The Experience of Grief

Oh November...

Sometimes I am just breezing right through, and then I feel a little gut punched.

I was scrolling through my Facebook feed last week, and in someone's status update, I caught a glimpse of a tiny profile picture of a woman who had commented. 

In that moment, I felt this overwhelming heaviness in my chest.

That, folks, is the experience of grief.

This woman was probably an age that would have been close to my mom's.  She looked absolutely nothing like her.  Her comment was completely neutral and unrelated to anything my mom would have written.

And yet, there was the heaviness.

I missed my mom.

I missed my mom so much in that moment that I had to sit with that feeling and breathe through it.

I looked outside the window and breathed.

The feeling faded.

The longing for my mom went back to the reserve in my heart where the grief lives.

This is such a tender time of year for all of us who are grieving.  And this grieving is more than this loss of our loved ones.  It's the loss of a dream.  It's the loss of our dreams for them.  It's the loss of our dreams for us.

For those who are feeling a little tender (or completely open and wounded) this time of year, I see you. 

Take good care.

Seek support from people when you need it.  Seek solitude when you need it.

Lean in to those hard feelings.  And breathe.

When the feelings fade or are too much to sit with for too long, let's put it away for another day.  And take in the current moment. 

Let's look around to our space in the here and now.  Look around the room, look outside the window, look at your people, look at your pets, go outside, do what you need to do to remind yourself that you are here in this moment.

And breathe.

Resuscitate

On Easter Sunday, I was in church listening to a sermon about resurrection.  Of course.  It was Easter Sunday.

The sermon was about personal resurrection.  

We all experience difficult, painful times.  Sometimes when we go through them, we are left trying to bring back the past because the present (and future) is so painful.  The word used in the sermon was "resuscitate."

That word...resuscitate.  Woah.  The idea of "resuscitate" is exhausting.  Think about all of the energy that goes into trying to resuscitate.

I thought about my own energy spent.  How many times have I tried to resuscitate a time in my life instead of leaning into what is?

A specific time came straight to mind because I have (thankfully) experienced a lot of healing around it.  2013.  I was happy and hopeful.  I felt comfortable at work, we were considering a move, life seemed full of possibilities.

After 2014 and my mom's death, I invested a lot of energy in trying to resuscitate the safety and comfort of 2013.

Because a few years have gone by, I'm able to see how much energy I invested in that process.  

Trying to make things fit that no longer fit.

Trying to recapture a life that was no longer there.

There is denial in resuscitation.  There is hopelessness.  There is stuffing of painful feelings that seeps out in unhealthy ways.

While holding onto and/or denying our pain doesn't serve us, there is comfort in the familiar.  

As I sat there and digested that word "resuscitate," I was grateful that I had let that go.  I was grateful that I was able to accept what was real.

Acceptance didn't mean I was ok with it.  Acceptance meant I was able to see it for what it was.  I was no longer trying to change it.  I was no longer trying to fight it.

I surrendered to the hurt.

And for the past six weeks, I have revisited that word a few times a week.  Sometimes with myself, sometimes with clients.  Because there is something very powerful about letting go.  And something very powerful about starting something new.

That's where the resurrection is.  

It's not renewal or refresh or starting over.  We aren't trying to bring back anything.  

We are creating something new.

There's freedom in something new.  

That something new looks different for us all.  We get to decide how we move forward.  Maybe there are parts of us to keep, maybe there are parts to let go.  

There's healing in resurrection.

There's hope.

If you are in this place of trying to resuscitate, I hope you find the courage to seek resurrection.  It's a scary journey.  

Be brave.

Honoring the Feeling

After all the words I wrote before the start of the holiday season about compassionate presence, all of the checking in and being present I did this week as a helper, I woke up on Thanksgiving and realized I was not ok.

I woke up with a heaviness in my chest.  Oh right, I knew that feeling.  Grief.

Sometimes I think I will be ok.  Sometimes it is heavy.


The silent companion always seems to be there.  The warning signs were there throughout the week.

I've been sitting with such a heavy loss this year of my niece who was a beautiful, joyful soul.

I've been sitting with the familiar loss of my mom.

Three years ago, when the loss of my mom was fresh, I probably coped in one of the most unhealthy ways.  I stuffed that feeling.  I wouldn't allow myself to experience it.  I tried replacing it with other feelings.  I tried to put on a good face.  I listened to all of the "shoulds" in my head.

You know what happens when we do that?  Our trauma starts leaking out.  It wasn't until the following spring when my periods of depression were lasting longer than I could help that I knew wasn't ok.  It was time for me to get some help.

This year, with this loss, I did something different.

I leaned in.

I honored that feeling.  I allowed myself to feel that hurt.  At times, I put my hands on my chest and breathed into it.

Instead of pretending to be ok, I allowed myself to be with that grief.

I allowed myself to tell others that I wasn't ok.

The night of my niece's funeral, when everyone was spending time together, all I wanted to do was stay in my dress, covered in the hotel robe, and sit on the bed.  So I let that happen.

After the loss of my mom, I didn't do that.  I kept going.  I did what I thought I "should" do.

While I sat on that bed, Billy joined me.  And one of my big sisters came to the room and sat with me too.  It was a tender moment that they probably don't even remember.  The three of us, sitting on the hotel bed.

This is what compassionate presence is about.  It's sitting with others in their pain.  While they are still dressed for a funeral.  Wearing a hotel robe.

This is the gift that we can give to ourselves...honoring our feelings.

I read a quote recently that stands out.  I thought I would share this:

"If I turn away from this grief and pathologize it, I am turning away from all of life."  -Jeff Foster

Grief and sorrow are part of our human experience.  To live our full human experience, we have to experience all the feelings.  Even though some hurt terribly.  We have to live through some of these hard feelings to make room for joy.

And he continues, "Perhaps this grief is huge love in disguise."

Absolutely.  The grief wouldn't be here if the love wasn't deep.

If this Black Friday finds you with a feelings hangover, lean in a little.

Reach out to those people who can sit with you while you wear a robe.

If the weather is nice, go outside for a bit and feel the warm sun on your face.

If you have a pet, spend some time with them.

And if the pain is too much or lasting too long, call a professional helper.

Be kind and gentle with yourself.

Compassionate Presence

It seems appropriate as the holidays are quickly approaching to talk about how they are sometimes really terrible for people.

We have this idea that they should be happy and fun with everyone getting along.

Reality tells a different story.

Some people are grieving a terrible loss.  Some people are struggling with depression.  Some people are struggling with substance use.  Some people are struggling with their finances.  There are so many other reasons that the holidays can be really hard.

I thought I wrote a post a couple of years ago in which I wrote, "Don't be a jerk around the holidays" that I could recap.  It turns out that I didn't write that post.  I was also a little relieved not to find a post titled that.  It would have been my grief talking.

I would like to share some thoughts with all of you about how to support folks through the holidays.  I want to start out with a video clip here from Brene Brown.  It's a cartoon so it's worth it.

Ok, are you done watching the video?  Because some of the following language won't make sense without it.

As a social worker, there are myths about what I do.  Too numerous to list here.  Some held by the general public, some held by my clients.  I want to talk about the "fixing" myth.  First let's debunk this, social workers don't fix people.  And let's not get into how presumptuous that sounds.  Yuck.

Most of what I do is bear witness to others' experiences.  And that is so much harder than I imagine "fixing" could ever be.

It's hard to sit with pain.  It's uncomfortable.

And I'm calling out this myth because that's what we (the communal "we") tend to do when we are around people in pain, especially around the holidays.

And what do we do?  We tend to "silver-line" it.

We are so uncomfortable with someone's experience of pain that we don't want them to have that experience of pain.  So we minimize it-"It could be worse."  We try to cheer them up.  We "at least" it.  "At least you had a child/partner/etc/etc..."

I know that this comes from a place of caring.  I know it.  And I know that me calling this out probably got your defenses up.  I get it.  Let's lean into that.  Because this post isn't about you.  It's about the people you love and care about.

And what they need is your compassionate presence.  They are suffering.  They don't want you to fix, dismiss, or cheer them up.  They need someone to bear witness to their pain.

I know this as a helper and as someone whose grief is really sharp this year.

I also know that bearing witness isn't easy.  It is sometimes against all of our instincts because we want to help.

Bearing witness is helping.  We can even add some compassionate statements, "I care about you."  "I know the holidays hurt this year."  "I'm here for you."

Our compassionate presence with our loved one is a true gift, folks.

Let's stretch our empathy muscles a bit and try this out.

Changed

When you are going through something, it can be challenging to talk and write about, especially when you can’t put words to it.

I’ve been trying to think of why the blog has been silent for so long. 

What has been going on?  I’ve changed.  Of course I have.  I went through a major loss.  I had to adapt to this new world.

There was a lot of uncertainty.

There was a lot of fear.  I could feel myself changing, but I couldn’t describe how.  And I worried that I wouldn’t like who I was at the end of this.

And there were no words to describe it.

And looking at today, I don’t know that the words are there yet.

It’s ok to change.  It’s a good thing.  We can’t go through life without changing who we are, what are interests are, what our goals are.  This change was forced.  And scary.

There has been some sadness letting go of the person I used to be.  I look back on that person from two years ago with jealousy, at times.  That person was so hopeful about the future.  And not that despair has taken its place (well, for a while it did), I learned such hard lessons about life that sometimes I am afraid to hope like that.

So many times, I would think about sitting down to write a post and simply get overwhelmed with nothing to write.

Lately, I’m leaning into the change.  I’m giving myself permission to be this new person, instead of feeling guilty or sad that I’m not the old person.

I’m giving myself permission to explore new interests, new goals.

I’m giving myself permission to change, instead of resisting every moment of it, which is very exhausting.

One of my goals for 2016 is to practice gratitude.  Now that Lent is here, I’m trying to make that a daily practice. 

I’m finding that it’s ok to give gratitude to the person I used to be and the experiences I had, instead of feeling jealous and sad.

And I’m giving gratitude for those constants in my life-family, friendships, this quiet place that I call home.

And I’m giving gratitude to this new person that I am. 

I feel something stirring.  It’s nameless.  It’s part of this change.  I could fear it.  I could resist every moment of it.  Instead, I’m going to try leaning in a bit and see where I’m headed.

The Year of Firsts

Here we are folks, over a year out from losing my mom.  What a long journey.

Billy’s mom referred to this as the year of firsts.  Seems appropriate.

It was indeed a year of firsts without Mom.

I read through some old posts tonight, starting from last August through the 31 days in October.  You know, I went through the 31 days last October without a theme.  Looking at it now, the theme probably could have been 31 Days of Surviving Grief.  I read those entries and felt gratitude and relief.  That wasn’t my life anymore.  My life isn’t defined by crushing grief.  While there are still hard days, and I still feel stuck at times, it does not compare to the intensity of last year.

Last week, I thought about what I’ve learned this past year.  So I made a list.  And then I had to edit the list to make some of the language a bit more blog friendly.

· You can’t grow out of needing your parents.

· Some people are real jerks to those who are grieving.  But those people are probably jerks at other times as well.

· The grief never goes away.

· The grief can appear in the most random moments.

·It can be really hard to be a helper when you are dealing with your own crisis.

· When the grief feels consuming, it is time to ask for help.  Even the helpers need helpers.

· Holidays can suck.  Mother’s Day was the absolute worst.

· Support can come in the most unexpected places.  And from the expected ones, of course.

· Routine is healing.

And what I’ve learned from reading through those old posts…hope remains.

There are so many of you who have helped me through this past year.  Some of you have shared some of my darker grief moments.  I want all of you to know how much your thoughts, prayers, actions and words  of encouragement have meant to me.  There is no way I would have made it through this past year without all of your support.  Thank you.

Late July

This feels like the end of summer.

The kids have two weeks left of summer break.  And for those of you who are thinking, that’s a short break, I will reply…my kids need school.  Bad.  And they get a week off in October, so let’s not feel too sorry for them.  For those of who wishing that you were on the same school schedule, your day will come-hang in there.

In a weird turn of events ALL of my siblings are visiting this summer.  I have mentioned that I’m the youngest of six, right?  I haven’t seen most of them since the events of last August, and I have to say, it’s nice visiting when we are not in emotional crisis. 

My writing has pretty much become nonexistent.  Actually, my running has been as well.  But I feel like the source of that has been identified.  I have issues being alone in my head.  Stemming from last August, of course.  You will be happy to note that I am working on that.  Turns out the helper needs a helper. 

In related news, I am also working on my mindfulness to stop running away from being alone in my head.  As an introvert, I actually really like being alone in my head. It is generally peaceful.  I am looking forward to getting back in there.

Also, I keep getting stuck.  I will feel really good and then go back to that dark place with the silent companion of grief.  I realized something today.  I do things that really make me feel good-I sew, I do yoga, I journal.  And then I think, oh, I feel really good.  And then I stop doing those things.  And then the grief rises back up to the surface.  I think the lesson here is that even if I feel good, I still need to do those important things to take care of myself.  The irony here is that as a helper, I have told others to do that…while sabotaging myself.  Let’s not judge here.  Perfection doesn’t exist, remember?

So here I am, in all of this messy grief, with the hardest weeks in front of me.  At least, that’s what I imagine.  I don’t want to be blindsided again.  Remember Mother’s Day?  When I thought, I’m totally fine, and then I ended up avoiding facebook for two days because I simply couldn’t be reminded of this holiday?  Yeah…I’m just going to assume the next few weeks will be difficult.  If I’m handling it better than I thought, well, that will be a pleasant surprise.  Like realizing that you still have beer in the fridge.

Obviously, I need to head into these next few weeks with some planning.  No matter how good I feel, I need to actively do those things that center me, that help me feel connected to the world, that help remind me that I am not in that dark place of last August.

On another note, many friends seem to be going through a similar journey.  Your situation might be a bit different, you may be at a different place in your story, but I see that heartbreak, I see that struggle.  I want you all to know, I’m thinking of you, I’m praying for you, and I hope that you find peace in your heart.

Images

A couple of weeks ago, the cattle returned to the pasture near our house.

Everything felt right with the world.

Yesterday, the cattle were grazing along with the gentle deer.

It was just too much.

I can’t explain why these images are so soothing.

Maybe it’s the demands of being a helper.  I enjoy the peace of this place.

Maybe it’s this journey with the silent companion.  Seeing familiar images, knowing that the world still carries on, is healing.

I suppose the why doesn’t matter.

The truth is that is brings comfort.

Just like seeing a little girl curled up on the couch with a book.  Or hearing a bigger girl sing in the shower.

Some days, I hold onto these moments tightly.

The simplicity of life is found in these moments.

At times, life is full of complications and heartache.

It’s nice to find this quiet joy.

Feeling the Feelings

Mother’s Day turned out to be the low point that I hoped it wouldn’t be.

This grief still sneaks up.

I’m sure that the weather we have been having had some impact on all of this.  A week of rain, which eventually turned into snow.  So it snowed on Mother’s Day for the second year in a row.

I don’t know how I ever survived a Midwest winter with all of the cold gray days.

A week without the Colorado sunshine and I’m close to the fetal position, having vitamin D withdrawals.

During these low points, I try to do everything I can to take care of myself.  Sewing, exercise, reading.  Avoiding eating a bunch of cookies.  Avoiding facebook for a couple of days.  All of those good self-care things that my social worker self knows how to do.

Still with all of that, it doesn’t make the sadness go away.  And frankly, it shouldn’t.

Some days just feel crummy.  And that’s ok. 

Because I know that if I pretend to be happy and ok, the sadness just lingers on.  And it seeps through anyway.  So I go through all of this trouble pretending and still feel like crap.

It’s ok to have low times.  Because I know that tomorrow (or maybe in a couple days), I’m going to feel a lot better.

Sadness is real. 

But wow, does it make other people uncomfortable.  Some people want to cheer you up out of the sadness or talk through the sadness until you aren’t sad anymore.  I will admit, that as a professional helper, this is so challenging.  To simply be with someone in pain.  To accept that you are not there to fix them, you are simply part of their story.

I don’t expect anyone to fix this.  It is nice to have folks that I can talk to, who can lend an ear, who can validate that this is real for me and that it is ok to feel like crap.

Maybe that’s the self-care that we don’t always talk about as helpers, feeling the feelings.  It’s ok to have a low day.  And while I’m having that day, I’m taking care of myself with all those great things, but those great things don’t need to erase the pain.  It makes it tolerable.  It gives me hope that it won’t last forever.

Because I know by now in this journey with the silent companion that there will be an upswing.  If there wasn’t by now, I would see a professional helper.  Maybe I should see one anyway.  I go back and forth about that one.

For now, I’m not going to pretend.  It’s exhausting.  And grief is already exhausting. 

I’m going to give myself permission to feel whatever it is in the moment.

And take care of myself.

And finally watch the sun rise.

Being a Mom after Losing Your Mom

I didn’t realize that being a mom after losing your mom could be so hard.  Although, I suppose I never thought about it until I was there.

A couple of months ago, the girls and I were in the car when this story came on the radio.  They interviewed this woman who was working on the other side of the world.  I think the story was about whatever job she had.  The reporter asked her how she ended up so far from home, and she reflected that after her mom died, she felt that she needed to run away.

When I heard her say that, I thought, I want to run away too.  And I don’t know where that thought came from, but the idea of running away from this silent companion of grief…well…there was a certain freedom to it.

Then I felt this hand on my shoulder.  It was Katy.  She had been listening to the story and put her hand on my shoulder to comfort me.  We were both quiet.

It’s obvious that the girls are more aware of things than maybe I would like for them to be.  I guess part of me wants to shield them from this grief.  From this sadness and heartache. 

But they’ve seen me at some bad moments.  And I know, deep inside, that it’s ok for them to know that we can be sad when we lose someone that we love.

The girls give me these looks sometimes, it’s almost like a head tilt, where they are wondering if I’m sad.  And sometimes I smile at them.  Even when I want to run in the other room and cry.  And sometimes I don’t smile because I can’t.

I have these lapses.  I’m ok, and then I’m good and then suddenly I’m not ok.  My guess is that my parenting during these past months reflects that.

I wanted to rush through the holidays.  The day after Christmas, Billy asked if I wanted him to take the Christmas tree down and I probably said, YES!, a little too urgently.  He thought it was sad that I was so excited for the holidays to be over.

I suppose it was sad, but anyone who has ever been grieving knows how much the holidays can suck.  Yes, suck.  There is no other word.  And I was delighted to have them over with. 

And then I felt a little guilty that I probably wasn’t the best holiday mom this year.  It’s not that I had a bad attitude.  I just didn’t want to think about the holidays.  Because thinking brought the sadness.  And I was in survival mode.  You can’t take time for personal reflection when you are surviving.  You are just getting through.

So right now, I’m having one of those good times and am finally able to sit down to write again.  At least for today.

My upswing has arrived just in time for a holiday about moms.  After I lost my mom. 

That deep sadness isn’t there like it has been with the other holidays.  There is sadness, and I miss my mom.  But there isn’t that crippling grief.  At least not today.  And I hope not tomorrow either.

Because during these upswings I would like to think that I am able to be the mom I want to be.  The mom who listens to her kids.  The mom who knits with her oldest gal.  The mom who reads poetry with her littlest lady.

The mom who isn’t thinking about running away.

I’m thankful that the lapses are improving.  And I seem to recover faster from the not ok times than before.

I also know that grief is a journey.  It is always with you.  It shapes who you are.

Kind of like being a mom.

Creating is Healing

At the beginning of February, I realized how tired I was of grief.  Tired of that shadow.  Tired of those consuming moments.  Tired of overthinking.

Fed up, I suppose.

I spent a lot of time with my sewing machine.  I even sewed her a cover.  Lots of sewing with some knitting thrown in. 

And I have to say, this month has felt pretty good.  I have felt lighter.

For the most part, I’m a self-taught sewist.  I’ve had some lessons (both formal and informal), but most of my learning comes from internet tutorials, youtube and the many mistakes that I make.

Of course, I have my favorite websites and youtube instructors.  Every Friday, I allow myself a little extra time to go through my favorite sites for inspiration.  One morning, I realized that two of my favorites (Vanessa Vargas Wilson and Jenny Doan) paired up for some projects and an interview.  I may have actually squealed when I saw this.  Look folks, it’s the small things, right?  During the interview, Vanessa was asking Jenny about any healing benefits of quilting.  Jenny discussed how many of her students come to quilting after a loss.  She shared the following reflection….creating is healing.

That really put this past month into perspective.

Grieving is about loss.

Healing is about the future.  It is about moving forward.  It is about getting back to life.  Or recreating what life is like.

And I get it, there is no end date to grief.  Feeling fed up with grief doesn’t mean that it’s gone.  There will still be sad moments.  And I know that I will always miss my mom. 

Healing is moving forward with the sad moments.  Not letting them define my life and thoughts anymore.

Crafting is only one part of this picture.  It’s exercise.  It’s eating 4 ½ cups of produce (almost) every day.  It’s finding connection with people.  It’s making time for myself again.

It’s realizing that my life does not look like how I thought it would and still moving forward.

Silent Companion

I finished watching the first season of Broadchurch.

Wow.  Just wow.

Wonderful show.

The writing for this show is lovely and real.

The way the writers captured the experience of grief was beautiful. 

Grief was described as a shadow that you get used to.

There are some days when I find myself in disbelief that my mom is gone.  It’s always with me.

There was a scene in one episode where a family member starting crying tears of grief during a happy moment.  Another character explained it as saying that things get a little muddled.

They certainly do get muddled.  Feelings of joy one moment and intense sadness the next.  I have moments where I am overcome.  On Katy’s birthday, we all ended up in separate cars driving to the restaurant.  It was just me and Katy in one car.  Everything was great, and then I turned the corner and this giant full moon was rising over the pasture.  My mom loved the moon.  And I felt like she was saying happy birthday to Katy.  And I was happy and devastated at the same time.  How is that even possible?

I know from my work as a professional that there is no such thing as closure.  There is no getting over it.  I’m sorry if any of you had this fantasy, and I ruined that. 

And it’s not that I’m trying to get over anything.

There are certainly moments that I am trying to get through.  Trying to survive.  And that’s enough.

I will continue this journey with my silent companion.  A journey that is complex and murky. 

A journey that will never end.

Positive Notes

As this year draws to a close, I can’t help but feel relief.

Some of you had a great 2014.  I get that.  I am genuinely happy for you.

Some of us had a 2014 that….left a lot to be desired.

To be honest, this year was heartbreaking with joyous moments filled in the cracks. 

And it would be really easy for me to get down on this year.  But leaving the year with negativity is not how I want it to end.

I’d rather end this year with a spirit of gratitude.  Gratitude for those people and moments that have helped me get through.

So for the next two days, let’s focus on that.  Let’s focus on the positive from 2014.

Today, I would like to share a bit about some special people from this year.

· My family rallied like no other.  Those two weeks in August were obviously the worst of my life.  I am grateful for the people I spent them with.  I can’t describe the exhaustion we all felt.  It seemed that when one of us was fading, another would carry this burden.  I am grateful that I didn’t have to experience those dark days of August alone.  And on that note, when I found out the news about my mom, the news that it was time to say goodbye, I am so grateful that Sister Runner just happened to be visiting.  I hope she gets a real vacation in 2015.

· While I thought I had a challenging year, Sewer Sister had way more obstacles.  I am so grateful that she is healthy.  And I am grateful that her children did such a good job taking care of her.

· My brave dad is daring to continue his dream.  He is teaching me that life must go on, even when we don’t know how. 

· Billy is steady and strong and keeps the balance in this house.  He keeps his opinions of my crazy trauma to himself, or at least voices them when I am out of earshot.  He carries the burdens when they get too heavy.

· My beautiful girls have handled so much change this year with grace and positivity.  They are quick to give a hug when they sense I am feeling down.  And they are always up for a marathon of Doctor Who. 

· When we were in between houses, Billy’s parents took us in.  Even our ridiculous animals.  They always made us feel welcome.  I still miss happy hour with his mom. 

· I am grateful for old friends.  Friends that provided kind words during hard times. 

· I am blessed to have coworkers that I consider friends.  They were there in those first weeks of my mom’s diagnosis, to picking up the slack when I had to disappear in August, and have been understanding of my trauma since I got back.  Their prayers, good thoughts and words of encouragement have helped me regain my confidence as a professional helper.

· When Billy and I moved this summer, we knew the location was amazing.  I had no idea that the neighbors could match.  We have had bonfires, parties and just everyday fun that I have so desperately needed. 

These people have helped me through 2014.  I suppose that’s when you understand how important people are to you.  When they help you carry on during those dark moments.

I want to say to all of you, thank you.  Thank you so much.  Thank you for bringing humor back into my life.  Thank you for giving me hope in the darkness.  Thank you for being part of my life.

Intention

I have to say, it was a bit challenging celebrating a day of thankfulness this year.

A couple of years ago, people started posting what they were thankful for every day in November.  I really loved reading those.  But then I noticed the negativity set in when others would post, “we should be grateful every day, not just in November.”   Were they really getting upset over someone else’s gratitude?  I think those people missed the point of the exercise. 

There is power in words.  And there is power in being grateful.  On purpose.  Even when the world seems to suck at times.

Gratitude can change perspective.  Gratitude heals.

So here are some things that I am grateful for…right now.  Because I need this right now.  I need to be intentional with my gratitude.

· My oldest sister visited over Thanksgiving and cleaned the worst baking pan known to mankind.

· I found amusement in watching my stick-thin niece get creative with her many helpings of Thanksgiving dinner.  An open faced turkey, gravy and mashed potato sandwich.  Genius.

· I finally got to watch the second Hobbit movie.  In my pajamas.

· I was more active this weekend then I have been in weeks.  Hiking, biking and “yoga.”  Quotes are necessary if you would have seen my moves.

· Although going back to work after a long weekend was difficult, I was grateful to return to a job that I love.  And I am grateful for the memory of when I found out I got this job. My mom was in the grocery store parking lot with me, and we got to share that special moment.

· And I’m grateful that in a moment of intense grief, when I silently wondered how I could ever return to this work and listen to other people’s pain, that an old friend of my mom’s told me that I was doing the work I was meant to do.  And she couldn’t have possibly known how much I wanted to run away from this work…and how much I needed her to tell me to stay.

How does that happen?  How does it go from movies in my pajamas to serious?  This grief thing has a mind of its own.

Certainly this list doesn’t capture everything.

But the point isn’t to capture everything.

This is about the power of gratitude.  The power of saying that despite life being hard, there is still good in the world.  This is about hope.

Stuck

Sometimes I think, I need a few days off from writing.

And then it’s 17 days later.

The grief has been weighing me down this month.

I have been quiet with this burden, so it has been coming out in other ways.

I haven’t been sleeping well.

I’ve been forgetful.

Things are foggy.

I felt lighter in October.  Even through the bad days, I was still moving forward.

Maybe all of that daily self-reflection that was painful at times was actually clearing my mind.

Maybe this is grief exhaustion.  Is that even a term?  Seems fitting though.

Time to regroup.  Get back to those things that help my soul.

Move forward again.

Comfort

When life changes so much, I seek out comfort in what has stayed the same.

We all know how much I like my routine.  There is definitely comfort in that.  There is simplicity in those day to day tasks that we need to do to keep moving.  There have been a couple of nights when I found myself at the sink doing dishes, content to be part of the routine.

A couple days ago, I wrote about remembering things about myself.  Remembering those things, doing those things, being that person that I want to be again brings me comfort.  It reminds me that I am capable of being more than messy.

Seeing the people around me unchanged, quietly engaged in their activities, encourages me to move forward. 

I feel pretty exhausted for a Sunday night.  We were all headed back home, and I heard a sound from the backseat.  A clicking.  I saw this little lady pictured above.  She has been teaching herself to knit.  I loved hearing that sound. 

This reminder that something was still the same after life has been turned upside down brought peace to my heart.  I was struck by the joy on her face and the soothing sound of those whisper-like clicks.

And while I may feel a little weary headed into this week, I can take that bit of peace with me.

 

 

This post is part of my 31 Day series.  To start from the beginning, click here.

Another Story

The new normal.

I’m beginning to hate that phrase.

I don’t know what that was to begin with.

Someone who also lost a parent told me, I keep searching for it, and when I think I’ve found it, it’s not really it.  The pain is still there.

It makes me think of these song lyrics:

I'll tell you one thing
We ain't gonna change much
The sun still rises
Even with the pain

I suppose you could think that sounds really depressing, but to me, it’s a reminder that we are still moving forward.  The song continues:

Can we go on, as it once was?

And I guess to answer that question, no, we can’t.

Life is different.

And not only are you left with the loss, but you are changed.  You think about things differently. 

One of the hardest parts is moving past how I thought life would be.  And being ok with moving forward.

Life continues for the rest of us.  And I know that there are lots of good moments to be had.  There already have been.

I know that this hurting heart won’t be forever. 

This hurting heart doesn’t define my life.

The sun still rises.



This post  is part of my 31 Day series.  To start from the beginning, click here.

Colors Fade

Our journey back from my mom’s funeral covered a few states.  That’s a lot of long hours…to think.

I spent a lot of time in silence, looking out the window.  Everything looked different.  I couldn’t describe it.  It just did.

A song came on, “Colors” by Amos Lee.  I’ve always loved that song.  It was painful to listen to that day, particularly this lyric, when you’re gone, all the colors fade.

There it was.  The grass wasn’t as green, the sky wasn’t as blue, images didn’t seem as crisp.

I thought I was going crazy.  Driving to work, I noticed the same.  And the images that brought me peace and comfort, the rolling hills, pastures and mountains brought melancholy.

It wasn’t until I got to work and was sharing my story with a friend that I put it together.  She talked about when her mom died.  “The grass wasn’t the same color,” she said.

And there it is.

My world is different now.

One day, I hope the world around me brings me comfort again.

I hope the gentle deer on the hill bring me joy.  I hope the cattle grazing make me smile.

I hope the grass is green again.

I hope.

Hope in the Darkness

At the end of 2013/beginning of 2014, I chose a word to focus on for this year.  That word was hope.

I had no idea how much I would need that word back in January.

We decided to move this year.  A good move.  In my book, a good move is one that you want, and this was certainly one of those.  This move was full of stressful inconveniences, as many moves are.  I thought that this was going to be the biggest life stressor this year.

Then my mom was diagnosed with cancer. 

And two weeks ago, my beautiful mom passed away.

I can barely type that without the grief rising to the top.  Honestly, I can’t even proofread this post without those emotions rising to the top.

At times, the grief is like a heavy coat, weighing me down.  Other times I feel hollow, numb.  I seem to feel every emotion possible, every single day.

The emotions are always there, under the surface.  A colleague caught me off guard last week with her condolences.  She summed it up like this, “It sucks.”  She lost her mom too.  I’ve noticed that other folks who have lost a parent use the exact same phrase.  It struck me right to the core in that moment…because it does suck.  I was so crippled that after that.  A few minutes later, I went into the office of some coworkers and announced, “No one make me cry.”  Because that’s how close those emotions were.  That’s how deeply the words “it sucks” sum up this pain.

People ask me how I am, which is lovely because I know that it comes from a place of genuine interest and caring.  I want to say that I am ok.  I want to say it sometimes because I don’t want to talk about it.  Other times, I want to say it because I want them to feel better about my grief.  And other times, I say it because that’s how I want to feel.

But I’m not ok.

And that’s ok. 

Here is what I know…one day, I will be ok.

I know that there will be a day when I won’t feel the constant crush of grief.

I know that it will still come in waves.  Because something that I’ve noticed from those folks who have shared their loss with me is that the grief still rises to the surface.  The pain is still there.  No one has talked to me about their loss without reliving their own.  And many of these folks are trained social workers, people who are taught to put their own feelings in a box.  That’s how deep the grief settles.

So for now, I will take this in moments.  Sometimes I do answer “I’m ok” because in that moment, I am ok.  And folks, that’s about as good as we are going to get right now.

And this word that I chose for 2014, hope, I need it more than I could have ever expected.

Right now, in this moment, I hold onto the hope that I will be ok.  I hold onto hope that my dad will be ok.  And that my siblings will be ok.  And that my kids will be ok.

 In this crush of grief, I need to believe those things.  I see others who have overcome loss and I know that we will be ok.  We will keep going.

Hope remains.