My Voice has Never been Loud

I started writing a eulogy for you, but I couldn’t see your face; I couldn’t find the words to express all the things you meant to me. When you were alive I talked to you almost every day. You were my mother and the most important person in my life. Why weren’t the words just falling out of me? I could not speak at your funeral. 

I was completely numb.

My mother’s death was sudden. A complete shock. My grief overtook me. The pain was immeasurable. In the months that followed, I leaned into my deeply rooted spiritual connection with nature to heal. I have always had a love affair with nature; it has been my refuge on numerous occasions. It’s in this space that I can surrender, but the loss of my mother was the hardest thing that had ever happened to me. When she died, I hiked all the time. Sometimes with others, but mostly by myself. Some days it was so hard to get out of bed. I was in massage school at the time, and the owner of the school said I didn’t have to come back right away–they would work with me. But, I didn’t want to take time off. If I did, I feared I would never finish. 

So everyday I would tell myself:

 If you don’t join in on this day, it will pass you by. 

The world hasn’t stopped. 

The sun still shines, the days continue, whether you are a part of them or not. So here are your choices: join in, live life, or stay in bed and let it pass you by.

I began a ritual: get up, get dressed and go outside for a walk; then, go to school. It was a conscious choice.

I found an emotional freedom in the trees. My ability to express my emotions without guilt, without judgment. I stopped resisting the pain and began to embrace it. My body was talking to me, and I started to listen. Feeling into the emotions, rather than stuffing them down, meant being vulnerable, crying when I was sad, even if it was “not the right time.” Pausing and being present with my grief, meant that whatever emotional rollercoaster was in front of me, I was going to ride it because I knew healing was going to happen from the inside out, not the other way around.

Over the years, I have found clarity with my thoughts and my voice concerning my mother’s death. She is always on my mind, and I talk to her through the trees, the birds, the mountains–I am able to put it all out there, in the presence of my community, my supporters, my beloved outdoors. 

This year, on the winter solstice and the anniversary of my mother’s fall, I spoke to her. I hiked in one of my favorite spots, and I spoke to her in Dutch… and English because my Dutch is not very good, but I didn’t care. Who would hear me anyway? Highly unlikely the trees would judge me or that I would run into another Dutch person on the trail that would correct me. I told her about all the things I had been doing, all the connections I had been making. I told her about how much she meant to me, and how much I love and miss her. 

It has not been easy to lose my mother. She was a significant person in my life. I have thought a lot about what I might have said at her funeral all those years ago. 

The words that would honor my memory of her, the words that were once illusive to me.

I am thankful to have found peace in nature, and even though the words escaped me then, they do not escape me now. I have always wished I would have finished her eulogy. I have always wanted to express the warm, funny, loving human being she was and what a wonderful life she had and how many people she made smile. 

My voice is still not very loud, but finding my voice through writing, allows me to express my memories of her. In honor of my mother, I’d like to share a piece of her here. 

My mother was born in Holland in 1941. She was one of 11 children. She is known by several names, but most people knew her by her first name, Joanna, or her nickname, Hennie.

My mother was a character, making jokes and light of all situations as often as possible. Sharing her unique napkin skills at dinners, as she carefully crafted bras through a series of folds. She had been known to use any regular household items and have fun, like the time we threatened to clip her cockatiel Rosey’s very long toenails with a hacksaw, protective goggles, hammer, leather gloves and hard hats of course.

My very favorite was the story she would tell about traveling back to Holland with three of her sisters; they were flying together on the prestigious KLM flight. My aunts were going on and on about how classy everything was, and they were determined to be on their best behavior. In her usual joking character, my mother excused herself to use the water closet. When she returned to her seat, she exclaimed, “Look at how elegant this flight is! They even give you these beautiful napkins in the bathroom!” Mortified, two of her sisters begged her to take off the toilet seat cover that my mother proudly displayed around her neck, while the other laughed and laughed, knowing what a jokester my mother was. Her light hearted humor, constantly entertaining us, is the thing I miss most.

Mijn lieve moeder.

Ik mis je.

Ik hou van jou.