One hundred years ago today, my mom was born in Oakland, California. I had hoped I'd be celebrating with her this weekend, but she didn't quite make it to her hundredth birthday. She died in April, and I poured myself into a research project ever since, giving me time with the familiar before turning to the business of grief.
I haven't completely ignored the grieving process. After a healing memorial gathering surrounded by friends and relatives, my family loaded a U-haul truck to bring home Mom's small but prized collection of antiques. I have found places in my home for Victorian cranberry glass, Dresden porcelain and marble-top tables, but boxes remain in my garage, filled with memories and emotions to work through.
I find the grieving process gave me enough energy to meet tight research deadlines, but not enough energy to do what gives me joy. Only when the research project was done have I returned to my mixing bowls and made my first batch of cookies for friends. Although relieved to again pop a tray into the oven, this wasn't a new recipe I tried. It was an earlier success.
I needed to make something safe, something comforting. Everything I do for me, for my family and friends now counts as helping me through the healing process.
I remember when my dad died, I reassessed where to put my time. I applied for fewer research projects, gardened more and helped at the kids' schools. And I simplified -- little things that made my life easier. I let my hair grow out, then found a hair stylist closer to my neighborhood. I did what I'd been meaning to do -- moved the family to a house with big trees and a deck.
These changes seemed so natural and also unexpected. The grieving process is unpredictable. It changes emotions and it changes the ways we approach and make decisions. So, what about cookie baking?
It is still fun to try new things, to explore new cookie recipes, to learn techniques and combine new flavors. One thing is different. My willingness to slog through the last fourth of the recipes in the book that has been my guide -- recipes I've been passing by for more than a year -- has waned. I am no longer willing to use good butter and flour, or my time, on a recipe that doesn't entice from the start. And miraculously, I trust I can tell when a recipe looks like too many steps for too little pay-off.
With only a few more cookies I really want to make and write about, I'll soon announce my favorites, and prepare to say goodbye to this blog. Life in perspective is the best gift of grief.
I haven't completely ignored the grieving process. After a healing memorial gathering surrounded by friends and relatives, my family loaded a U-haul truck to bring home Mom's small but prized collection of antiques. I have found places in my home for Victorian cranberry glass, Dresden porcelain and marble-top tables, but boxes remain in my garage, filled with memories and emotions to work through.
I find the grieving process gave me enough energy to meet tight research deadlines, but not enough energy to do what gives me joy. Only when the research project was done have I returned to my mixing bowls and made my first batch of cookies for friends. Although relieved to again pop a tray into the oven, this wasn't a new recipe I tried. It was an earlier success.
I needed to make something safe, something comforting. Everything I do for me, for my family and friends now counts as helping me through the healing process.
I remember when my dad died, I reassessed where to put my time. I applied for fewer research projects, gardened more and helped at the kids' schools. And I simplified -- little things that made my life easier. I let my hair grow out, then found a hair stylist closer to my neighborhood. I did what I'd been meaning to do -- moved the family to a house with big trees and a deck.
These changes seemed so natural and also unexpected. The grieving process is unpredictable. It changes emotions and it changes the ways we approach and make decisions. So, what about cookie baking?
It is still fun to try new things, to explore new cookie recipes, to learn techniques and combine new flavors. One thing is different. My willingness to slog through the last fourth of the recipes in the book that has been my guide -- recipes I've been passing by for more than a year -- has waned. I am no longer willing to use good butter and flour, or my time, on a recipe that doesn't entice from the start. And miraculously, I trust I can tell when a recipe looks like too many steps for too little pay-off.
With only a few more cookies I really want to make and write about, I'll soon announce my favorites, and prepare to say goodbye to this blog. Life in perspective is the best gift of grief.
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