A Term of Endearment post with whiffs of ritual and how to help multi-dimensionally on difficult days.
My mom is moving. Moved.
The last few days consisted of keeping her occupied while my brother and I tried to recreate a familiar feeling of home one town over. She mostly asked questions while we unpacked and placed objects in a new combination of common sense and familiar ways:
See, these drawers are set up like Jamestown. See this shelf is like Wakefield.
So far, it’s been okay, but she was not so sure she’d moved yesterday, even after having had her first night in the new place. The bedding was new, it was fluffy and fancy and from her sister, and she thought she’d slept in a hotel.
I told her again over shelf paper, too-small scissors, and a quiet wi-fi-less place that she was home. We were making the kitchen work for her: “working girl” style. We chuckled with a wink,”not that kind of working girl.”
I told her I was helping because I don’t mind measuring and making quick decisions. She likes to put on an apron and feel the water over her hands. Together we solved the puzzles of spoons and drawers, positioning and efficiencies, interspersed with tiny bouts of pretty. She let me make most of the decisions. I did so for sake of getting things done.
At another time that day, to quell her worries, we went back to her old place. She needed to check the laundry one more time. Had she left anything behind?
Over and over, she needed to double-check things. I first assured her of her things safe status, then assured her that her worry was okay, she was just acclimating to a new situation.
She said she liked that word: acclimate. Her shoulders dropped, she relaxed.
She said it reminded her of how her dad told her to “adapt to change.”
Acclimate is more encompassing in a way than adapt. It includes the feeling of being in a climate of nature, at least to me. And in springtime, acclimating is becoming a harmonious part of a bounty of buds, greening grass, and bluer sky.
“It’s a good word,” she said.
When we arrived at her old place, we found piles of dust and little else. So we sang a song of thanks to each room we walked through. We walked through them all. “This room is lovely, thank you for being here,” as we waved our arms up and out with love about the place. Dancing nearly.
One closet door rattled a little, we smiled. It seemed to need a touch of attention, so we sang to it special. Ritual around a house. As old a practice as the hills have stood by watching us obsess over our things.
And this helped: ritual and song, with movement and gratitude.
Later in the day, my mom asked to be reminded what we had done. I told her of our work in the kitchen, our trip to get dishtowels, our song and dance at the old house.
She cried. Not because she remembered doing it, but because we did.