A friend told me I'd begin to find some peace once the "big anniversary" passed. I didn't believe her, but thanked her for the words of encouragement. I read, just yesterday, an article in one of the fashion mags--I was getting my haircut--written by a young woman in her thirties, who had lost both her parents and what that's like around the holidays. She used the word freedom several times throughout her article, which was full of loving remembrances and some tear-jerking reminiscences (sp).

These two words, peace and freedom, have stuck with me, rumbling around in my head, my heart, trying to see if they have a home. I don't know, yet. But I can tell you it's an intriguing idea.

I went about my life, keeping busy, staying in the moment with my students...even enjoying an actual evening with my husband: Indian food and a Wallace and Gromet movie (The Curse of the Were-Rabbit).  But these little words kept popping back up in my mind, immediately to be followed by a shushing of my consciousness; those words, those feelings are not for you.  A week or so passed, and I had a little time for reflection, thinking back on the short time since the first anniversary of my father's death.  Can I have peace? Have I freedom in my life without my parents? Wow. This doesn't seem possible. But in fact,  it's happening. In little pieces and moments.

I am inhaling more deeply, yes, and more often.  I am eating now, a little bit, every day. I'm still losing weight but I am working on this with my therapist.  It was just recently that I went out with K to a screening of a documentary I was in --about a performance in which I sang the European premiere of a Holocaust Oratorio.  I have been cutting my hair shorter and shorter each time I visit my stylist, and now have a real pixie cut. More recently, I've been sleeping in my bedroom after having it cleaned out. (I even bought new bedding!) All of my clothes are new--not expensive, but new. Everything that I had in my closet while my father was alive is gone, except for my gowns.

It's troubling that I see these things as huge changes in my life, picking through each one with an analytical eye, checking the significance of each against the words peace and freedom.


There are measures of each word in my recent actions and evolution.  I love my cropped hair and pierced nose. I LOVE sleeping in my bedroom, after sleeping on the couch for a year. I do feel some peace every day and I smile a little more at home. (At school it still feels like the dog-and-pony show). I talk about my father in classes, when applicable, or when the mood strikes me.   I mean, I didn't need anyone's permission to cut my hair, or pierce my nose, or doing a thorough cleanse of old clothes. I haven't felt peaceful starving myself with a scary lack of appetite. I don't necessarily feel more peaceful eating a little bit at dinner.

Someday, I"ll start cooking again, and maybe even going out. God, I hope so. I want laughter back in my life, but all I seem to get are memories of myself laughing.  Hearing my father's laugh makes me cry. I can't believe I didn't say goodbye to my mother while she was alive.

Though all of this is true,  I have moments of peace, and I recognize them because they pop out of my day's Jack-in-the-box. Freedom, though, is a mystery. I've always felt like a free spirit, but honestly, I have always felt tethered to my father's opinion of me. This has served me well, so no complaints there. And there are the inevitable "what would dad do?" moments. I think about this, and sometimes I take a different direction. Like, maybe a career change,  or buying a beautiful piece of jewelry. Or stepping out in baggy pants and a huge sweater.  Big. Small. Changes. Evolutions. Peace. Freedom.

I am Becoming. A woman, a grown up, at 45.