Mindfulness: Finding it in Unexpected Moments
“The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.”
It took me about two months after mom died to begin sorting through her belongings. I decided her bathroom would be the easiest, so I started there.
Most of the items I trashed. Pausing occasionally to scan a few things like the fine gray strands of hair tangled in her brush and comb. I stopped short of trashing her bottle of Eucerin. The brand, which she and her sisters swore by, provides relief for various skin conditions. I placed the lotion in my bathroom drawer and forgot about it.
Growing up, my mother taught me to treat my skin like royalty. She instructed me to moisturize my skin after every shower thoroughly. She’d say, don’t lotion down with cheap lotion. Today my go-to is natural and thick shea butter.
On this night, I had intense shoulder pain. The thought of manipulating shea butter to moisturize my body was too much. That’s when I remembered mom’s lotion was in my bathroom.
As soon as I removed the top, I realized that Mom was the last to touch the inside. I imagined her wrinkled fingers slowly, making contact with the smooth lotion. She always rubbed down sitting down in her favorite chair. Never in a rush. She would stop to observe the movement of the birds and squirrels outside of her window, and of course, chuckling at Sidney Poitier or Clint Eastwood in one of her favorite classic western movies.
The memories emerged, and I stopped. One part of my heart said, save the lotion. It belonged to mom. The surface carries her DNA.
I cupped the jar and pulled it to my nose. Searching for just a tiny scent of mom. I knew the lotion was unscented; however I tried hard to extract any trace of her existence.
Tonight’s lotioning was indeed a ritual. The pain in my shoulder disappeared. Knowing this would be a single event, I applied the cream slowly, mindfully, and meditative-like; one section of my body at a time. I imagined her spirit with me. The tears did not surface until I sat down to write.
Yet another unexpected intimate moment; giving me headway on my grief journey. As of this writing, six months have passed. Most days are filled with smiles, gratitude and laughter. Nonetheless, grief takes time and is different for everyone.
Thirty-nine years separate the death of my mother and my father. If I were to measure the difference in my grief journey in years, 100 years or more would distinguish the difference.
With my dad, I did not feel…anything! At 17, I compartmentalized everything and it tore me up inside. And I cannot remember for how long. I was unaware of the term grief. No instructions or guidelines; that’s how it was in my village. Suck it up; don’t let the knees buckle, and keep it moving.
Nearly 40 years later, the construct of grief feels better. How so? Basically, I give myself permission to feel what I feel. There is relief in not denying myself to feel sadness. It’s like, get my cry on and move on. Not the ugly cry. Merely a subtle sad moment, and then allow the sun to shine.
You see, beneath the surface of mindfulness is a willingness inside of yourself to confront and explore bare emotions without judgement.
Acknowledge your sensations. Don’t rush through it or manipulate it.
Whatever you might be going through, give yourself permission to take your time.
Be well.