Gathering the Pieces
“Oranges”, Oil on Canvasboard 18 x 24, 2024 by Helen Ries
Over a lifetime, dozens of people come and go. Some leave barely a trace, while others stay with us, their presence etched into the fabric of who we are.
After many years apart—forty, to be exact—a window opened to visit a childhood friend who had moved thousands of miles away after elementary school.
View of the islands and the sea below. Photo credit Helen Ries
I thought of her often over the years. Initially, we made an effort to keep in touch until we each got swept up in the demands of our teenage and adult lives.
A few years ago, my mother died. Her passing came as a shock. Perhaps others feel this way when a parent dies suddenly, I felt she left without a chance for me to say goodbye or to gather all the puzzle pieces that make up my history and our family’s history. I now realize I need these pieces in order to complete the picture of who I was, who I am, and where I am supposed to go.
“I am afraid of failing so I set high expectations for myself, for my brother, and for the life he should have under my care.”
A complete picture has felt especially important since my mother’s passing meant I became the full-time caregiver for my disabled brother. Being a caregiver is a complicated and often isolating journey, one where what I want for my life doesn’t often align with what I need to do.
I am afraid of failing so I have set high expectations for myself, for my brother, and for the life he should have under my care. Nothing is ever good enough. These expectations compound the pressure of an already difficult experience. There is little reprieve as a caregiver; I’m always on high alert, waiting for something to go wrong, and constantly on call to offer love, support, and guidance—even when my own batteries have run dry. In my mother’s absence, I realized that I lack the understanding and the key parts of the story that could help me navigate this role with more clarity and ease—for both my brother’s sake and my own. She held those pieces, and now, with her gone, I am left to find them on my own.
I stepped off the plane in the unfamiliar heat of the tropics and into the warm welcome of my childhood friend and her family. It was familiar and strange all at the same time, our lives had diverged but remained tethered by an invisible thread.
For most of my stay, I would be at her mother’s house—a beautiful home surrounded by hibiscus, sarsaparilla, and star fruit trees. Her mother seemed not to have changed. She moved with quiet efficiency around her kitchen, ensuring that I ate, ate again, and ate once more. It was just as she had done when I was a child. My mother and my friend’s mother had also been bonded by their shared experience of the British education system and their careers in nursing. Their connection, like ours, had faded over time and with the miles between them.
My friend’s mother is deeply spiritual, and of course, wise from her years. In her presence I felt peace. During our time together, I shared stories of my life, including the difficult role of caregiver I had taken on. Some memories of my mother bubbled up during our conversations, and I loved hearing them. I found myself searching her words for pieces of the puzzle that I felt were missing.
One day we sat on a bench by the sea, talking.
Benches by the sea. Photo credit Helen Ries
By then, she had a good understanding of my struggle. As we were preparing to go back inside, she placed her hand gently on my arm and said, "You need to make room for imperfection."
Those words were a gift. I think they were one of the pieces I had been seeking—a guide for how I could continue to navigate this complex journey and find some relief. I felt lighter, as if something had shifted inside me.
I now see that not all the pieces of the puzzle are buried with my mother. They are held by different people in different places. It is up to me to take the time to gather them and use them to guide me on my journey..
