What did Columbus do for his mother?

Would you tell this guy he didn't discover the route to India? What an opportunist!

I'd add a recent photo, but my last batch was at a local graveyard and while I like those photos I don't feel like a black and white graveyard this morning. I don't feel like extolling the virtues of Mother's Day, either, although we're having quite a nice one. Columbus, if he was here, would no doubt claim to have discovered it.

Celebrating a day without scheduled obligations is what I'm about here. Yesterday I sat among new corps members queuing up for physicals, agonizing over urine tests, quaking over injections, sat through three sessions of therapy in which no one had an epiphany, not even me, dropped by my pal Chris's house after work for a couple beers, reported home to mow the front yard in the crisp, really crisp evening air, did some Mom's Day shopping then came home and went to bed early. I used to get resentful about running around, working Saturdays, sessions without epiphanies, but I can usually talk myself out of that now. I put Beck on the car stereo and cranked him. Very satisfying!

I think there's a point where we don't separate work from home from chores from leisure so much. Barnes and Noble was cool when I got there. The yard looks great. My clients deserve the same right to struggle that you and I deserve. Nothing meaningful comes without some struggle. My privilege is sometimes to sit with them as they struggle. If work is meaningful, does it really take away from my life? I think not. Doing something pleasant for my wife is not so much of a chore, really and I love the way the yard looks when the grass is freshly cut. I even enjoy successful weed whacking. Being with my Mom every Sunday morning has become something of a moment of "worship" for me. As part of a routine, it puts me in a regular place in what's left of her life. Sometimes we have a "moment," what passes for epiphany, and sometimes we don't. She can be unsure of my name, my identity, my place in her shattered history, but she recognizes me and smiles, letting me interrupt her snooze. I take my regular place in the final stage of her journey, however long it is to last. Then I'm going to run a few errands, do the back yard, whack the weeds, make some soup or stew for supper because it's still a chilly spring.

I think I'm through my Spring depression, as predictable as - well - Columbus Day. Depression is an opportunist as well, sliding into the spaces between things, reminding us of the dark places. Dad died about this time six years ago, our good friend Diana died the end of April. Anniversaries are more predictable than epiphanies, but I'm always surprised to recognize that I have again slid into a darker mode. I'm naturally optimistic and always believe I can soldier through. I swear I don't think about the end of April, the beginning of May, in negative terms, at least not in advance. Once I realize that my mood has darkened, I have become better at talking back to myself, at honoring the sad dark earth between the green shoots, and taking in the rhythm and contrast of my moods. Would I avoid this seasonal sadness if I could? How is it not part of me, like my history, like the inevitable losses of those I love? How is it not like meaningful work, necessary chores, rituals of mowing, trimming, repairing? An only child, I have always talked to myself. Now I talk back to my darker self, remind myself to enjoy the sun, the green, my friends, my family and to honor the sad things in life.

David Bromberg wrote "I have somebody else's blues / in the midst of an almost perfect day." My therapeutic self urges him to integrate. One's blues are one's own. One's bathroom, one's laundry, one's work, the closeness and laughter with old friends, the sudden distance between some of us where closeness always seemed inviolable, these are part of life's syncopation. Hop into the conga line and dance!