From Page to Stage: Where is the end?

I had planned to write about my mother's death, but I ended up writing about my life. This is the mystery of the writing process. Or, maybe, it's no mystery at all. My mother dying brought me sharply into my own living -- living without her in this world. The piece titled "Where is the end?" (below) is what I wrote for, and then performed at, the FROM PAGE TO STAGE event on May 8th, which I described in last week's post. 

Should you wish to listen to the piece rather than read it, I have recorded it here.

*

Where is the end? 

I was born into freedom — 

an advantage I did not understand 

until I met others who were born into not-freedom.

For me, this freedom was 

boundless nurture, 

endless opportunity and 

ever present love 

My freedom came in the form of two parents, a mother and a father, who wanted me and loved me as a child should be: unconditionally 

The sky the limit

The ground secure

The home safe

For my two siblings and me

We moved a lot — from Canada to Germany and back again and then to England and, finally, back home to Canada. Different homes, different schools, different countries with different languages and new friends, always new friends to make, new roots to tend. 

What an adventure, my mother would say

And, she made it so — 

an adventure, indeed.

Hard sometimes — like when I was the new kid with the heavy English accent in Grade 11; that was hard, but in the end, I made new friends and it was good

It was always good

Dad drew the outline with his career

Mum filled it in with her love

And the family thrived

The five of us together. 

Unconventional by comparison — “that Canadian family with the red-haired kids” 

Untethered from relatives — an ocean between us

Uncommon in many ways — our accent (hardly ever that of the country we were in), our loud supper-time conversations (which made new friends apprehensive), the books on every wall, in every room (my mother — the reader, the learner, the guide)

But always present, the freedom that was the air we breathed because of the love we had 

Mum and Dad, the bookends to us three kids 

We were family.

And so life went —

We grew, grew up and away

Became adults and older 

And lived our lives

Over the years and decades

When my father died — his death a blessed relief from a body long ill — 

When he died, the ground rumbled, 

but I remained standing

By then, my own outline was well drawn, and 

well filled in with my own loving family 

And Mum was still at my side. 

Life without Dad 

would be a different adventure,

A new beginning with new possibilities. 

Years later, Mum died — 

Her death an assisted one: a dignified peaceful end to a long life / well lived. 

When she died, 

the ground did more than rumble —

it split wide open.

I was alone; yes, with siblings, but alone without a mother breathing loving present in this world.

And yet, again, I remained standing

able

capable

tethered by roots that hold beyond the grave  

———

As I continue to live without my father and without my mother, I think a great deal about what it means to be without a living parent. While alive, mine were, for me, a buffer between me and — not the world, for I walked gladly into that myself as they had raised me to — but they were a buffer between me and the end. 

With parents alive, for me, there was no end. 

They were standing guard, holding space across the generations. 

With them alive, I surely was, alive. 

No end in sight for me.

But now, 

each day that passes sees me on my own, 

no Dad to bolster me,

no Mum to cherish me.

I am alone

Not without partner, but without parents;

That generational horizon empty —

is close

portends death — my own. 

So.

I look up.

Stand tall.

Am rooted — 

and I know:

I am my own end. 

Orphan, now

Daughter, always

Of parents smart and loving

Who raised me into freedom.

Now, on my own, with each day that passes, 

I know deep and clear: there is no buffer. 

There is an end: 

The end is me.                               

//***//

We know that writing is a tool for transformation; so it was for me with this piece. Creating it helped me move beyond the fact of my beloved mother's death and enabled me to realize the legacy she (and my father) left me: the agency to be who I am; the confidence to use my voice; the knowledge that kindness and generosity are core to a meaningful life. How better to describe what 'born into freedom' truly means?

............................................................................................................................................

To receive my weekly blogpost in your inbox, use the SUBSCRIBE feature (above, in the left-hand column), or email fiveyearsawriter at gmail dot com. Put SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. 

Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.

Photo by ameenfahmy on Unsplash