A (Open) Letter to My Dearest Mama by Rudy de Leon Dinglas
(Photo is Rudy's Mama)
I cannot believe that it is almost one year to the day when I last physically held you and heard your beautiful voice, my dearest Mama. I can still imagine every curve of your face, your sweet soothing voice, that soft hair of yours. Your sweet scent is still a reminder of a classy woman of no equal.
These past few days and weeks, I have noticed a change in my body - lethargic and lacking the vibrancy of life. I have come to acknowledge that it is the grief, the trauma, manifesting itself physically, draining me emotionally. I knew that it would hit me. Especially with your upcoming anniversary. What I didn’t know, however, was that it would hit me THIS HARD.
To others, I may seem to get along fine. Going about my business - working, traveling, school work, a calendar filled with activities and social events. What most won’t understand is beneath the facade of a smile and a forced chuckle, I am clawing to get out of bed these past few mornings. Each step requiring the utmost in silent, self-motivation to keep going and keep from stopping. But I must. We all must, at some point, stop.
To weep. To grieve. To remember and to love.
Because grief is REAL. And it hurts. If we don’t allow grief the space necessary for us to go through it, it can only get worse. Like a gnawing parasite, eating away at the soul. There truly is no going around grief. Go through, we must, for it is the price we pay for loving. A life so deeply loved. And my dearest Mama, how I deeply love you, even more now when I only get to see you in my dreams.
Truly, grief and love are intertwined. We don’t get just one without the other.
So this week, more than ever, I must take care of myself. To take care of your memories, and to take care of your legacy, I must also take care of myself. To keep you and to honor you, I must take care of myself. To grieve, I must, as my love for you will never die.
The Japanese have this tradition of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage. It is called kintsukuroi. Filling it with lacquer. Dusting it with flecks of gold. The Japanese philosophy of treating breakage as part of that object’s history - strengthened, celebrated, and displayed.
Grief has broken me, my dearest Mama.This year, I have walked among the darkest of shadows, and felt the most immense of pains. I have felt and continue to feel the sharp edges of grief. Yet with my prayers to heaven, and with you, my angel soaring so high, I’ve held so many blessings and found joy when I thought of it no more.
Though broken and battered, I have constantly been reminded that His grace truly is enough. But then again, you already know that - because of the countless gifts you left me, faith unwavering seeps through my very veins.
So, much like in the Japanese tradition of kintsukuroi, though I know that I will at times feel broken and cracked, I know that your light will shine through me. Finding strength when battered. Finding wholeness when broken. You are my lacquer and my gold. Each scar I possess, a portrait of strength and of love. Glowing. Just like you always have.
I love you, forever and for always.
RD
About the Author------------
Rudy Dinglas is from Harford County, Maryland who is devoted to the field of public policy and administration. He is currently pursuing his doctorate degree in public policy while serving as a subject matter expert in public management and administration at the Johns Hopkins Center for Government Excellence. He advises and guides government practitioners in various fields across the US to enhance government operations through data and performance management.
