In another incarnation, I performed history programs for a living. I called it Travels through Time. Sometimes I enticed my daughter, Ashley, to accompany me. One of our joint ventures had me in mourning, entreating listeners to foreswear the demon rum, and Sign the Pledge. Her part was singing an old song, "My Father was a Drunkard" --- a plaintive little piece to drum up sympathy and temperance sentiment.
It has been one month ago today since my mother died, and I've been thinking about mourning. During my living history days, I developed a program to take into schools that taught kids about death and mourning in the Victorian period. It was always of great interest, and I have to admit I liked doing the research for it.
Mourning is no longer in style. While the formalized rituals from 150 years ago wouldn't work well today, I do wonder if we're not missing something. Death, in that era, was not hidden away in hospitals and nursing homes. It was acknowledged as a matter of course, an all too common occurrence in homes and workplaces.
I have spent the last month being rather quiet and slow. It is an intentional withdrawl from society. Victorian widows withdrew completely for a year after their husbands died. That was deep mourning. The entire mourning period for widowed women was four years, with variation in dress and activities to mark a gradual emergence back into society. For other relationships, the formalized mourning practices were less stringent, but no less ritualistic. (For more information about mourning dress check here.)
Obviously, not everyone followed those dictates. Not everyone was able to, or could afford to. But the underlying expectation was that a period of mourning was valued and respected. It was not expected that life would proceed immediately as though the deceased was simply erased without a trace, within a week's time. It sometimes feels that way now.
I decided to follow my own path, let the process unfold as it will without either pushing or prolonging. I wanted to see what it feels like. Almost unconsciously, I mark the days --- Mondays have crept up on me each week without my knowing it until I realize that another week has gone by. Each Monday brings its own thoughts and emotional pitfalls.
I knew from prior experience that the first couple of weeks were likely to be marked by difficulty with concentration, periods of inattention, lapses into sadness or memories. It was only after 2 weeks went by and I was still sometimes wandering around the house not sure what to do next, that I knew I must set expectation aside. No time limit, I was told. I shouldn't impose one on myself.
So today is one month by the calendar. I have to attend to some business. I must get organized, so I made a folder and a log. I've looked online and talked to people for guidance. I've made some necessary calls, as the executor of her will. Each day, more of the outside world intrudes on my reverie and beckons me back into "real life" ----- a life that still feels prickly and otherworldly without my mother.
I don't want to be some sort of neo-Victorian tragic figure. That's not my intention at all. What I continue to do is wend my way through the netherworld of life and death, the mystery of the smallest details of life and the enormity of loss. And all the while, I do my best to stay conscious.
