Mindfulmaven

Reflections on my type A life

To those who may stumble across this and don’t already know who I am – well, I apologize for the boring read. I’m not really a fun person. Dry, sarcastic, witty, and bossy – I am all of those things. Fun? Not so much.

If you’re still reading, here’s a bit of insight: I’m a 40-year-old mother and wife. I recently discovered that writing down the things that drive me to distraction is incredibly cathartic. It helps me decompress and process intense emotions.

To explain how I got here: my grandma passed away in the fall of 2024. You don’t need to tell me how fortunate I am to have had her for 40 years. I know. In fact, I still have a living grandparent. I’m definitely blessed in that respect.

But about my writing… The evening after my grandma passed away, my mom called me with what she wanted the newspaper to say about my Nenaw’s life and subsequent death. It was good. It was on point. Factual. But it was missing the essence of her—the thing that made her my Nenaw. So, the next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, I got up, went to work out, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not the grief, but the words. The words that didn’t fully express what she meant to me, to all of us. So I grabbed my phone, opened the Notes app, and just started talking. I said the things that made her unique, that made her loved by so many, that made us laugh and cry.

Once I finished editing it, I sent it to my mom. She called and said, “I want that read at the funeral, but we need a shorter version for the paper. Can you reduce it and take it to the funeral home today?” I said sure. I hadn’t intended to take that on. I hadn’t really thought anyone outside the close family would see or hear those words. But I do know that I felt more peace in the moments after I wrote it than I had in the weeks leading up to Nenaw’s death.

So, through the good and the bad, I want to write about those peaks and valleys to get the energy out—to shake it off, metaphorically speaking.

As one of the least Swiftie Swifties, I’m sticking with my terrible analogies.

I’ve got a blank page, baby… and I’m going to write what I feel.

I Have a Black Thumb

I have a black thumb. I mean, not literally, but I do kill plants like it’s my job. A while back, I got two peace lilies from my grandma’s funeral. They were gorgeous, and I was committed to keeping them alive. But they had flowers, and I was afraid of the pollen. So, I put them in the garage, and we had an extremely cold night… well, that was it. They wilted.

No matter what I did, I babied them. I brought them in the house, repotted them, fertilized them. I even talked to a nursery about how to revive them. You name it, I did it. But they just kept getting worse. So, I chopped off all their leaves and stems. I figured if they weren’t wasting nutrients on the dead parts, maybe they could focus on getting better. For weeks, months even, I watered dead plants, hoping one day I’d see a change.

Then, last Friday, I sat down in my office to work. I sipped on my coffee, opened up my messages, and started my day. I glanced over, and all of a sudden, I see that one of the lilies had new shoots everywhere. I couldn’t believe it. I was sure I had been watering a dead plant.

That same day, I heard the wind chime my kiddo and my niece got for you. You loved it because they picked it out. It’s been hanging outside my office for five months, and I’ve never heard it once. But on the day I found the plant alive, I heard it. I don’t usually believe in many of the things people attribute to feelings or signs, but that day… I felt you. I felt like you were telling me everything was going to be okay. Telling me you fixed that lily, that you knew how hard it would be for me to lose it.

It wouldn’t have broken me, though. I’m made of sterner stuff than that. You were definitely a part of shaping me into the woman I am today. But boy, I needed that reminder.

I had a hard day today. And I called you. It was foolish. I didn’t really want to tell you about my day—it’s not something I would normally share with you. I just felt like if I could call and leave a voicemail that would never be heard, maybe it would make me feel better. I also wanted to hear your voice. Just hear you say, “Hey, baby,” one more time. Unfortunately, I got a message saying the number was no longer in service.

I’ll be honest, it hurt. So, now I’m sitting here in my office, typing this, avoiding what I probably need to deal with. But you know what I found? The other lily… I didn’t kill it either. It has new growth. Not as much as the other one, but it’s coming back.

I need to take a page from their book. Even though I’m struggling, I’m still alive on the inside, where it counts. Where it matters. I need to just keep watering my soul.

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