Embracing the Momentum to Write

Before I started this blog, I had been searching for a way to explore my mother’s story: her struggles, triumphs, rock-bottom hits, and what seemed to be a new hope; her liver transplant.  Our jobs and family time can be extremely time-consuming as they play important roles in our everyday lives.  I have been busy with my own fulltime job and commitment to my family and children’s work. I had found it hard for my mind and heart to travel down to the depths of my soul so that I could embrace the dedication and inspiration I would need to take on this project. 

A fellow author and good friend of mine suggested that I write down my feelings each and every single day.  Even if it were just a few simple sentences; simply journalize them and save them for when the time was right.  As easy as that sounded, I still struggled to reach to the core of my soul for the emotions and senses I would need to even touch upon something so delicate, moving, and most of all, worth all of the time and effort.

And then it just happened.  One day, I’m going about my business, always making sure to say “Thank you, God, for giving my mother a new liver.”  The next, my mom is hospitalized again, out of the blue, because she is running a fever and her white blood cell count is extremely low. 

My mom has been in the hospital for over a week now.  It is beginning to take a toll on all of her aspirations because her recovery went so well after the transplant.  She had the surgery on December 26^th, 2012, and I truly believed that this was the second chance we had all been praying for.  However, I now realize that God has something else intended for me to do, which is to journalize my mother’s struggles, strides, and experiences.  He has reminded me that he is not finished with my family just yet, and now I have no choice but to continue to tell our story.

I’m on the beach today as I write this blog entry and it’s almost 7am.  I usually plop my chair on the sand, right between the ocean and the dunes, around this time or at sunset, when there are seldom others around.  You might think it is because I enjoy the shelter as most writers often do when they are embarking on their gift to explore and create.  Although there is some truth and formality to this, there is also a sadness that I feel when I see children playing with their parents, so I choose to sit in solitude.  When I observe a mother and father taking their child by the hand and walking him or her down to the water, ensuring them that once they are in the ocean, they will never let their tiny hands go, sorrow fills my heart.   When I gaze at a father helping his child build sand castles as the mother reaches for their lunches from the cooler, a motley color of melancholy teases my iridescent pool of memories.   

These small gestures of love and nourishment remind me of my own childhood, and the many years we spent along the Jersey shore.  Every time I stare out across this boundless sea of beauty and bliss, I think of her; my mother.  When I see and hear the waves of a thousand white deer rushing and crashing up against the sand, I remember my childhood with her.  I don’t recall my biological father because he was never there, and the father who I thought was my real dad was sent to jail when I was three years old; my sister was barely two. 

Although I would like to have a better connection with my biological father, most times, I am at a loss because he just doesn't seem to value the importance of the bond a father and daughter should have together.  I know he tries but actions speak louder than words.  I also know he raised two extraordinary boys who I'm sure he is quite proud of, however, because he was not around to watch me grow up, our relationship will always suffer and I will never receive the type of unconditional love I once was gifted from Daddy C.  This person ultimately would have died for us and strangely enough, asked us to not come visit him on the night of his murder.   

 

My step-father came into our lives when I was five, raised us, provided a third biological sister, and he is still in our lives today.  For the most part, the five of us grew together as any seemingly normal family should.  But buried beneath the facade were alcohol induced fights, verbal abuse, police officers, family scandals, the uncovering of other siblings, and a mother who wanted to have it all together but undoubtedly, did not.  These incidents may seem like they would put a damper on every single relationship they came into contact with, however, they never harmed the bond that I had with my mom as a child.  Those conditions would soon falter and wither away as time struggled to bring them to the unrecognizable life my mother would later succumb to.

The ocean that once opened up countless moments of warmth, acceptance, inspiration and irreplaceable remembrances as a child was now just a memory.  A swift wish lost within the soft breezes of the wind only to be carried off to some distant place in the back of my mind.  When I look at the sea, my heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach.  It’s simply a desolation I cannot explain nor would want anyone else in this world to have to experience. 

Was there ever a time in your life when you needed to search for the momentum to write and found it?  If so, has it helped you cope with or overcome any struggles?  If you are still trying to discover this driving force, in what ways have you tried but haven't succeeded?