Good for the soul

It was a sweltering week here.  I loved every sweat-dripping-down-the-middle-of-my-back-moment.  I'm trying to soak it up, because before I know it, I'm going to have a chill in my bones that I won't be able to shake until May. 

We are enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning at home.  It is a rare occasion.  Really rare.  At 11:15 we begin the craziness, though.  Drop Turner at a friend's house for a play date, arrive at soccer field for Olivia's noon game, chase down Quinn's buddy who is also hanging around the field for his brother's game.  Make sure the two of them don't beat each other while trying to NOT make a fool out of myself while cheering for the Sneaky Snakes.  Easy Peasy.

We are still recovering from last weekend's three ring circus.  Maybe even a four ringer, since  my aunt and uncle (from Arizona) were in town.  We get to see them about twice a year, although we went a really long year and half stretch before seeing them last weekend.  So, naturally, we had to cram their visit full of our madness.  Soccer games, festivals, food truck rally, Buckeye game, laughing, crying, snuggling etc.  It was a magical weekend.

A particular highlight for me was late Saturday afternoon.  After all the crazy running around and fun having that we did Friday night and Saturday morning, my Aunt, Olivia and I spent time snuggling on the couch talking.  We spent nearly an hour telling Olivia stories about when I was little and when my aunt and my mom were little.  It was so special.  O was so dialed in and hanging on my aunt's words.  They are stories we don't discuss often enough.  With my mom passing when Olivia was three and a half, she has vague memories of Bebe but it is so important to me that she gets to know her through stories.

It also unleashed a part of me that I rarely realize needs unleashing.  Being an only child and having both parents gone, there is NO ONE to talk childhood with.  I know that having siblings does not guarantee reminiscing.  Siblings to not guarantee laughs, tears or history sharing.  I imagine they would, at least, provide a sense of connection to a part of life that perhaps no one else knows.  I could be wrong.  But I don't not have that.  If I stop long enough and dwell hard enough, it could be a very lonely, very sad place.  So I don't stop there. 

However, on the rare occasion of visiting with my aunt, I find that piece of history that I need accessed.  Places in my mind and heart I have not gone in years.  My grandmother's candy dish, her freezer full of ice cream sandwiches, my mom's sense of humor, her homemade mac 'n cheese, what she was like before her illnesses and her amputation.  Family.  History.  Me.

My heart was beyond full as we three generations sat on the couch.  A mixed kind of fullness- full of joy for a visit from my mom's sister- an extension of my mother's love, full of gratefulness as she loved me and my daughter and gave of her time, love and stories, full of sadness and grief as I would give anything to have my mom snuggled next to the three of us giving her version of the stories.  Full of family and love and emotion, full of openness to those things that I sometimes find myself closing off to in order to avoid, in order to *move on*, in order to live. 

Full.  Its a good place to be.