don’t bite.” Her simple statement reminded me that the wild boar personifies warrior spirit, fortitude, and leadership. He’s strong and intrepid. He faces challenges with bravery, refusing to yield. My mother was not to win her fight against loneliness; she had no bite left in her. She capitulated to emptiness and depression. In her name I’m now choosing to bite into life with renewed enthusiasm and a ferocious appetite. In my father’s memory I accept the mission to stand for what is honorable and true. It is time I graduated from army to wild boar. Because when we resist the temptation to remain amongst life’s predictable or wounded, we persist. And when we step forward into the unknown and fight for our happiness, we prevail. Only then can we surrender to the power of love, to the simple beauty of being alive.

Dare to resist! Dare to find out who you are, to disobey, and to claim proudly the reason you’re alive. Choose to combat your inner demons and to become a warrior of light. Show courage and determination. You will make a difference in the world when you dance to your own tune and bring hope to those who are too afraid to do so.  Life needs you. Don’t give up or in. Accept the invitation of the wild boar: Resist and bite.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

LANDING IN LOVE

I’ve fallen in love again. And it feels wonderful. The smile is back on my face. I’m not walking on clouds; I’m skipping on the kitchen floor and humming my favorite tunes. I tease my husband and drive the children crazy. It’s love, I tell you. LOVE.

I can hear you from here: “Poor Maryse! Too many years in the dark. Too many struggles and losses. She’s finally gone gaga. She’s going to pull an Elizabeth Gilbert (author of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and ‘Committed’) and vanish to the depths of Brazil, where dashing Osmar will teach her the rudiments of samba and caipirinha.” I can see your texts: “Have you gone mad? What’s happened to you? What about your responsibilities? WRITE BACK ASAP!”

I’ve read enough about rebirths in Himalayan monasteries or in the slums of Calcutta to know that I had as much hope of finding renewed excitement and meaning in my New York suburban home as of seducing George Clooney on my next flight to Belgium.  So where is this buzz coming from? What is the source of this happy electricity coursing through me? I had neither the strength to haul my cargo of grief and fear to the other side of the world nor the energy to practice the wonderful self-help exercises I collected over the years. When blizzard conditions shut down my inner airport, all bets were off.  And yet it’s happened. In the lonely waiting lounge, with the gates to sunnier skies temporarily closed and my ticket to happiness thrown in the nearby garbage can. It’s happened. I haven’t found the love of my life (it actually found me some 20 years ago). I have re-discovered my love of life.

It does not involve a huge trip to the outposts of my personal desert. It does not ask that I leave my family behind. All it takes is the decision to LIVE. I repeat: all that is required is my active choice FOR life. Beyond crying spells and panic attacks I now offer my life the gift my children receive everyday: unconditional love. It does not make the pain disappear. Fatigue and anxiety are not gone. But in the space created for love, optimism and light are growing strong. Laughter and music have found their way back into my heart and their rhythm signals a new departure: it’s time I focused on all that is good. It’s ok to dream again and believe in the future. Guess what? My health is improving too. Permission for takeoff finally granted. Phew!

This re-found love lightens my step and refreshes my soul. It lifts me up so that I can touch the sweet clouds of my own infinite possibilities. It makes me fly and soar with two feet firmly planted on the (kitchen) floor. No need for Osmar and the liquor. My positive choice for life is a daily happy fix. I’ll be the one taking my husband and kids to Brazil. We’ll dance the samba together. And we’ll send you a text: “Landed safely in love. With life. With each other. ”

My deepest thanks to Brad Yates, my EFT coach/wizard (www.bradyates.net) who encouraged me to write this post and to Gary Blier at ACT (www.advancedcelltraining.com) for his codes and patient care. You are both doing the work of love and helping me regain my health and my life.

Maryse G. Copans © 2011

PS: I LOVE YOU TOO

The desk in my living room has a voice of its own.

Don’t worry, I haven’t awakened into a ‘Disney’ production where bookshelves teach me how to make the perfect Belgian waffle. I’m referring here to a miraculous kind of happening that reminds me of a movie I watched a long time ago: “The Love Letter” (Hallmark Channel – 1998) tells the story of a young couple who fall in love even though they live 100 years apart. They ‘meet’ and communicate through letters that travel back and forth within their shared desk (an antique for him by then). It is a touching tale of feelings that span time and geography. A lovely reminder that the heart knows not of human boundaries…

 

…Friday, October 15.  9am sharp. The doorbell rings. It’s here at last! My mother’s old secretaire –and most cherished piece of furniture- has ended its long journey across the Atlantic Ocean and a sea of customs paperwork. As it gets unwrapped, a hint of blue catches one of the movers’ eyes: ‘This has just fallen out’, he smiles, as he hands an unmarked envelope over to me. My heart races. My hands get clammy -only yesterday I was fantasizing about getting a message from my mom. The stuff that only happens in movies- I take a deep breath, open the blue sheath with trembling fingers, and take out the card. A cute little lady is carrying flowers and a ‘Happy Birthday’ message: “My loving thoughts are with you today, sweet Maryse…” My mother wrote these words for my 2009 birthday and forgot to mail them. My sisters who emptied the desk in Brussels confirm that they never saw the card. It must have slipped inside the wooden shell and found its way out for a perfect delivery. Not an old bill, a wrinkled photograph, or Christmas wishes to a friend. A card addressed to ME! Blessing the day her precious desk arrives in my home, whole and ready to start its new life in America. Blessing me. I’m floored. I’m touched beyond belief…

 

…Saturday, October 16. 3pm. My son rushes into my bedroom, victorious. He just spent long minutes on the floor, mirror and flashlight in hand, de-tangling a silver chain that was stuck in the secretaire’s front right leg. It is intact and it turns out to be the perfect match for the diamond heart pendant that’s sitting in my jewelry box.  My dad’s gift to my mom to celebrate 25 years of happy marriage. How can it be? How can a lost chain hide in a desk, cross the ocean, and reappear as a special gift to me the day before my parent’s wedding anniversary? I’m now sobbing. My heart is bursting with gratitude.

 

There was always a special bond between Maman and me. Mostly silent as she was not prone to emotional displays. Her apparent distance made me doubt her love many times, and her passing last May left me feeling lost and abandoned, as her dementia never gave us a chance to voice all the unsaid. It’s hard to describe the healing power of her note: It’s a love letter from Heaven, much dearer than if it had been left for me while she was still alive. Mysterious yet familiar forces have brought it to my safe keeping when I need it the most. Its magic transmutes infinite grief into eternal hope. It sings, “Be free. Be happy. I’ve always loved you and I’m with you still.” The comfort that wearing her heart pendant with its original chain brings to me is beyond words. I am not abandoned. I am full of her love for me. Yes, a desk has been talking and giving to me and will be doing so for the rest of my life as I stay connected to my mother’s spirit who’s writing the most beautiful tale of affection and support.

Maman’s secretaire has a life of its own. This is no romance movie. It’s the true and never ending story of a love journey hallmarked in both her soul and mine. It’s my story.

PS: ♥ October 17, 2010. Chers Maman et Papa:  ‘Joyeux anniversaire de mariage!”♥

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

IT WAS A CLEAR SEPTEMBER MORN…

I wrote this piece last year well before I started BluAmaryllis…

I was born in 1963 the year JF Kennedy was assassinated. I was only a few months old when it happened and I obviously do not remember a thing. My mother used to say that everyone she knew, herself included, never forgot where they were and what they were doing when they first heard the terrible news. I know the feeling. Today is September 11, 2010. Nine years ago the World Trade Center twin towers fell in a wave of terror and blood. I was clearing the house for the cleaning lady. Life was good and orderly. My father called me from Belgium to alert me to the latest events of the morning.  I would not speak to him for days. The phone lines to Europe would go dead shortly after our conversation. I turned on the TV and watched in disbelief as the highest buildings in the city collapsed into an inferno of heat, dust, and screams. We were lucky: my husband was home that day, the children, safely in school, and none of our friends were killed. It was a pure and cloudless Tuesday morning. A perfect late summer day. Squirrels and chipmunks were busy looking for food and burying it for the winter unaware that, a few miles away, people were being buried in glass and metal, never to hold their children again, never to call their parents for their birthdays and anniversaries. They were incinerated against their will. Nine years later it’s sunny again and I remember. We have a new president, the children are now teenagers, and my parents have passed away . Hope and pain live on. A song by Sting plays in my head. “On and on the rain will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star. And on and on the rain will say how fragile we are, how fragile we are.” I used to hum it without thinking much about the lyrics. Rain, tears, fragile: a good mix for a lovely song. We are fragile: we get hurt, we get sick, and we die. We do cry. A lot. Sometimes. How many of us are crying this morning? How many will light a candle tonight and pray?

I’m crying and I will light a candle in honor of the losses we all suffered that day; in honor of the losses we sustain as we go through the process of living. A child leaving for college; a pet dying; friends moving far away; strangers murdered by terrorists. As I watch the harmless flame flicker I will salute in my heart the courage of human beings who choose life over and over again in the face of adversity. We are not fragile. Like glass, we break if mishandled, but we are inherently strong and resilient. As we glue back the pieces a new shape emerges: scarred but determined to move on. “I tell you, the things one does in order to have fun and/or to stay alive” writes my mother-in-law who lost her husband seven years ago and has since re-invented herself through ballroom dancing. Yes, indeed, the things we come up with to get ourselves back in the flow, to re-connect with the good in and out, all around. I write and hug my children. She dances and makes macaroni and cheese and fruit pies on holidays. Some garden, walk, or sing. Others sit and breathe, spend time with friends, or study. The list goes on and on. We remember and we shed tears. We remember, we feel the sorrow, and we heal.

By the end of 1963 the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” made it to the top of US charts. The British wave of youth and music had engulfed America and the world. Life went on. Tonight, as I hold my husband’s hand, I’ll offer a silent prayer of peace and comfort. I’ll acknowledge the grief and give thanks for the abiding will to embrace joy. And I will go on to hum a new song: “On and on the tears will fall, like rain from the heart, like rain from the heart. And on and on, the tears will say how strong we all are, how strong we all are.”

Maryse Godet Copans © 2010

BARE HANDS IN THE SAND

I wrote this short essay last summer while spending a few quiet days at the beach. They say that mourning one loss is mourning all of our losses. I’m posting these words in memory of my niece Myriam who passed away a year ago. You’re with me, sweetie, you never left.

I once was a little girl playing in the sand, gathering shells that I would barter for paper flowers made by other children. There were colorful displays all along the beach: red tulips, yellow daffodils, and pink roses. I made flowers too but one did not trade flowers. One needed shells, pretty shells, to acquire the crafted blooms. So I spent a lot of time sifting sand in order to find the most prized of all: the tiny spiral seashell that would get me three flowers in one swift transaction.

A few years later I found myself on the beach again with my young niece Myriam, building sandcastles. Our specialty was tunnels. We would pile up the sand, surround our fortress with deep moats, and proceed to dig a secret tunnel so that the knight could come in and rescue his damsel. They would escape unnoticed by the servants of the dark Count. We did not stop to consider the suitability of such plots for a growing girl. We were just having fun.

Today Myriam is gone and as I walk the beach alone, I wonder where it’s all disappeared. Where is the girl who was looking for shells? Where is her playmate? Who is this woman traveling the tunnel of loss? Will she ever build sandcastles again? There are no paper flowers to cheer her up. Just sand. Sand everywhere. And the roar of the ocean. I sit down and close my eyes. The wind does as it pleases with my hair. My fingers fiddle with the soft ground. A pinch flowing between my thumb and forefinger. Then a handful spilling onto my lap, and another. Sifting through sand for the sake of it. For the feeling of life running against my skin. Grains, white and grey, small rocks, broken shells, twigs. All of it. All of life, the gorgeous and the painful . The living and the dead.  I’m holding a small heart shaped shell in my right hand. Its edges are rough and it has a tiny hole in the middle. And on my left, nestled by my knee, I discover a delicate white turret.

I do not know where it’s all gone, where it all goes. I wiggle my toes and shake my legs. Like grains of sand my memories flow freely inside me. As I sift through them and accept today’s gifts, Myriam remains with me. And I’m simply who I need to be while my grief takes its own course and follows its own timetable.  I stand up slowly. I breathe in the sun on my face. I soak up the waves stroking my feet. Just there, at the edge of the water appears a medieval town, complete with ramps for carriages, gates, and moats that have started filling with the tide. I get close and gently lean forward to rest the elegant spiral turret at the top of the dungeon. Smiling softly I start the unhurried walk home, the broken heart shaped shell safely tucked in my pocket.

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

A MOTHER’S LESSON

My mother passed away last week. Publishing this piece is giving me a deep sense of closure and hope…

This is all about my mother and me.  About how, by simply following her path, she gave me the push I needed to blossom into my own attractively suitable version of a human being. My life has been swinging like a pendulum: from a shy and withdrawn child to her shy and withdrawn ways, I became a daring and bold young woman eager to conquer the world. I then wore the hat of good wife and mother – proud to be following in her footsteps-  only to emerge at the other side of the experience with an uncontrollable urge to find my own passion. 

My mom was born in 1925 and raised to leave the nest on the arm of a dashing lieutenant clad in army uniform. My parents loved each other. Deeply. My dad’s eyes showed pride and contentment. My mom’s glowed with mirth and excitement. Six children later, they had lost their sparkle between diapers and dirty dishes.  Every new birth delayed her own and her grand-children’s arrivals signaled the end of the dream she never even knew she had. More diapers, more dishes. She did not hear the invitation the universe sends us all sooner or later. She remained prisoner of her ways. Invisible chains of duty. She became my teacher.

I have heard the call of life beyond my children’s cries for more kisses and my husband’s requests for time alone with him. I have an appointment with myself, a precious date I’m not missing. I’m on a journey to find the joy I always sensed was there for the taking and that my mom, even though she loved me dearly, never showed me how to grasp. She surrounded the infant I was with care and attention but the special bond between us was soon tinted with discipline and self restraint. Yes, she told me to be polite in all circumstances. No, she never allowed me to speak up for myself and say ‘not now’, ‘I need’, ‘I want’. Yes, she taught me how to bake, set a nice table, and arrange hors d’oeuvres neatly on a platter. No, she never modeled how to bring laughter, warmth, and a hint of chaos into the house. Yet the unsaid’s secret life force has pushed me forward and brought me to this day. I have traveled in the dark, looked for new ways, and polished the rough stones of my spirit. Today I can speak of who I am and of what I want. What my mother never thought to look for I am finding out for the both of us, for my daughter, and for the next generations of women in our family.

When the silence that surrounded the end of her life threatens to pull me in I remember that it can also be a source of growth and comfort. I have the power to turn away from the picture of her sitting in her room, eyes lost in depression and regrets that she cannot voice. By choosing the cover of sadness and anguish she’s propelled me to face the ultimate challenge of happiness and trust. The soundlessness does not frighten me. I’ve learned to listen to its lessons. If to her it spoke of lost opportunities and past youth, to me, it talks of cherishing the present and climbing to new heights. And I know that my newfound hope will fill the void of all the words we never uttered and that her soul can now hear mine whisper: “ Maman, je t’aime, merci.”

Maryse G. Copans © 2010

 

TICK TOCK…TICK TOCK…

It’s 10:30pm: do you know where all your clocks are? Count them. Include digital clocks on your computers, CD or DVD players. Don’t forget cell phones. I’ve located a staggering 21 time tracking devices in our family of four! There’s no excuse for not making up for lost time or for being late for an appointment. Oh…I forget: there’s a clock in my car too.  No excuses at all. One more in my husband’s Jeep. Make that 23. Twenty-three reminders that, even though my life is on hold while I heal, time keeps ticking by. A few weeks after the accident, my vestibular therapist told me that I was only at the beginning of my recovery. I refused to believe her. How long could it possibly take? A month? Six? Four years down the road I finally understand what she meant. This is an interminable process. The world is getting its busy business done and I’m trapped in limbo. I’m Odysseus’ Penelope*: I’m trying to hold on what I hold dear while voices all around and inside me demand that I speed up the pace or beg me to move on.

 

Penelope is not very popular these days. Feminists decry her faithfulness to her straying husband. They point at her needlework with contempt and laugh at her unnecessary steadfastness. I used to question her decisions too. Twenty years is a very long time to wait when you have no assurance that what you hope for will ever come true. Unless…

Unless you’re waiting for a beloved part of yourself that’s gone off on a mysterious journey. Sure, when that journey turns out to be a hero’s rough voyage of discovery and growth, it’s easier to turn the other way to distracting tasks or resigned suffering. But that is not what love does. When the going gets tough, tough love endures and keeps the faith. While the hero travels in search of meaning, his counterpart sits still and nurtures their healing. She keeps life’s noise at bay and remains faithful to their ideal of wholeness. She accepts things as they are but never gives up. She waits, unwavering.

 

The trek itself is no fun: storms of doubt and demons of false hopes abound. Some days this endless waiting drives me crazy. Sometimes it makes me cry. If it wasn’t for the sweet promise of coming home to myself I would have given up long ago. If not for my inner Penelope I would believe that my Odysseus is lost at sea. She encourages me to look at the clocks and shrug: what’s another few minutes, another day? Time cannot be lost: my body does its best and my mind is at work; my spirit is growing and my soul watches with pride. Time is my ally, really: it flies and I’m flying along. My life is not in limbo.  Every tick is a witness to my will to get well. Every chime prompts me to love myself here and now while holding the picture of a better tomorrow. Time is not of the essence. Patience is. And trust. Watch me hope around the clocks. All 23 of them. Tick tock. Tick tock.

 *Homer, “The Odyssey”

Maryse G. Copans © 2010