Seemingly interminable waiting for our solicitor to complete, conclude, finalise, finish all matters relating to my mother's estate. Probate having been granted some six weeks ago, after what had already felt by the time it was applied for an interminable process, it is a strangely tortuous process to continue to wait when everything appears to be set for 'distribution'. Now our solicitor's secretary is off work as her husband is seriously ill (some might argue this is too much information from one's £205 an hour legal representative) and so a letter explaining where we are up to is 'out for dictation' with apparently no one to whom she can dictate. It's not so much the money at this point, though goodness knows we shall be happy enough to pay off the mortgage, and I count my blessings daily to have been left an undoubtedly useful sum of money by my Mum. But the whole thing now seems so laden with feelings of finality. This last piece of admin to be concluded, money distributed, and then - all done and dusted. As I write I remember the one other thing still to be done - the stone for my mother's grave. I guess that will be the final final moment of 'nothing left to be done'. It's hard to describe how unsettling this waiting is for me, because it isn't that I think about it constantly. It's more a background tension. A sense of something pending, something not being where it ought to be, but getting nearer, nearer.
Cold weather - still out in woolly hat, mittens and umpteen layers of clothing for my daily walks. Sullen grey skies. When the sun gets a look in it does warm up, for a while.
Drawing - been doing some.
Writing - been doing some.
A deepening understanding that everything is included. Everything internal and external. The sullen skies and the struggle with waiting, the writing and the drawing, the awful moods of loss and yearning, anxiety and unsafety, and hypochondriacal tendencies, and the times of joy in small everyday aspects of my life. Acceptance of it all. Nothing that has to be got rid of or avoided. All can take their place at the great table of my life.
2 comments:
And don't forget the funny, amorphous people who read your blog and feel the same way that you do. We will probably never meet, but we face the same problems and feel the same anxieties, sadness, and joy. Small rivulets of cosmic glue holding us all on the spinning mud ball as we go 'round and 'round the universe.
Well said, Mrs. Spalpthing.
I can't add to this wise comment. Thinking of you. It will grow lighter, warmer soon.
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