This House of Love

Reflection, not Resolution

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So often we begin each new year with a laundry list of resolutions: lose weight, gain funds, eat less, exercise more, etc. And it’s a widespread joke that by February these steadfast decisions become nothing but empty promises and proof of failure. 

Ironically enough though, resolution actually means “a firm decision to do or not do something.” It can also mean “the action of solving a problem.” In other words, we start each new trip around the sun ruminating on the previous year’s failures and binding ourselves to start fixing them as of the very first day of the year. No wonder why we all screw up. It’s too much pressure. If it was all that easy to fix our shortcomings don’t you think we’d change without resolving to do so? 

So, here’s my proposal: forget resolutions. Instead, let us reflect. What can we learn from 2017? Think back on the past year, revel in its joys and garner strength from their positivity. Then consider the downfalls, because there are even more lessons to be drawn from those. Let us reflect, learn from our past, and then move on, because it is our responsibility to live in the moment as much as possible. The present is the surest thing we have, and it is painfully fleeting. 

An Open Letter to my Deceased Mother

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Dear Mom,

Our New Year is a time for reflection, which naturally leads me to think of you. But this specific holiday always proves to be doubly difficult; all special occasions are a little less joyous without you, but this exact day marks the seventh “anniversary” of your death.

I’m in utter disbelief that it’s been seven years since we’ve last spoken, hugged, or laughed with each other. When I was little, I couldn’t have imagined experiencing any of life’s surprises without you. Seven years ago, my biggest concern was whether I wanted to walk at my college graduation or not. Then you were killed and the moments I had mapped out in my head dissolved in an instant. My feet, once firmly planted on the ground, were quickly swept out from under me.

The last seven years have passed through my fingers like grains of sand. I met the love my life, and you weren’t there to give me your blessing. I got married, but you weren’t there to walk me down the aisle. I was pregnant, and you weren’t there to assuage my fears. I gave birth, but you weren’t there to cheer me on in the delivery room. I have yet to see you hold my daughter, be proud of me for a recent job well done, or even harp on me for having so many cats. Life has seemed rather lackluster because my personal cheering section is missing its loudest fan.

This seems to be the hardest part of losing a parent. I once lived my life wanting to make you proud and happy. I wanted to show you the fruits of your labor, to prove to you that you had accomplished greatness via my undertakings, too. But with you gone, I often find myself feeling lost, as I imagine many people who have experienced loss do.

But I know you, and the last thing you would want me to do is ruminate on the proverbial glass being half empty. Instead, you would be spouting wisdom and words of advice that could soothe any soul. You were a teacher through and through; I learned so much from you in the twenty-two short years I was given with you. But, this Rosh Hashanah I take time to reflect upon the much richer, more valuable lessons that I gained from your absence:

I’ve learned that everything is an opportunity for growth. I’ve learned that life is far too short to live it with anything but love in your heart. I’ve learned that worrying about life will do two things: 1) give me wrinkles, and 2) preoccupy me when I should be enjoying this crazy ride. But most importantly, even though I may feel an absence so painful my heart literally quivers, I’ve learned that you will never truly be gone. Every time I think of you, I am enabling you to live on. Each time I tell my daughter a story about you or share with her how much I love you, you’re persisting.

I wish I could give you a big hug and tell you, “I love you,” but instead I’ll share with Charlotte all the ways you have changed my life. Hence, you will change her life and every generation to come. I will continue to share this with her on a daily basis. And then I’ll never really have to say “Goodbye.” In its place I’ll be sending you a big, fat “Thank you.”

Love forever & always with all of my heart,

Amy Chesler

(your daughter)

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