Your powerful imagery takes me along with you… I love the phrase “the things we leave undone” much more than regrets… and the idea that those things can be more completed before go, we transition.
I like that you describe moving far away for many years and don’t use the word —- avoidance
Because there is self care in the time apart. You caring for you.
And when your reserves are built up, you know when it’s time.
This is beautiful, Maia, in its honesty and clarity. Your imagery, too - scenes I relate to of the bosque and cottonwoods and canyons - is beautiful in its outer reflection of inner experience. Wonderful. Keep writing!
I too moved far away from well-meaning parents who did their best as parents, yet I needed to find my life and joy and expression away from them.
Maia, this post hit like a freight train this morning. I could not imagine losing my parents within weeks of each other. I am so sorry to hear that. It's a beautiful reminder to not leave things undone today, and to think of some of the big things that are currently undone and to work on them.
The maps everywhere … traveling across country to begin to find your life, and the gift of return. The grip of hoarding… to face it, specially as an only child… enormous journey you share with us and even more importantly, with them. Thank you, Maia. I admire all that was done and undone with and for those you love. Deep bow. 💚👣
How lovely, and poignant. "Meanwhile here in the bosque, life generates and dies away and rises up again. This cycle of doing, of undoing, goes on forever." Thank you, Maia, for sharing this moving contemplation 💕
I just can't thank you enough for opening your heart and sharing your story. What your spirit has been through, the journey you have navigated gives me so much hope that I too can come out the other side of mine. Thank you for your openness and your gorgeous vulnerability. If I wasn't struggling so hard financially I would be a paid subscriber in a heartbeat, when I am in a better position...I will be back to support you. Sending you so much love.
Beautiful writing. The parts about your parents, the hoarding, the maps, the letter to your father, and the trip to the vet with your friend digging out the snow, all beautiful imagery. Your love for them comes through.
It is all to easy to become buried in stuff. As you hold onto it, it magically becomes both invisible and unimportant. So you go out to find a new method to cure the emptiness you can’t quite explain.
Rotten
Rotten boards and rotten hinges,
April’s breezes blow last January’s weeds.
The smell of dust and straw are welcome
In the midst of mold and mildew and decay.
The man who lived here held on willy-nilly
to boards and nails and parts in disarray,
Parts of things that no one wanted,
Parts of things that no one seemed to need.
He held on with a death-grip to what was not worth stealing,
Those who had known him once
Could find no sense in keeping what he’d saved.
Except the rotten boards and hinges,
They saw fit to stay right where they lay.
I walked around then late that sunny afternoon.
No one had cared to carry them away.
I hope this is a comfort to you and not a “piggy-backing” onto your web site. It is not intended to be that. But . . . Please tell me if you feel that it is. I’m having trouble getting to the full site stage, but so much resonates with me as I read other writers.
Ah, Maia, I'm so glad I (finally) read this essay. Admittedly I avoided it at first, my own grief still so raw at times. But it does help to read about the grief of others. We might experience our grief differently--and I find that variety strangely reassuring--but we all share the fact that we grieve. Your love for your parents and Katya is evident and beautifully expressed.
thank you, Marie -- I understand that feeling of avoidance. Grief is such a raw experience. I'm glad it helped, even just a little, to read someone else's journey of grief. Be well!
Thank you for this beautifully narrated chapter from your life, Maia. I can relate on many levels, evidenced by the tears in my eyes as I read. I also felt a deep peace from it- the way you investigate your bodily reaction to grief, and articulate the facets of it, and connect it to the New Mexico landscape. 🙏🏻
I was deeply moved and it was just what I needed to read..loss has become the normal as sad as that reality is..I was sitting in the sun just hours ago and was thinking..when will I have to process the last deaths close to me just this year..maybe never? Thank you for your work..and I'll say a prayer for you and Lucy!!
Thank you for this. It sent me backward to my father’s death, a year and a half ago. (My mother continues decluttering, and in doing so grieving in her way.) And it sent me forward to thinking about my own mortality - who will sort through what I leave behind? And maybe I should throw away those takeout containers!
A lovely piece, and I’m sorry for your losses. Someone once described grief as carrying a brick around in your pocket. After a while you get used to the extra weight. And then sometimes, you want to feel the weight again.
Dear Chris, thank you for your comment. Going backward and forward, yes.... somehow I feel that grief is a super-effective time travel machine, where conventional time gets compressed in all sorts of interesting ways, and past become present becomes future.
And thank you for sharing that metaphor of grief like carrying a brick around in your pocket. I had not heard that one, but it resonates, for sure. My condolences to you on the loss of your father. No matter what kind of relationship we've had, the loss of a parent is significant in so many ways.
Your powerful imagery takes me along with you… I love the phrase “the things we leave undone” much more than regrets… and the idea that those things can be more completed before go, we transition.
I like that you describe moving far away for many years and don’t use the word —- avoidance
Because there is self care in the time apart. You caring for you.
And when your reserves are built up, you know when it’s time.
Time and emotional space.
To show up.
To be
With your parents
To care for their
Basic human needs as
They did when they were capable of
Caring for you in childhood
There is such a
Beautiful
Gift
In the time
You spent
With them
Allowing for
Re-membering
Your parents
From a new perspective
Dad’s love of
Maps
Digging into a
Trip
To plan it
The comfort of knowing
Where I am
And forging a
Trip to where
I want to go… here take this road
And then turn here
Sounds like similar
Skills to
Anthropology
They began here
Traveling there
Living like this
I read
This
I feel so much
Love
In all the pieces
Of it.
Your dog 🐶
Sounds precious 🐕
Enjoy meandering
Those forests along the
Rio grande
And beyond
They may have
The keys to
Re-pairing what was
With what is♥️
Grief sounds
Proportional
To the epic
Love
Felt
thank you, Kim. your poetic comment fills my heart.
This is beautiful, Maia, in its honesty and clarity. Your imagery, too - scenes I relate to of the bosque and cottonwoods and canyons - is beautiful in its outer reflection of inner experience. Wonderful. Keep writing!
I too moved far away from well-meaning parents who did their best as parents, yet I needed to find my life and joy and expression away from them.
Maia, this post hit like a freight train this morning. I could not imagine losing my parents within weeks of each other. I am so sorry to hear that. It's a beautiful reminder to not leave things undone today, and to think of some of the big things that are currently undone and to work on them.
Beautiful writing and a rescue dog - best combination ever!
This hits me on so many levels… beautifully done.
The maps everywhere … traveling across country to begin to find your life, and the gift of return. The grip of hoarding… to face it, specially as an only child… enormous journey you share with us and even more importantly, with them. Thank you, Maia. I admire all that was done and undone with and for those you love. Deep bow. 💚👣
How lovely, and poignant. "Meanwhile here in the bosque, life generates and dies away and rises up again. This cycle of doing, of undoing, goes on forever." Thank you, Maia, for sharing this moving contemplation 💕
I just can't thank you enough for opening your heart and sharing your story. What your spirit has been through, the journey you have navigated gives me so much hope that I too can come out the other side of mine. Thank you for your openness and your gorgeous vulnerability. If I wasn't struggling so hard financially I would be a paid subscriber in a heartbeat, when I am in a better position...I will be back to support you. Sending you so much love.
Beautiful writing. The parts about your parents, the hoarding, the maps, the letter to your father, and the trip to the vet with your friend digging out the snow, all beautiful imagery. Your love for them comes through.
This is a lovely meditation on life, death and accumulation, beautifully written.
thank you, Kim!
Beautiful. ❤️
It is all to easy to become buried in stuff. As you hold onto it, it magically becomes both invisible and unimportant. So you go out to find a new method to cure the emptiness you can’t quite explain.
Rotten
Rotten boards and rotten hinges,
April’s breezes blow last January’s weeds.
The smell of dust and straw are welcome
In the midst of mold and mildew and decay.
The man who lived here held on willy-nilly
to boards and nails and parts in disarray,
Parts of things that no one wanted,
Parts of things that no one seemed to need.
He held on with a death-grip to what was not worth stealing,
Those who had known him once
Could find no sense in keeping what he’d saved.
Except the rotten boards and hinges,
They saw fit to stay right where they lay.
I walked around then late that sunny afternoon.
No one had cared to carry them away.
I hope this is a comfort to you and not a “piggy-backing” onto your web site. It is not intended to be that. But . . . Please tell me if you feel that it is. I’m having trouble getting to the full site stage, but so much resonates with me as I read other writers.
Ah, Maia, I'm so glad I (finally) read this essay. Admittedly I avoided it at first, my own grief still so raw at times. But it does help to read about the grief of others. We might experience our grief differently--and I find that variety strangely reassuring--but we all share the fact that we grieve. Your love for your parents and Katya is evident and beautifully expressed.
thank you, Marie -- I understand that feeling of avoidance. Grief is such a raw experience. I'm glad it helped, even just a little, to read someone else's journey of grief. Be well!
Thank you for this beautifully narrated chapter from your life, Maia. I can relate on many levels, evidenced by the tears in my eyes as I read. I also felt a deep peace from it- the way you investigate your bodily reaction to grief, and articulate the facets of it, and connect it to the New Mexico landscape. 🙏🏻
🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼
I was deeply moved and it was just what I needed to read..loss has become the normal as sad as that reality is..I was sitting in the sun just hours ago and was thinking..when will I have to process the last deaths close to me just this year..maybe never? Thank you for your work..and I'll say a prayer for you and Lucy!!
Thank you for this. It sent me backward to my father’s death, a year and a half ago. (My mother continues decluttering, and in doing so grieving in her way.) And it sent me forward to thinking about my own mortality - who will sort through what I leave behind? And maybe I should throw away those takeout containers!
A lovely piece, and I’m sorry for your losses. Someone once described grief as carrying a brick around in your pocket. After a while you get used to the extra weight. And then sometimes, you want to feel the weight again.
Dear Chris, thank you for your comment. Going backward and forward, yes.... somehow I feel that grief is a super-effective time travel machine, where conventional time gets compressed in all sorts of interesting ways, and past become present becomes future.
And thank you for sharing that metaphor of grief like carrying a brick around in your pocket. I had not heard that one, but it resonates, for sure. My condolences to you on the loss of your father. No matter what kind of relationship we've had, the loss of a parent is significant in so many ways.