Mom's alive - no, wait...crap

I was lying on the floor at 912, and Steve looks up. "Mom's back," he says, and I jump up and run to the door. She's on her walker, but walking with a little lift in her step. Dad's behind her. "I need to get away for a little bit," Dad tells me, so I tell him I'll stay with Mom. I'll be glad to. I've missed her. I'm excited, relieved, happy. I walk over and hug her, hold on to her, feel her solid in my arms, then...

I wake up. Sh**. It felt so real, but it's just a dream. A crappy crappy dream. I wasn't expecting this in my line of strange and deep and vividly real dreams. I don't WANT these kind of dreams - have something taken away, then think you have it back. It's just not fair. I'd do anything for Mom - I DID do everything for her. I don't have any regrets, and I know it was time. I don't expect any more than that, because the whole last year was a HUGE, inexplicable gift to all of us. So why the dream? Do I need a little housecleaning? Maybe - it took place in my childhood house (again), so there are probably unresolved issues.

I feel like I'm taking care of everyone right now, trying to get Erik on his feet, trying to help Kari get organized for her fall move into the seminary, trying to help Steve figure everything out, trying to help Dad get his sea legs. Actually, Bill and I are the same as always - he's like my little rock, what I count on for stability, like my lighthouse in the dark sea. He's always shining. Now, I don't mean to insinuate that I lean on him too much, or more than I should, for an 8 year old. No, I'm a good mother - I cuddle him, make him his "hamwiches" (ham sandwiches), read him Harry Potter (we finished "Deathly Hallows" last night, so we're all done!), stay with him at night until I hear his deep, even breaths. I listen to him when he talks, and I care about what he is saying.

We rode our bikes last night, and that's the first of the summer. I have regrets, summer regrets, of things I wanted to do, but never got the time. I'd wake up in the morning, at 6AM and think, "I should get my sports bra and walking pants on and go for a walk," then I'd continue to stare out the window for another hour until I could pull myself downstairs for my cup of green tea. But last night was stunningly beautiful out - no humidity, cool, slight breeze. I forced myself to put on tennies and went for a little walk, dragging my aging Spikey along. Then Bill said, "Let's go for a bike ride." Steve said no and went inside, but I said, "YES," and told Billy to get his shoes on. It felt good - this movement, even if I felt exhausted and rode with my eyes half-closed. This morning, at 6AM, those same eyes opened, and I knew I was up for the day. So, without making too big of a deal, I put on my sports bra and walking shorts, slipped into my running shoes, and quietly headed out the door.

Mom may NOT be alive, and this may suck for a while, but I'm doing it, I am. I'm breathing through the heaviness, and the grief, which is a physical thing, by the way. And I'm returning into the center of my one, beautiful, precious life. It's slow work, and there's no end date on it, no exact time that I can mark on my calendar and say, "Okay, so THAT'S when it will all be over." But I'm used to that, because spiritual issues don't have deadlines or timelines - they're done when they're done, after you've moved through them, walked where you need to walk to. And I'm okay, I'm more than okay, I'm just fine, and everything is all right. Really. It's all just so... lifelike.