It is just past 1 pm now. I have been in meetings since 9. I was up most of the night with a deployment, snatching some sleep for a few hours from 4 am until 8 am. I am the sort of tired that is a bit delirious. The sort of tired where you know you should eat, but worry that anything other than yet more coffee thrown into your stomach will result in revolt.
Today is an uncomfortable day. With a backdrop of exhaustion, too much work, and not enough time. My teams are tired, we are so close to the Christmas break, so tired of covid and the finish line keeps moving.
There are too many meetings for me today. Too many places to be in at once. Too many people asking questions that I can’t answer. Too many people need things that I can’t deliver. Too many people need kindness from an empty well.
And yet. The sun is shining outside. There is a beautiful blue sky, the snow is glinting white.
This is, in so very many ways, the twin of the day my mother died. On a day just like today, 7 years ago, with Handel’s Messiah playing in the background, she saw an open door and she walked through it. The sun was shining, the sky was blue.
Tonight I’ll go and have Indian food with her boyfriend. His new partner and mine will be there – two people who never met my mum, but know of her all the same. My team has never met my mum, but today they saw what she taught me.
My mum never thought much of me. She always wanted me to be something other than what I was. She did teach me that your goals must always slightly exceed your grasp, that we rise to the expectations others have of us. She taught me that if you dig a bit deeper, there is always a bit more grit to be had.
Tonight, when the sun goes down, I’ll know that I did more than I thought I could when I woke up this morning.
That seems enough to remember her with.