mulling

I've been thinking about two words heard in relationship to the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in the South, and regarding New Orleans in particular: rebuilding and weaving. The former generally referred to highways and roads, houses and public buildings and seeing something concretely rise up from the devastation. Those efforts are all intended to help people "rebuild their lives" with homes, jobs and neighborhoods. The latter term was used by an anthropologist when talking about lives and communities. Those words have stayed with me.

We can rebuild structures, but does one rebuild a life? When they talk about rebuilding neighborhoods, do they mean people or housing? I expect both, but can you construct real neighborhoods in ways other than bricks and mortar? I personally like the notion of weaving: its tensile strength, the patterns, colors, textures -- and surprises -- emerging from a blending, and creating something lasting that sustains and can be passed on.

I was just thinking about this again today and suddenly made a connection with my own life in the aftermath of loss. Does one rebuild a life after a loved one dies? This one anyway appears to be reweaving. The material is all there as evidenced by my memories of my mother as a living part of it and now I'm learning to accomodate the changes that stem from her dying. I don't expect to build something brand new in the months and years ahead, but hope to incorporate the essence of who my mother was and the gifts she gave me.

Already she's influencing my thinking and actions. Informed by her example, I've called upon her "just do it" attitude to keep going on the rough days. She's no longer here to lend her perspective, but I feel her steadying presence and level-headed thinking as I embark on the hard work that lies ahead. I wrote here one day about parents being our training wheels and the security of having a parent to look out for us. As independent as I feel myself to be, there's nothing like a parent's death to push you to the front of the line. A friend called our parents "buffers" between the harsh world and ourselves. Then one day they're gone.

I expect to be weaving for a few more decades, carrying on what I've been given and picking up new threads as I go. My mother was a quilter and as her daughter, if I do this right, the result can only be richer, deeper and more valuable -- and my own.