rewriting life after unimaginable loss
5 minute read
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.
Continue reading “now, in the after”
reading time 2 minutes
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.
Continue reading “side effects of rewriting”
reading time 3 minutes
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.
Continue reading “Landslide”
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. And then he was gone.
Continue reading “254 days after…”
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.
Continue reading “save yourself”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.”
Continue reading “willower®”
Does loss and grief sometimes disconnect us from others, from the world? Yes.
But, maybe, the disconnect is when we are most connected to our physical emotions and the invisible world.
Continue reading “disconnect”
BY EMILY DICKINSON
“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.
It’s one of the hardest things you have to do—find joy again, after loss.
Continue reading “joy”
June 27, 2014. He loves a freshly cut lawn. He does a down-dog-stretch before squeezing through the rectangular flap of a door. Outside. Sniffing a path, he finds a patch of sun and flops onto his side. Lying still for a minute, he soaks up the warmth, then rolls onto his stomach. Sphinx-like, his front legs out, chest high, ears alert, nose twitching, reading the air. He starts when a dragonfly skips by him, and I laugh. I’ve been watching him from the patio, learning from him how to be in the moment. He sees me and stands up, tail wagging. Making his way back through his magnetic door, he prances over to me and presents himself for a back rub.
Continue reading “Reggie, my heart therapy”
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