For the first few months after Sam’s death, I suffered stabbing headaches in and around my eyes.
“Narrow-angle glaucoma,” the ophthalmologist said. “Yours is the worst I’ve seen.”
I wondered if the pain was from not crying. I didn’t ask. The question sounded ridiculous in my head: My son, he’s gone, and it hurts when I cry, so I wonder, did this happen, this buildup—of tears?—because I’ve been stopping myself from crying? Suppressing grief, like pruning branches, I’ve learned, only causes it to mushroom.
Morning. I am here, sitting outside meditating, eyes closed, feeling the sun on my face, rising. Imagining, for a few minutes, that it’s him, his light, shining on me, in me.
WHENEVER I READ a book, I always find my very own personal takeaway, a sentence or two that stands out to me, seemingly as if the writer meant the message just for me—like a private note. The author may not have even meant for that particular line or two to be one of the story’s takeaways, and therein lies the magic (of words, and reading books).
LAST WEEK’S POST, sidewalks (1), was the first in what I’m hoping will be a series of short posts (if I can stick to my plan). You don’t have to read sidewalks (1), or look for my upcoming sidewalk posts (each Wednesday), but . . . I really hope you do.
The line I love you more than all the sidewalks in the world appears nine times.
The first time I heard this was when Sam, as a toddler, said it to me. It stayed with me. It was a funny thing to hear, an unusual measurement to use—sidewalks? But then, the sidewalk was our world; where we spent most of our time collecting acorns, bugs, sticks, stones . . .
For years, I had a purpose: to write (to finish) my story (my book).
Every day, that finish line up ahead is what kept me running; gave me energy enough to keep going, editing, rewriting. There was always something to do in order to finish.
What if, instead of seeing the idea of being stuck as a negative, we think of it as being anchored for a period of time. Which sounds okay, doesn’t it? Anchoring yourself in the silence, in meditation, in the remembering? In grief, the rewiring process that goes on deep inside you sometimes requires a serious shutdown—a rebooting of sorts.
Fall. The air is changing. It’s still muggy but less hot now.
Though it’s hidden behind the clouds, the moon is full today.
Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?
I’ve done my best, tried until I couldn’t see straight anymore, or find any other errors to fix. It’s 9/29/23, 18 days until . . . my book, my beloved son, both fully grown now, will soon fly away, and be free of me and my perfectionist ways. To live their lives on their own. Though not alone, never alone.
September 1, 2023. Today would be my dad’s 88th birthday. He died at what today we think of as fairly young: 72.
A few months ago, 60 days to be exact (I’m journaling now, so I see that it was July 3), my father surprised me in a dream. I was lost (in this dream), wondering where I was—who I was anymore. Feeling alone, always alone. When I turned around, my father was there. And we hugged, and I wasn’t alone. I was so excited to see him I woke up.
In her memoir, Lucky, Alice Sebold said, “No one can pull anyone back from anywhere. You save yourself or you remain unsaved.”
It is true.
You have to save yourself (no one can pull you back from this place). You have to trust yourself. You have to be the expert on you and your grief.
In my case, after the sudden death of my son, Sam, I withdrew, cocooned from the world, and ignored those who told me to do otherwise. I was the expert on my grief. This was my way.
A few years ago, I saw that someone had added “willower” to UrbanDictionary.com. Okay, it’s a crowdsourced online dictionary of slang words and phrases, but I especially like UD’s tagline: “Define Your World.”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.
Months after Sam’s death, and shortly before he was gone too, my father, always trying to cheer me on, reassured me that I’d find joy again. I disagreed. I didn’t want joy—I couldn’t even fathom it. I was consumed with grief, and wanted to be dead too. He worried about this, I’m sure, which added to his grief.
What I’ve learned about joy over the years:
It’s one of the hardest things you have to do—find joy again, after loss.
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