I guess the best
way I can describe her is a little like this:
Mamma B is like that great character from a favorite book that you wish
you could meet. I’m fortunate. I have met her many, many times over several
years. Probably meet her again before
the week is out. And I guess I could
have written about Mamma B at any time.
She has always been a story that “I’ll get around to writing.” But grief struck us all pretty hard. And when grief strikes the Mamma B’s out
there tend to shine straight into the dark.
Grief, true grief,
sometimes brings a brand of long term horror that puts all movies to
shame. How we deal can get pretty
complicated. Some sob. Some deny.
Some laugh with a haunting sense of fear. Others go vacant inside for long stretches of
time. Burying yourself in your
work. That’s another common one. Me? I
jot stuff down. So, here I am. A few kind friends over the years have told
me it’s a talent. But, it has always
felt to be more of a nervous tick. Each
page is like clearing my throat or cracking my knuckles. So, that’s what I’m doing here. And Mamma B?
She takes care of people.
B runs the dance
center that my daughters have danced at for years. My seventeen year old grew up with B as a
permanent part of her childhood’s backdrop.
My thirteen year old is finishing up her career with B, ready to tackle
the dance world in a bigger and broader way.
And my eight year old is entrenched in “B-dom,” a fierce competitor on a
team there.
About a month ago,
a young vibrant seven year old, so full of the best kinds of hope and love that
a seven year old offers to the world died, before ever getting to compete for
her first time. Shortly before going on
stage, she suffered a severe asthma attack and never came back. That’s horror. That’s the deepest ends of grief. When you wait for your child to take the
stage, you worry about their costume and the hair piece staying in place. You worry about their moves and scores. No one contemplates life and death. The moment gives absolutely no one even a
second to brace themselves. And it
crushes everyone in its path. The grief
takes over barely giving anyone a chance to feel the shock. Straight to grief. Straight to permanence.
What to do
now? At the dance studio, B and the
teachers decide to hold a pizza party that week. It was a promise from a week or so earlier. If Raniyah kept her toes pointed in practice,
they would have a pizza party. Raniyah
isn’t with us, but we have the pizza party anyway. A deal is a deal. Mamma B brings in grief counselors to talk
with the kids. We have a balloon ceremony
with about a hundred young girls. Each
kid writes a message to our fallen dancer.
The older girls help the younger ones.
This part is common. The sense of
family that B sends out is well received by the girls and the older ones always
look out for the younger ones. It’s a
room chock full of role models. These
messages are tied to pink balloons and the few hundred people that attend, go
out to the back parking lot to release the balloons upward. Heaven bound.
Mamma B says a few
words. She laughs. Then she cries. Then she laughs about crying in public. Over the years, I have sometimes been a
little jealous of B. I wish I had her
healthy and free range of emotion. She
instantly makes your feelings validated and permissible. So seamlessly you are immediately put at
ease. It never fails. She manages to make anxious kids comfortable
in their own skin. It’s no easy task for
most of us. Today is par for the course. But today it is deeply appreciated and
pronounced.
Prayers are
spoken. Tears are spilled. And balloons take flight. Honestly I’m not sure how long I stand at the
back of the building watching small pink balloons completely disappear, but it
seems like quite a while. I am actually
surprised when I can no longer make out the balloons in the sky. Much like people. We all know that we are all in the process of
disappearing, and we are all shocked whenever it happens.
We eat pizza. Kids sit on the dance floor in small groups
with counselors. And like it is with all
close communities, the familiar patterns of jokes and conversations kick
in. For a fleeting second, here and
there, you forget why you’re at the studio that night. And then someone remembers, and a deep sob
will erupt. It goes like this for a
while.
There is sheer
beauty and elegance to forgiveness. Such
a great form of love. Maybe moments of
horror like this give you the opportunity to forgive God or nature or the whole
world for all the unsuspecting moments of sorrow that collide and collapse
around us every day. The ultimate state
of grace. The ultimate act of faith when
one continues on and treasures the memories.
Not sure. Don’t quote me. I don’t pretend to have much of anything
sorted out, especially this. Like I
said, I’m just jotting stuff down. And
Mamma B? She is taking care of folks, and
shining some light where she can. So, I
think I got it wrong earlier. Mamma B
isn’t so much a character from a great book that you wished you knew. B is a blessing. Grander than any book. And stronger than any darkness. Belinda, thank you for the blessings over the
years. Thanks for always being who you
are. See you later this week.
If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.
