As a daughter, a daughter who already helped care for a dying mother, it is painfully hard not to take the lead in the life of my elderly, struggling dad. But mom was at home; dad is being cared for by dozens of nurses, doctors, physical therapists, cooks, and cleaning staff -- not to mention my very competent brother. I am grateful to have gone to Montana, as I think we all experienced growth and healing (the Liz yardstick.) Even a little fun. But in the end, I am not needed. Dad only needs to push a button, and someone else will appear to assist him. Humbling, but true.
The Abraham-Hicks metaphor of our lives as a rushing river seems apt here. There is a rock in that river that I have held onto almost for dear life, through thick and thin. It may have kept me from fully releasing myself into the flow of my river, but it was my choice to latch onto something that seemed secure. Over time, my fingers have struggled to hold on, and the rock has gotten slipperier and slipperier. I just think that moment came when the rock could no longer hold me, nor I it. I've said a slightly teary "so long" and a few personal things to the only two men in my life, and released my grip. I flew back east in kind of a fog and slept most of the day yesterday. It is possible that today is the first time in my life that I have had the potential to flow unimpeded "downstream."
I have a good sense of where I am headed, but clueless as to how, so it's rather scary. But it's only 8 AM. I guess I need to cut myself a little slack, and just start to get used to a different relationship with the stream.
