melting

Coming out of denial is a bit like the melt. Back in August, when we were able to pretend that mom's reason for living with us was all about blood sugar and economics, everyone could paint a picture that was pretty, if cold, of our future life together. As the seasons changed, the leaves turning and then the coming of snow, we could still create those idyllic visions of extended family togetherness, protecting each other from the encroaching frost and winter darkness. But snow is a cold liar. It covers up and hides ugliness with each gentle accumulation of temporary beauty. Now the rain has washed away that snowy denial, and we see what is lurking underneath. What remains is dead, broken, messy and ugly.

It is Springtime, or nearly so, and the snow is melting. All that remains on this day are a few solid icy piles, the remnants of ancient plowing, now protected from melting sunshine by layers of sand, dead pine needles and their massive volume. Assisted by all the rain last week the snow pack of winter has mostly disappeared, transforming the view out my window from a postcard winter white sparkling silence into a raucous cacophony of life, emerging from a overcoat of hidden litter and neglect. Overnight this winter wonderland has morphed into a fascinating conglomeration of filthy, hard ice encrusted with random bits of rubbish and decaying leaves. Where road sand doesn't cover it, the matted grass of the lawn underneath,now revealed, lies compressed, dead thatch. Life is glistening under muddy standing water where waking grass is clearly sprouting green.

This beloved lawn is pocked with the ancient telltale yellow circles, hidden all winter and returning with the melt, proclaiming that a dog lives here. Bits of ravaged feathery papers and loose bent empty cans that have been salvaged from the recycling bin by the lonesome critter seeking self entertainment, now rest encased in the stubborn ice, preaching the unheard story of long lost puppy toys and persistant creative fun. Here and there we can see the still broken branches, the shattered limbs of an old storm remaining, testament to natures violent protests. In short, it is sunny, warm and really looks dreadful out there.

Spring is not all crocuses and daffodils. Spring is this season too. This season begs us to nurture. It wants us clean up, to rise and work outside, tidy up, prune the broken bushes and trees, rake the turf, remove the thatch and sand. Do all this to stimulate the new growth. Early melting beckons us to regain order. Somehow that window will once again frame beauty. Outside will eventually become a garden, a place of flowers and life again, but for now, it is that unique season, "Mud season", where the hibernation of winter ends in a groggy, angry, hungry pout.

When I look at our lives I am seeing mud. I must struggle to see the hope under all the broken bits. Instead, I see that hard ice that still won't let go of the bent cans, holding onto those useless bits, oblivious, just a little longer. I put all sorts of effort into cleaning up the actual yard, and together we all will get it clear. Soon, or at least eventually, we will be welcoming the strawberries right off the vine for breakfast. My metaphorical garden, however, is more difficult to clear this time.

Those broken bent, empty cans of lost capacity will never work again. The recycling truck does not return what it takes and neither can I replace my mom's lost functions. To try to is just to litter the garden with trash. As much as Easter cries for it, resurrection is a miracle, and the hope that revives with spring growth while inspiring, does not heal the broken trees. Life goes on amid the brokenness. There are still buds, but there is also deadwood. I struggle to remember that it can still be beautiful when it isn't all new.

As an arborist is trained to cut out the dead and diseased wood to restore the tree to health, I want to remove her dementia. I suppose that is what we try to do by treating her and ourselves. I cannot help but notice there is still a hole in the tree where the deadwood has been cut. You can not bring it back. That is just the way it works.

Perhaps, I have over worn my metaphor. To put it plainly, I find that just as I want the grass to grow green, the fruit trees to flower and the roses to put out the new shoots that prove, once again, that life survives winter, I want my mother to renew, to create new cognitive growth of some kind. In this Spring of progressive dementia it seems there is all too much winterkill. There are now great holes when you remove the diseased parts and I worry that, come summer, there will be no shade. It is too soon to tell how much damage there has been, but there is no denying it any longer. It is a mess and there are fewer buds on my family tree this Spring.

Great Creator, we are yours in all seasons. There is so much brokenness. I fear being lost in the shattered wood.
Help me to glory in the warmth of the sun, let me once again love to see whatever green returns, feel the promise in buds swell, and savor Spring with the birds as together we rejoice in song.

Amen