In the years following my mom’s stroke, I developed different ways of coping with my feelings (some good, some not so good). I began watching the Food Network cooking shows with my mom, and I began to try different recipes. I realized that I got a lot of satisfaction out of preparing different foods. I could come home from work and from being at the hospital during my mom’s rehabilitation, and be overwhelmed with the polarity of emotions I was feeling at the time—hope and despair, gratitude and grief, faith and fear—and ten minutes into chopping up peppers or sautéing zucchini all was quiet and peaceful inside.
I found the same healing power with plants. Somehow while rutting up the earth and sticking my fingers in the dirt to nurture life in perennial and vegetable gardens, I felt peaceful and alive.
And so it was that I recently rummaged through my parent’s basement to find my mom’s old canner and pressure cooker, stuck back in a corner of the cellar, covered in cob webs and dust. And I raided her collection of mason jars lining the shelves of the basement, darkened by dust, standing untouched for at least four years—back to the date my mom suffered a stroke—a day that we will never forget, the dividing line between our “old life” and our “new life.”
So as I canned (for the first time) tomato sauce and tomatillo salsa I realized that so many of mom’s things from her “old life” stand untouched now…her canning supplies, her sewing machine. For a long time we mourned our loss of our “old life.” But many things that were nonexistent in her “old life” are now a staple of her “new life”—reading more than 50 books a year, wintering on the Florida beaches...
At some point we have to quit hanging on to the old, and make room for the new. Life happens and things change. Adapt and move on. Find your thing and do it. And if the time comes when you can’t do it anymore, I hope that you can be as courageous as my mother has been. The universe may be stretching you to find something new.
