Thursday, January 29, 2015

Oh, mystery of life

Oh, mystery of life
that I
feel such
such despair,
smile again.

I am so tired of being sad.  I can think happy thoughts and say cheerful things, but my gut just won’t keep up with my head.  That seems to be the nature of my life since Sharon’s passing.  It has become a silent, bittersweet journey, the journey is mine alone and I have learned how to negotiate the pitfalls, like today..  If I let the grief come from the toes upward and outward, then the depth of love, laughter and awareness comes from the toes also.  If I don’t then I am sick a lot.

Here’s to grieving, living and laughing, Cheers

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Poem # 23

For those
of us
who are
our grief,

Life has
can never

Over the years I have worked with and encountered many individuals that have lost a child, a sibling, or a grandchild. I am not surprised by how many families “die” when one of their children does. It seems to be especially hard on siblings because they often lose everything all at once. The sibling is gone, and the parents are so traumatized they can’t help their other kids deal with the loss. Certainly, the family as everyone knew it is gone. A new family can, and often does, emerge, but the process is painful and requires a vehicle, like ceremonies, rites, or rituals, to allow everyone to grieve. Since no one grieves exactly like anyone else, various family members miss each other’s signals, which increases the depth of the struggle.  It is still hard to know what to do or say because nothing much helps at any given moment.  I have to remind myself over and over that any encounter with a grieving person is unsatisfactory.  That is because neither party can give the other what they need.  My attempt to help cannot resurrect their dead loved one, and they can’t feel better for me.  This simple truth causes much misunderstanding in circles of friends.  But there is hope and healing.  On the other side is a lovely, albeit different, world also.


Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Join Me On This Journey

Her death is
no insurance,
that I
lose again.

There is no
protect myself
further loss.

That is deeply

What do
do with

I guess
how precious
today is
how deeply
I love you.

The choice we all have to make over and over is to take the risk of loving again.  The choice to love again, to invest enthusiastically in life, makes all the difference.  Knowing that we could lose someone again and still choosing to participate, rebuild our souls and lives and not bench ourselves. This is the quiet courage of grieving people.  Join me on this journey.

Monday, January 5, 2015

Empty Rooms

The death of my child
leaves me
a different world

I feel
set apart

My choice

has opened
did not know
were there.

I remember the days when I couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a book or write a paper for graduate school.  Then slowly I could and I read lots of things about losing a child and how to get “better”.  Getting better usually means not showing my grief in public, or anywhere for that matter.  So how did I get “better” to have a rich and rewarding life along side the crippling?  Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one in the world on this isolated lonely journey.  That is the nature of grief; it is alone with no guide except my own desire to live. That choice led to my frequently bumping into  walls, stubbing many toes and just wanting out of the struggle.  Over time I discovered that if I could find a safe place and grieve, I always felt better.  Gradually the waves of grief came further apart, not so intense and didn’t last as long.     

I still feel different, set apart from others, I suppose I really am.  Few have to redefine themselves and rebuild their lives in quite the same way as grieving parents and their families do.  Staying on the healing path is an ongoing discovery of how to stay clear that that is what is wrong.  It is easy to get sidetracked into anything but that

“It’s like going through empty rooms.  There is no one to stop you, but no one to applaud either*”

*From Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand