“Coda: a concluding segment of a piece of music, a dance, or a statement. It’s usually short and adds a final embellishment beyond a natural ending point.”—Vocabulary.com
Here I am, on the precipice once again.
Writing life—ready to resume.
I’ve declared to many that personal writing is what I want to do. That this was to be my new path when we started our new life in Baltimore five years ago. I’ve journaled much about this in the past few years. I traveled to San Francisco to learn about publishing. I began a new book, a memoir on raising gay twin sons.
Then along the way, I lost my writing mojo. The defining moment for this was having to move from the rental house to a permanent house in Towson. It derailed my memoir writing as I had to spend the majority of my time looking for a new home for us in a truly short period of time—60 days. Then, the buying, moving and settling in time. The tragic loss of our beloved black lab Fenway that following spring knocked me off my pins for months.
Somewhere in the unpacking and decorating, and mourning, the book got lost. When I returned to it, I scrapped the style I’d started, began again in fits and starts with stream of conscious memories, and then finally, let the work languish. Not totally gone of course, thanks to the magic of word processing and cloud storage. But my momentum was gone. I wanted to linger in life in the new neighborhood, enjoying the pause and reveling in freedom from conventional work. Happily, I had freelance writing and a retail job at Chico’s which brought income and joy, while allowing me time to meander through the days of learning to love our adopted burg. And I journaled. Short missives of my inner emotional struggles juxtaposed with daily life and happiness.
In time it became apparent Momma needed a full time job to keep up with our life style. Not extravagant, but it came with a higher price tag than our Syracuse life. So, I found a fine job working in communications yet again. I thought this was to be my retirement swan song from corporate life.
And it was, although the ending came more swiftly than I thought. Just shy of a one-year anniversary. Time to turn my pen to my own writing once again.
Not the mother memoir I started in 2014. To the story of my twin sons’ senior year of high school, which I thought at the time was to be their senior graduation gift. In reality, this was my long goodbye to my first phase of mothering—birth to heading off to college. I remember vividly how tender my heart was that entire year, as I thought my hands-on mothering days were drawing to a close. I never did share the book with the boys, although I told them it existed and would one day share it.
The ONLY job I ever truly loved with deep passion (and still do) is mothering. I excel at it! Not just my own ego noted here, I have the proof in two fine men who regularly share me with their circles. Seems that I have a knack for helping children (even grown ones) find peace and comfort in their skin. I welcome them into our home and lives, offering unconditional acceptance for them wherever they’re at in their journey. My mother showed me how to do this with her warm, welcoming enthusiasm for those who were drawn to her light and joy. I learned her lessons well.
Here’s a big, warm hug and beaming smile when you come to visit. Enjoy something wonderful to eat. Tell your story without fear of judgement. Advice is dispensed when asked, and sometimes when it was needed though not requested. Play, nap, laugh, be at your ease—enjoy our space however you need to whenever you need to.
That’s what Mom taught me. That’s what I do. Adam and Alex’s friends have told me as much over the years, through written and spoken words of love and affection.
So, it’s time once again to look at the words I laid down more than a decade ago and trust the money gods to take care of our needs providing income while I birth the tome that has been patiently waiting. The story is speaking to me, shouting really, that others need to hear its timeless message of transition. I promise this time to let it flow.
The lyrics of my children’s own transition to phase 2 adulthood—their coda—are calling to be heard.