“I love you too,” Mom whispered.

“I love you three and four,” I responded, watching a smile and small chuckle wash over her face. It was the last smile I would see.

But even if she slipped the surly bonds of earth and crossed the sky on rainbow-colored wings, she made sure that her messages of comfort would continue… unexplainable messages that I quietly offer to all of us who believe life is indeed a continuum.

Throughout her last days and nights, I’d give her tiny kisses pressed in her sunken cheek or across her now unlined forehead.

“Butterfly kisses, Mamacita.  Get rid of this cocoon. Go fly. You’re a butterfly among all the flowers of heaven.”

Indeed, flying was Mom’s passion from her days as a WWII Women’s Air Force Service Pilot-WASP.

The morning Mom died, I stepped outside Aegis Assisted Living to answer my cell phone. Talking to my assistant Bonnie, I suddenly glanced up.  A gorgeous Monarch butterfly was practicing touch-and-go landings on the flowers!

“Bonnie, a butterfly!”

She quickly responded. “The native Americans believed that the butterfly is a sign from a soul.  Now watch for coins at your feet.”

I never understood the significance of coins but then again, I had never heard about the butterfly.

Later that day, when we’ve cleaned out her room, my twin brother and I finally go home, numb and heavy hearted yet grateful for our Mom’s amazing life and love for us. We want nothing more than to walk down to the beach in the brilliant California sunshine.

As we near the bluff top overlooking the Pacific, my eyes sweep downward:  a quarter!  I’ve walked this path for 32 years and never seen even a penny.

“John, look!”  I held the quarter up to the sky and said, “Ok, Mama—how about two whales?”

Yes, my friends. Just as John and I reached the bluff to gaze across this expanse of blue, two gray whales spouted on their journey south to San Ignacio Lagoon in the Baja..  While it is the season for migrating whales, it has been years since I have seen any during my constant beach runs.

Mom started off my January reminding me that life is nothing if not a daring adventure. ***  Now, she tells me to pay attention, to watch with eyes of wonder and mystery.

L’Chaim. To life.

Change can be disruptive at best and life changing at worst.  If you need help coping with change you might find the article by Dr. Frisch helpful.

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Would love to know what you think.

Yesterday morning, she would not open her eyes or acknowledge I was there. But in the afternoon, when I returned to see her before heading out of town, her little blue eyes were bright and she said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat. I’ll buy!”

“Wow, Mom. OK, what would you like?”

“Food. To get out of here.”

“Ok. Mom. I am on it.”

I asked our care manager to get the print menu from the assisted living dining room. Mom is totally paralyzed on her left side and unless I had a van with a wheel chair lift, mom was going nowhere.  The benefit of Alzheimer’s is that she can’t remember any of this.

“So, Mom, while we are waiting for a menu, let me tell you about where I am going.”

She snuggled down, closed her eyes and listened as I described The Center for Spiritual Renewal in Santa Barbara and the old house where I would retreat for a few days. She then blurted out, “OK. I’ll go with you. Let’s have an adventure. Let’s be daring.”

I blinked hard to keep tears from spilling down my face. Indeed, this is the legacy that Mom always intended to leave us: to have an adventure; to be daring. It’s what called her to medical school when there were only 3 other women, it’s what called her to hop in a plane and fly with the Women’s Air Force Service Pilots in WWII. It’s the same daring that could turn the howling wind of a hurricane into an adventure as we gathered in the center of the house, far away from the picture windows and told stories by candlelight. It’s the same daring that helped her pick up the remnants of her life and re-enter the job market in her mid 50s.

“Mom, how about a peanut butter and jelly? Or some ham/bean soup that my Bill made?”

“Do you know where the restaurant is?” she asked.

“I do, Mom. Let’s get some clothes on you and into your chair. We’ll head out to the Bistro.”

When we went through the locked doors, it didn’t register to Mom that we had not left the building but rather gone over to an alcove with 3 tables and a little bar-type setting.

“Great,” said Mom, “We’re at the bar.”

She looked around and marveled that there were no people in the “restaurant”. She didn’t hesitate or question the two teaspoons she ate of Bill’s soup or the tiny bite of peanut butter and strawberry jelly on toast.

“Mom, thanks for taking me to lunch. Shall we split some ice cream for dessert? Susan will be along shortly and join us.”

Our wonderful care manager had made vanilla ice cream appear as if by magic and Mom ate a few spoons with relish.  My sister Susan was coming to take my place so I could leave. I had called her and gave her a heads up that we were “dining out”.

Susan appeared as if on cue and reached down to hug Mom.

“Do you have my wallet?” asked Mom.

“Indeed, I do, Mom. I will pay the hostess when I go out. Thanks again for lunch, Mom. It was great!”

I left Mom happily looking at Susan and offering her ice cream with her one good hand. It was great. It was grand. For her, getting out of bed and eating was daring—even if she didn’t know it.

She’s back down again now. YoYoMa. Yet she also gave me my new year’s direction: Be daring. Have an adventure.

This is my 16th year to begin my silence with this hike.  In 1996 I started the hike because I was terrified to do it. Now I do it to prove to myself that I still can! Each year, it offers new challenges. The first hour is beside San Ysidro creek, the path stays pretty wide and the walk uphill has few boulders. But it’s cool under the shelter of coastal oaks. However, turn away from the creek and the trail narrows into steep switchbacks. This has to be the hottest January on record. A blazing sun sears my jeans and jean shirt. I yearn for shorts and a lighter weight top. My legs feel heavier with each steps. My head pounds. What lessons will the mountain offer today?

I come away with three:

1. To reach any goal, it always takes longer than you think it should. I swear each year they move the mountain top. My pace is better than in early years but my legs ache. But I am determined to reach the top.  Just like I am determined to write the next book, to create new programs, to clean my office. You know the drill. I must build in extra time because it will always take longer.

2. Most people turn back when the “heat” is on. I realize that the only people I encounter are stopped at the upper most waterfall that because of a pitiful rainy season, is nothing more than a trickle. They miss the panorama of a Pacific ocean, flat and glassy, the Santa Barbara skyline and Ventura to the South. I was not prepared for the heat. There’s a lesson right there!

3. Keep your eye on the right mountain. I almost turn back. I am so hot and aching. The ridge line seems so far away. Two more switchbacks and I realize I have been staring at the wrong peak.  Might be someone else’s goal but it is not mine. Wow. Where am I trying to climb someone else’s mountain and not mine?

So now, showered and tired, I will allow myself the luxury of a nap. A reward. What will you do to reward yourself this year when you climb your mountain?

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