Hello good friends.
Many of you will have heard by now that my mother died last Friday, Oct. 24. Her funeral is Monday, Nov. 3, in West Virginia.
I don't think I can begin to express the depths of my appreciation to everyone who has written or called to express condolences, but I will try to thank you all individually.
Is it crass to notify people via blogger and Facebook? Maybe, but since that's where so many of my closest, dearest friends (some of whom I've never met) "live," that's where I chose to tell people.
Meanwhile, there is much family drama. Which, if you know anything about my family, you would expect. So far it's been at turns exceptionally painful, sad, hilarious, trying, infuriating, enraging, and so ridiculous that I fear no one will ever believe it. (If you ever watched "Six Feet Under," you have some small idea of the funeral home in West Virginia, just for starters. But that's actually one of the better parts to the saga.) I was allowed no role at all in planning her funeral, because of her manipulative control freak husband, and she is not being buried where she wished (hence the title of this post). Believe me, this is the ultimate exercise in letting go and letting God (please pardon the cliche).
I am trying valiantly to keep up some kind of exercise regimen because it is keeping me (somewhat) sane.
I returned to Bethesda this past Monday, went to work, but am taking Friday off to go to the beach with a friend for a day of rest and restorative yoga before traveling back for the funeral.
I KEEP FAITH