The past 24 hours I have felt like crap. Not physically but emotionally, well in a vague undefined way. Typically I hone in pretty quickly on what bothers me on the inside, but sometimes I remain unaware only feeling a somewhat distant muffled malaise.
My mother always sensed when something troubled me. Even hundreds of miles away on the phone she knew something was not right with me. Often she picked up on the chronic melancholy stemming from my ex-gay struggles that I often kept to myself (and even hid from myself). Typically I attempted a cheery front that she dented with her question, “Are you sure everything is alright?” I don’t remember a time when she got it wrong.
Here in beautiful Oxford, England with perfect spring weather, quaint cafes, and a lovely place to stay in the Friends Meeting House my unease has grown and finally has become obvious to me. Bottom line—I miss my mom. Although the English did not celebrate Mother’s Day yesterday, from the spam alone cramming my inbox, I could not avoid the US holiday (sponsored and promoted no doubt by Hallmark, etc).
In the midst of the beauty and the love of dear friends here, I feel the persistent ache that my mom referenced when she spoke of her own mother who she lost at a young age. You will never stop missing your mother.
Like a discontent, moody lion with a thorn festering in his paw, I have felt a steady, growing, dull pain pulling me down. It has muddled my mind and sensitized me to sounds and petty annoyances. Now I have pulled back the curtain (aided by e-mails from Christine, Deanna and Morgan) and can access the pain, express it, live in this moment. Discerning the origin of my angst helps to address it. And in feeling afresh the loss of my mother, I draw near to her memory and her love.