My new purse sits next to me on the hotel couch. I’ve just emptied the contents of my previous purse and moved them to the new one. Somehow this seems fitting for the end of a calendar year and the start of a new one. In the process, I discovered some random notes I made to myself. One of the notes had the Arabic word “Masha” along with a brief definition and explanation.
I remember the story well. Earlier this year, I visited my two daughters in NYC and made a “trip within the trip” to watch my youngest daughter run a half marathon in our nation’s capitol. It was a lot of fun and she PR’d in her run. After the race ended, we needed to catch an Uber back to our hotel in order to get to Union Station and take the Flix bus back to New York. With the traffic created by the race, it was evident that we were going to miss the bus.
While the situation was stressful, our Uber driver was entertaining and comforting. His name was Hassan and he hailed from Iran. In our conversation, he discovered that I am the mother of six children. While that fact gets a mixed reaction from some people, Hassan immediately congratulated me and said that I was “masha.” He translated the word as “blessed,” although my limited research into the name came up with “prosperous” or “beloved.” Either way, I knew he meant to compliment me, especially with my beloved and accomplished daughter sitting right next to me.
Indeed I have been blessed in 2023. In addition to the New York and Washington DC trip, I just completed my second major road trip of the year with my husband. We’ve been educated and uplifted by our many tours and visits. And yet, my heart is split in so many pieces.
My parents and six children are spread across the United States — pinpoints in five different states with daughters on east and west coasts, about as far apart as they can be. I want to see all of them frequently or at least more than once a year. Available time and money prevent that from happening. While FaceTime and Zoom help ease the distance, they are not a substitute for in-person contact. I send virtual hugs to my granddaughters when I would rather give real ones. I know that I’m not alone in this feeling and that gives me some comfort.
It’s hard not to be envious of friends who’ve managed to keep adult children and grandchildren closer to home. I feel the ambivalent tug of parental pride and sadness as each child spreads their wings and goes off to pursue dreams and goals, as they should.
In a sense, I’ve done the same thing: leaving the United States to learn French in France, then getting married and moving to the Pacific Northwest and now to Texas. The newness of reinventing oneself — I understand it and even crave it. But when I reconnect with a parent, child or grandchild, it’s hard to let go.
I look at other cultures like Hassan’s and admire how their families manage to stay close together, two or more generations living under the same roof in harmony. Is one way better than the other? Perhaps absence makes us appreciate long-distance family relationships more. I just know that it’s difficult to navigate all of those long-distance relationships emotionally.
I can’t turn back the hands of time — and I wouldn’t want to — but I can freeze certain moments. The 15K photos on my phone remind me of that.
As I look at these photos, from far back and more recently, I’m reminded that I am both blessed and prosperous. ❤
