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| ISSUE NO. 694 |
| MY MOTHER-IN-LAW, BONNIE . . . more affectionately known by her chosen grandma name, B... died at home on May 13. That statement doesn’t adequately convey the gravity of what transpired. In a world where most people consider mother-in-law / daughter-in-law relationships as fraught and contentious, we embodied the opposite. She is part of my everyday life, a whip-smart companion, a trusted friend. And when you lose someone so close, no matter the circumstances, it hurts so badly.
I have been avoiding writing this newsletter - partially because I know that words alone can do no justice to honoring her. A proper tribute can’t be confined to a one-time reflection. We can only honor her legacy with the sort of sustained commitment and care that she showed throughout her 73 years on Earth.
And while she taught us so many things over those years - not purposely, but just in the way she moved through the world - she continues to do so even in her death.
In that stretch between when her oncologist told her she had days to live, and when she finally felt it to be so, she slowly quieted her mind. Initially it raced with all of things she was going to miss, a bid to get in one last order of coffee supplies (she surmised everyone was going through it too quickly while we were camped out with her), pajamas and books for the kids, literal and figurative bandaids (she wanted to make sure there was a stash of the fun bandaids they love). She worried about the keys and important papers she couldn’t find (we found them with her directions, which put her at ease). And ensuring that we would make good use of all of the items she accrued in her closet over the decades. When you know your body will no longer be around it’s easy to clutch onto the things that will outlast it. To still be there for everyone - quite literally. To want proof that you exist.
But slowly that yielded to favoring experiences where she could just feel: the open windows with the soft breeze across her face . . . the sound of her grandkids laughing outside . . . listening to the 43 year-old cassette tape recording of her first-born laughing . . . kisses from a nine-week old Chocolate Lab that looked exactly like her last three dogs . . . bouts of weeping while listening to audio memos from loved ones around the world . . . inhaling the intoxicating aromas of the meals we were cooking downstairs - even though she wasn’t able to eat them - with the satisfaction that it was her culinary skills that had cultivated so many cooks in the family . . . the rooster down the road that crowed at all hours of the day in a most welcome way . . . belly-aching laughter . . . a never-ending soft caress . . . carefully considering what type of tree she’d like us to spread her ashes under, imagining us under the canopy of her shade . . . being moved to tears by the harpist who came to perform her favorite song . . . and most frequently - enjoying the chorus of birds just outside of her bedroom window.
These are the things that made her feel alive. These are the things that made her feel connected. These are the things that held power and meaning beyond the confines of her body.
We had the best possible circumstances (her husband, kids and grandkids taking care of her and each other at home with the help of hospice) amidst a heart wrenching scenario (watching someone you love slowly wither away from an insidious disease).
It’s easy to lose sight of what is important in this life. The systems are set up to distract and disconnect us. But in the end, we don’t have ultimate control. We are energetic beings and all we have is our presence and our connection.
My heart aches in so many ways for what we lost. It’s okay to admit that. I couldn’t stop the spread of her disease - even if I thought and hoped that being present with her could ultimately work that sort of magic - but we were warm and dry and had access to things that would ease the burden, like food and medicine and soft clean clothing and each other. We could move freely, or choose to stay still. We had the option to step away from work and care for our beloved matriarch and each other, the way that she always loved to do. What an honor. What a gift.
The compounding grief comes from knowing that whole populations of people are denied dignity in death or peace in grief. Most recently, as we continue to see the most horrific images come out of Rafah, I know that the only way to honor Bonnie - a person that cared so much for others - is to continue to pay the energy of her dignity and peace forward.
I can’t control the outcome, but I can be there. I can be present. I can continue to forge bonds with others who see what I see and feel what I feel - people that refuse to go numb and continue to show up. And we can share the load together to harness our collective power to continually care for each other - in life and in death.
I know that we will all die one day, and that it is - eventually - a necessary part of life. When it is our time, I just want us all to be able to hear the birds.
With deep love and connection, Tay photo: Bonnie writing the chalkboard at Buffet de la Gare in Hastings on Hudson, New York ca. 1978 |
tidbits...resources on anti-racism, environmentalism and food culture AKA stuff we're reading / listening to / watching / noticing / thinking about / captivated by this Tuesday . . . Because just one perspective on Bonnie will not give you the full picture, here are some other words and images we all shared . . . we are so glad to have you in our life. I am grateful to learn about he hidden Black history of Memorial Day - and the roots of the rituals that brought Black soldier dignity after their deaths. "The truth is, if sharing our painful stories were enough, we’d certainly have gotten everyone on our side by now." - Ijeoma Oluo on The Limits of Empathy |
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