Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go. Sylvia RobinsonMy eldest daughter told me a story last night about a mother and daughter in the store where she works. The little five year oldish daughter picked out a purple headband and happily showed it to her mother. The mother frowned.
"I told you. Only pink. Put that back. It won't match your outfit."
Disappointed, the little girl replaced the purple headband and chose a pink one.
Again, the mother frowned, grabbed the offending pink headband and put it back. "Not that shade. It's ugly."
Thank you mum, my daughter said, for letting us pick our own clothes. For letting us wear what we felt inspired to wear, even when it didn't match. For letting us know we're beautiful because of who we are, not what we wear.
It is the joke in our family. When the girls were small my rule was, as long as you are dressed appropriately for the weather, you are welcome to choose your clothes. And that included for those special photographs. My youngest daughter once piped up as we were laughing about some of the wild outfits they sometimes assembled, "You mean all those photographs of us in all those mismatched outfits we have no one to blame but ourselves?"
"Do you know you're an amazing mother?" my daughter asked me last night.
I could feel the tension in my heart melt.
"I made a decision today," she continued. "I realized that I've often seen your support as pressure. From now on I choose to accept your support for what it is. Love."
I don't feel like an amazing mother right now. I feel kind of helpless.
It hit me last night. I'm coaching at Choices this weekend, the personal development program both my daughters and I took four years ago and in which we all three love to coach and which the three of us are scheduled to coach together in September. As I sat in the room with sixty other people who have come back for their final weekend of the 9 day training and watched them laugh and chatter, I felt out of sorts. Off balance.
At one point, I had set out to 'change my state' by engaging in the activities with 'gusto'. Normally, when high energy is required, I am Ms High Energy. I have always been blessed with lots and lots of energy and can let it flow at will. But last night, I felt awkward. Self-conscious. As if, some part of my mind was saying, "How can you be so light and positive when Liseanne is so far away and struggling?"
Liseanne and I had chatted earlier in the day. The 'diagnosis' is hitting her and she was feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Thousands of miles away, I am helpless to do anything other than listen and share my strength and hope and calmness and love. All I can do is pray.
And that's where I realized I am challenged.
Prayers are vital. I love that so many people have come forward with prayers and support. You make me feel very, very blessed. My challenge is, I like to be in control. I don't like, Letting go and Letting God.
I realized that last night.
I want to be 'doing' something. Anything. To make it all better.
And all I can do is pray.
It is a lesson in humility. A gift of Faith.
And I struggle to embrace it.
As I told my youngest daughter on the phone earlier in the day when we had chatted. "I want to take this from you honey. I want to take it away and make it mine. And I can't. I can't make it go away. I can't make it something else. I can't make it part of my body and not yours. I want to. And I can't. All I can do is love you. All I can do is be here when you need me. To let you know how amazing you are. To help you know you have all the courage and strength and power within you to make the right decisions for you, to deal with whatever happens."
I felt out of place last night. Not because I wasn't in the right place but rather, because I am still trying to find my place in all of this.
She has a condition called epilepsy. It isn't who she is. It isn't about her. It is what it is.
As her mother, I want to take it away, or at least take over management of it so she won't feel so afraid, so scared, so alone. I want to carry the burden for her, and I can't.
I can't take it away. I can't carry her burden.
I can surrender my fear, my angst, my confusion and pain and fall, in Love.
I don't have a roadmap for how to be a mother whose daughter gets a diagnosis of a life changing disorder when she is 7,000 miles away. I don't have a script that tells me what to do now, what to say next.
I only have Love.
And a deep and abiding faith that when I let go and Let God, miracles happen.
I'm going to believe in miracles today. In the small little miracle of the dew drops sparkling in the sun, to the bigger kind of miracle of peace of mind in the midst of turmoil. I'm falling into a miracle kind of place right now where I have faith that my daughter is safe. Safe in God's embrace, where ever she is in the world.
I am letting go to Let God and breathing into Love.
She deserves my best and my best is always awakened when I get out of the way and allow God to whisper in her heart, "You are love. You are loved. You are safe."