I'm Still Here

As I type the date, I realize that it’s been 30 years since my father passed away on a similarly cloudy, dreary November day. 

That death was a transformative moment in my life, my first significant loss. I was, at that time, in the thick of raising three children who were rapidly approaching the teens while I was in my early forties, facing the changes that midlife and beyond do to the female body as we leave childbearing years behind. I felt lost; my grounding source in my family of origin had gone. 

My dad was always the opinionated one, the seeker of knowledge and truth. It shook me up and left me attempting to be the strong one for my mom and my children. I wanted to say the right things and be what I could for others. I remember saying to a fellow teacher that I couldn’t shake the feelings of depression in the weeks after his death, and she said something I would never forget. 

“Your Daddy just died. You are grieving. You are allowed to be sad.” 

That’s it! I was simply a “little girl” inside a grownup body, with her own family, without a daddy. My tears were always just below the surface. It still breaks my heart to think of myself that way. 

My dad was always very opinionated about politics. He usually voted Republican most of the time, but he always played the “Devil’s Advocate,” arguing against almost everything. He once took up a stance for Ralph Nader, a politician who was an environmentalist and concerned with automotive safety. (He ended his career as a salesman for a company that sold bus safety devices.) My father helped me become interested in the government, and we talked about it often, especially during election seasons. He helped me think critically about who was running for office, and his influence often affected my choices. I wish I could talk to him about what’s happening in 2024. I suspect he would have a hard time with the current status quo, but it’s hard to imagine he’d ever vote Democratic. He would be appalled that his party would nominate someone like Donald Trump. But I can only speculate. 

Politics is complicated for families. Let’s face it: the current political situation is challenging for friends, neighbors, and all of us. We must learn to live with people who think differently than we do on both sides. This election was ruthless. I don’t have good feelings about it. I don’t like the flags that tell me” “ F**k your feelings.” either. Some of my neighbors are rejoicing, and they hate me for opposing them. I still have feelings, and I cannot deny them.

There has been a shift in me this week. I’ve always tried to see both sides and stay somewhere in the middle. It’s hard for me today. I cannot stay silent. How can I speak out about my feelings, my depression, my fears,  and my sadness over the results of this election? Can I write my feelings down about the deconstruction of my faith, my dismay about the rapid uncontrolled rise of addiction, my concern for the environment, and my deep love and appreciation for our immigrant friends? I don’t think there’s a way to stay neutral. I own my feelings.

Today, I remember the loss of my father 30 years ago. I would thank him for his influence and knowledge about these things. I am feeling sad as I sit with the memory. I am allowed to do that. I am sad about the election and our divided country. 

Someone said something about “doing good” in our homes, families, and the world. We need to keep doing good whenever and wherever we can., and we will be okay.

This will be my attempt to post things more regularly. I’m not sure where this will lead...

Her Essence Lives: She Still Visits in Dreams

After waking up early one morning this summer, I went to the bathroom and thought about getting up and starting my day. The bed was still there, though, when I returned inviting me back. I crawled in again and a convoluted dream began.

In the dream, I was teaching in a school unfamiliar to me. There, I noticed that particular school smell. The whiff of paper, books, children’s sweat, and cleaning solutions made me feel at home. The sound of children’s voices in the background and the knocking of chairs against the desks welcomed me. I recognized some of the students and parents from my many years of teaching, and I had a sense that I knew them. It was an extraordinary day at school as the PTA(parents' organization) was having a celebration and was delivering gifts to all the students in their homerooms. When they came into my classroom to present the gifts, I was in the middle of a lesson. The students were quiet, well-behaved, and on task. I felt in control and competent. Many visitors were there that day, wandering around and observing. They were older educators who seemed ethereal, almost like angels, familiar to me. As they walked around and interacted with the students, I felt the essence of who they were: teachers from my past who had influenced me over the years, but their names escaped me.

The gifts the PTA delivered were quite generous. Each one received a brand-new suitcase made of sparkly plastic in an array of bright colors and styles. Quite fancy! Each child was so excited to receive one. There was no fighting or arguing about the one they got. I noticed that in the other classrooms and grade levels, the students had received furniture and even an electric fountain. One of the parents asked me if I wanted a fountain for my house as they had an extra one. “Beautiful.”—I told her,  “I will think about it...”

I began to get the students settled again. I wanted to use the suitcases as a part of a lesson, so I had the students lie down on the carpeted floor and close their eyes. I put on some relaxing music and began a visualization exercise as a “pre-writing” activity. I began asking them questions about a future trip they might take.

“Close your eyes and imagine that you are about to embark on a long journey—

Where are you planning to go? 

Who will be with you as you travel? 

What will you place in your new suitcase? Why did you choose what you did? 

What do you plan to do when you arrive? 

Will you be somewhere warm or cold?

Do you have everything you need to do all the things you want to do? 

Did you pack enough clothing for warmth, or perhaps you’ll need a swimsuit and a few 

t-shirts for the heat? Sunscreen—goggles—flip flops?

Did you pack a good book to read or your tablet to play a game?

Do you want to bring a notebook or colors to draw or paint while you’re there?

Do you have a camera or a phone to take pictures? “

As the children continued to relax on the floor, the door to my classroom opened, and in walked my mom—dressed in crisp white slacks, a pale pink blazer with a white top underneath. She was wearing pearls and her clip-on matching earrings. Her white hair was styled short, and her blue eyes sparkled as she looked up and smiled at me, vibrant, alive.

She didn’t approach me but turned and smiled at the class. She walked forward towards one of my angel helpers. They looked at each other like long-lost friends. They embraced each other, and at that moment, I turned back to my teaching. I sensed that I needed to get back to my students and began to move ahead with my lesson. When I turned around again, the angels were gone. Mom was gone too.

Mom passed away almost three years ago and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in a dream. She was so present there. I felt she had been observing me in my job as a teacher. She was a teacher herself for many years. Even though I am retired now, the teacher instincts loom large in my life. She and I always shared the same passion for education. She looked so good in the dream, confident, walking, loving. I felt the warmth of her presence as I woke up. It was as weird and wild as dreams can be, but I’m glad she came to visit me that morning. 

I’m not sure when this note was written to me, but I found it tucked in a journal the day after I’d had this dream. (Enclosed with the note were some sunshine stickers)

Dearest Gail,

It’s almost 10:00 and I haven’t had my cereal, but I’ve had the enclosed things sitting on my table by my coffee and decided to drop you a line—Perhaps you can use the stickers at school for a little sunshine for your students. 

It’s been a busy week but a good one. It’s good to keep busy.

Love you so much!

Mom

 

Who is who? About Gail Mehlan

As the author of Among the Sunflowers: A Memoir of a Mother’s Love for her Son and his Poems of Addiction, Relapse, and Recovery, I want the reader to know so much more about me than just that I am the mother of an addict. I am a person, whole, complex, and complicated. I am still working to find my way in life just like everyone else. I am each of you and none of you. I am strong, but I have sometimes been very weak and frail. As I state in my book, addiction “rocked me to the core” of my being, but it does not define me. It does not define my son, Mike, either. He is also a person on his own journey.

My profession was teaching, and I was good at it. I love children and their confident, uplifting attitudes about life. They smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back and offer them all I had inside me so they would learn. I am still that way with my grandkids now that I’m retired. The teacher in me didn’t end when I retired.

I am a woman who believes that a loving God has always been there for me and my family, even when I couldn’t see him/her or feel their presence. Not everyone comes at a problem from that perspective, but I hope the reader will connect with our story on some level anyway.

I want you to know that I love writing, mostly in my journals, but I love words! My word for the year 2023 was enough. I have written enough about our lives. I am good enough, strong enough, and brave enough to put our book out into the world. I hope our book finds its way into the hands of readers who will relate to it and find a blessing in it. 2024 brings a new word, and I will write more about that later...stay tuned!

 I want you to know that I enjoy beaches and the sound of the waves as I walk along them. I love looking out on the water from our beautiful home and spending time with my husband. I love sunshine, sunrises, sunsets, and, of course, sunflowers. I love books and art, crafting, and scrapbooks. I still love babies and children, too. I love good food and wine and spending time with friends and family. I love the outdoors and have been walking and gardening much better since I got a new knee in 2022.

May you know me through our words, and may our story bless you. 

Gail Mehlan

Our book is available through Amazon and other booksellers.

It is also available from our website directly: GM Creative Sunflower Arts

Why did I write Among the Sunflowers: A Memoir of a Mother’s Love for her son and his poetry of Addiction, Relapse, and Recovery?

~to look closely at my own reactions to addiction

~to understand what I will never understand

~to transform the hard things and to remember the good that was there always

~to help others through my experience, strength, and hope and through an addict’s words

~to share my story, so others who have experienced addiction in their family will  know that they are not alone and neither am I

~to get it out—and hold a book in my hands

~to show my love for my son today and into the future

~to share compassion for addicts as they journey toward healing and life

Among the Sunflowers: A Memoir of a Mother's Love for her Son and his Poems of Addiction, Relapse and Recovery

 

After many years of writing, praying, processing, and rewriting, I have self-published a book! I am both proud and nervous at the same time. Today I present my new book, Among the Sunflowers: A Memoir of a Mother’s Love for her Son and his Poems of Addiction, Relapse, and Recovery. (Retail: $14.99)

This is a book about my family. The story is both painful and uplifting. The writing of this book has been a journey for our entire family. It is extremely personal, but I hope that in sharing, you will gain an understanding of the complex issues surrounding addiction, faith, and love.

Writing from the heart and exploring memories from my journals, I tell the story of my family’s experience with my son’s addiction and mental health. I share glimpses of the realities of life with an adolescent addict and our search for answers, hope, and healing. My son, Michael, adds his own unique perspective through his eloquent poetry and compelling narrative.

This memoir reflects the mother and son's shared experiences on his journey through addiction, recovery, and relapse. It is a story of love, loss, misunderstanding, and hope reflected through narrative and poetry.

 

Addiction is a disease that affects whole families. I believe this story is one of immense faith and love even when there are no answers, and the future remains uncertain.

Already available is the companion book of poetry written by my son, M. M. Mehlan (Mike), called Jolly for NOW? (Retail: $9.99). This is a collection of poetry that inspired much of our book written together. This version is new and revised and contains 14 additional poems that were not included in the original Kindle version. 

Both books are available through Amazon, but I do have limited copies available through my own personal business. 

 

Visit my Square Site if interested in purchasing a book: GM Creative Sunflower Arts

Please email me at g.meh1974@gmail.com  to request a copy(ies). I will respond to your email with additional information.

HOME

 "Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night, and it is not dreamless.

Does not your house dream? and dreaming leave the city for grove or hill-top?

Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound,

but an eyelid that guards the eye."

Kahlil Gibran

Excerpt from On Houses from The Prophet

It was a hot August day when we arrived at our house in Illinois to help our son, Matt, and his family prepare for their move. The time had come. We needed to pack them up, move them out and sell this house. We hadn't lived here for about eight years.

I walked through the door on crutches after unexpectedly twisting and spraining my ankle a few days before and breaking a bone in my foot. I was in a large bulky boot and wouldn't be much help.

As I looked around the house, boxes,  packing paper, plastic bubble wrap, and tape were strewn all around the house; I felt such dread about what was ahead of us. Life was slowly being sucked out of the place as the last few baby toys were packaged up and boxed. I attempted to keep the baby entertained so the other adults could continue packing. My broken foot was a big nuisance, but most of the packing managed to get done anyway. We ordered carryout for dinner and sent my son's wife and two girls off on a plane the next day. Doug and I returned to Indiana, and Matt and his father-in-law drove a loaded truck to an apartment in New York City. They were about to begin a new adventure, life in the city, and a new full-time job. I felt excitement for them and hopes for their future.

A week later, Doug and I returned to the vacant house. It was quiet and dusty--there had been no time for a move-out clean. Without furniture and the children's happy laughter, it was an empty shell. The rooms echoed when we spoke to each other as we glumly looked at all the things left for us to deal with. Most of it was ours, items we had left when we moved to Indiana, thinking we would return and take care of things. But we never did. Items from Doug's physical therapy practice that he had closed down in 2012, paperwork in boxes from years of tax returns, and patient records lined the walls of the small office in the basement. Boxes. There were boxes everywhere. The entire office was full. Completely. I looked around with dread. How were we going to go through all that? We also had the workroom full of tools and the attic full of whatever. It all seemed like a burden. It was.

We took things slowly, one space at a time, and began to clean and sort. Boxes were opened and out of them flowed a steady stream of memories. We found our children's artwork, pictures we had lovingly hung on walls of our previous homes that had never found a space to be hung here. There were boxes we had never unpacked since our move here in 1995! We found trophies and photos, baseball shoes and bats, tents, dishes, Halloween costumes, books and more books, t-shirts, and collectibles. All the thoughts and emotions of reliving long-ago memories hit me hard. I couldn't believe how emotional I felt. Tears were just below the surface.

Every time I walked up the stairs to the second floor, I could remember moments on those stairs. At the very top of the staircase, the last step would make a creating sound. That sound reminded me of the kids coming home late at night, trying to sneak into the house without me noticing the time. I always opened my eyes and looked at the clock when I heard the "squeak."

I was reminded of Michelle's wedding day as she descended the stairs in her beautiful wedding gown, ready to greet the photographer on her special day. A wonderful memory. I also recalled young Mike setting up his hot wheels tracks on the stairs and shooting cars down them so they would crash into a box strategically placed at the bottom. I sadly recalled the time Mike fell down the stairs one night and was carried off on a stretcher. All the memories were flowing--good and bad.

The white ceramic floors held memories for me too. When we first moved in, I was obsessed with keeping the floors spotless. One afternoon, Matt had some friends over to have a rock concert in the backyard, and I insisted the kids take off their shoes to come in to use the bathroom. I didn't want any grass on my clean kitchen floor. Matt was so upset with me! I remember him telling me, "It's just a floor, Mom!"

Then that same floor became sacred ground when our youngest granddaughter was born unexpectedly In that kitchen. Born in the kitchen, just as her great-grandmother and namesake had in 1926 when the kitchen was the warmest place to be. As I cleaned the floor for the last time and polished it to a beautiful shine, I released my need to have it perfect and said a prayer of gratitude for my granddaughter's life and for the new owners to be able to hire a cleaning lady to take care of that beautiful floor. 

After several weeks of trips to Illinois, we finally removed all of our stuff from the house. (Yes, the attic and garage too!) The house has fresh paint and new carpeting. We've accepted an offer and closing is only a few days away. We're very grateful.

We've said our goodbyes to the physical space that was home for our family for so many years, yet the memories remain.

Kahlil Gibran says your house "shall not be an anchor but a mast." That mast is leading us to the next place that home will be. For us, it's Indiana for now. For Matt and his family, it's NYC. I'm relieved but holding onto the memories, good and bad, and the love that grew in that house. The walls were what contained our lives for a time. It was a symbol for me of HOME.

Oak Strength