Until my father reminded me earlier this week, this date wasn't much on my mind. Some years it is fresh and vivid--this awful day when we learned my mother was dying--and other years, it is a kind of background noise or energy that doesn't break through to the surface. It was fifteen years ago that she died, April 6th, 1993, and in those early years, March 6th ushered in a host of memories: leaving my college roommate and close friend behind for what I presumed to be a weekend trip to Boston, moving the tag on my RA door card from "in" to "away for the day," and the long, uncertain drive to Boston with dear family friends. Some years the images would cascade in vivid succession as I tried to put one foot in front of the other, certain that this anniversary day was the worst day in my life.
This year, it feels different. The sun is shining, I was able to walk my smiling daughter to school, and though the news is full of the devastating reality that March 6th is becoming "the worst day in life" for many, many people around the world, it no longer seems to be mine....at least not this year. It has become a day for noticing--the frozen tracks of footprints in the mud on the wooded path to school, the fall leaves left unraked, visible once again in their clumps of matted brown. There are buds on the trees, too, and though snow is certainly going to fall once again, spring is clearly in the air. Blessings abound--I'm even trying to feel fortune in coming to work! Miracles appear at every turn, and even as I remember this day when earthly, bodily healing was denied my mother, I know I can look at the healing beyond, within, and all-around. There were miracles, even then, and I'm grateful to see them now.