Call Me Irresponsible

It's the one-year anniversary of my mom's death. Plus, a note about pausing paid subscriptions.

Walking into Lorenzo’s house felt like walking into a college crash pad, but in place of beer cans were candles littering every surface; instead of freshly lit bongs there were fragrant dishes of incense and sage; where Grateful Dead posters should be, there were mandala blankets. In other words: Lorenzo is a vibe.

In the year since my mother, my North Star, died from complications of a cardiac arrhythmia, I have been on a quest to find her, and this new version of myself, at all costs. I’ve dabbled in EMDR and hypnotherapy; I’m on antidepressants and herbal supplements; I’ve seen four psychic mediums so far (with no plan of stopping), my most recent one being Lorenzo.

Unlike the other psychics I’ve seen, I saw Lorenzo in person. Perhaps it was this intimacy—seeing behind the actual curtain—that made me particularly skeptical. During our session, I caught myself drawing inward. I tried to unclench my jaw, to hide from Lorenzo that I wasn’t buying what he was selling. I reminded myself that if I wasn’t “open” to the experience, then I certainly wouldn’t benefit. I dropped my crossed arms and relaxed my shoulders.

Like all my sessions, there were nuggets of intrigue that made me reconsider my skepticism. He was the second medium to ask, “Who’s Mary?” And continued, just like the last psychic, to explain that my mother was thankful to my mother in law, Mary Kay, for all she’d done in my mother’s absence.

“She’s really stepped up,” Lorenzo said. “Your mother is saying ‘thank you’—she appreciates all that Mary Kay has done for you and the kids.”

He asked me about the “blue elephants,” which was funny since my stepmother-in-law had recently quilted my son a blanket with a giant blue elephant on it; plus, when I asked how my mother “showed up” for my children, other psychics had fumbled through descriptions of knitted blankets, of which my mother was fond of making.

Even still, I let logic guide me. Mary! I guffawed. Mary is a common name! Elephants! Blue elephants are everywhere on children’s apparel!

But it wasn’t until he said, “Your mother said to keep painting the butterflies,” that I choked up.

A few years ago, my friend, Courtney, bought me a session to discover my soul animal. It’s a monarch butterfly, which moved me because my mother always referred to me as her butterfly, lighting here and there, flitting about, never content to stay for too long in one place.

While she referred to me as a “free spirit,” and said I always “beat to my own drum,” we all knew that I was the irresponsible one. Unlike my brother, the first-born and most focused, I had a reputation for having a short attention span, for being cavalier with people’s feelings; I was the one who moved to New York City at 22 to be a dancer, the one who made snap judgements and dramatic, last-minute decisions. But as mad as they made her, my mother still spoke of these traits endearingly.

A comic strip my mom cut out for me and had professionally framed.

I was excited to tell mom about my “soul animal,” and she clearly moved as well, because she commissioned one of my best friends,

Helen Dealtry

, to paint a couple of custom butterflies for me and my daughter. Mom gifted these to me December 2023. She’d planned to have them framed when she was in town for my son’s birth early 2024, but she died before she could get to the frame shop.

In my grief, I kept the butterfly paintings propped up in my office. They were simply another reminder of a life stalled. The crumpled-up clothes in her suitcase, the still-wrapped Valentine’s gifts she’d planned to give my daughter, her toiletries nestled in their dopp kit—so many of my mother’s things were still here, in my home, but she was not.

Then my husband surprised me by having them custom framed. Now we have our butterfly paintings both displayed in our home—one in our living room and one hung on the wall next to my daughter’s bed.

The night before I went to see Lorenzo, my daughter and I had one of those random, but frequent conversations about my mother—I take every opportunity to tell her how much Sitti loved her, and remind her which toys, stuffies, and pieces of artwork my mother lovingly chose for her. In bed, the conversation turned to the sparkling lavender and pink butterfly by Helen.

“This is my Sitti butterfly,” my daughter said, and we agreed that it was a great idea to think of Sitti when she looked at that butterfly.

Lorenzo noticed my shock when he mentioned the butterflies. “Does that mean anything to you?” he asked. I explained. And while I didn’t take the phrase literally, as I have not been the one painting any butterflies, I did wonder if there was something to it.

I know at times I drove my mother nuts, but still she’d lovingly tease me about my stubborn nature, doggedness to do everything on my own, my inability to sit still, or tendency to grow bored with the the slightest routine. My mother loved me just as I am, as I’d always been, and though sometimes it made her life hell, she never tried to change me. She relished me for being entirely me. In fact, she encouraged it.

Today is the one-year anniversary of her death, and it still feels as though I’m swimming through murky water—as if I’m waiting for the darkness to clear. Beyond the muck, will I find her? Myself? Contentment to live in a world without her? I don’t think so.

I took the day off work and intended to use a gift card to a local spa. I was going to be quiet, reflect on my mother’s life, and maybe do some writing.

But that just didn’t feel grand enough. No, it wasn’t irresponsible enough. Sure, my mom would love knowing I booked myself a spa day, but you know what she’d expect from me? Something with a bit more flair.

So I booked a last-minute flight to New York City, the only other home I’ve ever really known besides Mississippi, and made an appointment for my “mom” tattoo: A tablescape of what my mom ate for breakfast every morning. A mug of Bigelow Green Tea with Lemon in the “Mum” mug I bought for her when we were in London together; one Eggo waffle with peanut butter set on a folded-up paper towel.

My mom doesn’t love tattoos, but she loves me. And as times moves on without her, I realize that my mother was my great love. Maybe not the one and only, but beyond my children, she is the one I have loved most fiercely. She is the explosive, all-encompassing, most elaborate love of my life. And great love deserves grand gestures. I don’t need a psychic to tell me that.

---

Housekeeping: I’m Pausing Paid Subscriptions For Now

Don’t worry, BLURT isn’t going anywhere. But I’m pausing paid subscriptions for now. When I set up a paywall, I did so with the intention of eventually offering paid subscribers additional content. I was writing this newsletter so consistently, that, as a professional writer, it did not feel out of line to ask those willing and able to contribute. But the cadence of this newsletter has changed (for now).

I’m working more than ever. When I am writing outside of my full-time job, I’m focusing on writing and workshopping chapters for my book so that I could begin querying agents. I’m putting together a proposal and researching representation. I’m writing newsletters with less consistency, and it only seems right that, if you’re paying for a newsletter, you should actually receive something.

I hope you’ll all stick around as free subscribers, and I hope in the future I have lots of exciting news about where you can read more of my work. I can’t explain to you how much it means that you’ve agreed to let me into your inbox, and that you’re not afraid to read about grief and love and hope and parenthood and the messy dichotomy of life.

Thanks for everything.