Tag Archives: Grief

Dancing Once Again

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october-2014-calendar-wallpaperI woke up early this morning and didn’t, to my wonder, dissolve into tears.

That may be a normal occurrence for most people, but since 1996, that’s always been the way the morning of October 10th has begun for me: I open my eyes and snap to instant, heart-pounding awareness of the date and what happened two or five or ten or seventeen years ago. I remember the words “We lost Mom tonight.” I remember thinking that such a thing simply couldn’t be, not with her only fifty-seven years old; not with my children not yet born; not with so many things unsaid. Inevitably, the tears start to flow.

Hoo boy. Yeah, pretty much every October 10th for the better part of nearly two decades, I’ve been one hot mess.

But today—

Today feels different.

When I opened my eyes this morning, I knew what day it was—after almost two decades, how could I not? It’s like my body senses it, tenses up and prepares for the wave of sadness and grief to come. But this morning, for the first time, it didn’t.

MomInstead, a picture of my mother sprang into my mind, one taken at my wedding. In it, she is smiling a big, beautiful, bright smile that always, always, always makes me smile in return and fills my heart with joy.

Wait, what? Joy? What is this? Where is the heart-crushing grief? Where is the ache in my stomach? Where are the tears spilling silently onto my pillow?

I did a quick assessment, head to toe, heart to soul, growing more and more puzzled, but to my wonder, this morning, for the first time, I failed to find that wellspring of sorrow and loss I’ve carried around for so many years. In its place, I found only a cautious, curious sense of wellbeing.

The thing is, I don’t know where the grief went.

Is it gone? Does Grief just one day decide to disappear, to end? Why didn’t Grief tell me it was leaving? Will Grief be back tomorrow, next month, next year? Did Grief, that sly character, hit the snooze button and is planning to ambush me ninja-style later today, maybe in the middle of a run or in the shower or at the grocery store (there’s precedent)?

Or is it possible that finally I’ve learned, finally I’ve given myself permission to let Grief go?

I wrote about my mom’s death two years ago (“Life After Death”) and some of the lessons I’ve learned since that day. When I read that piece over again now this morning, I can still find the pain buried in those words, but I don’t feel it in my heart. All I’m feeling right now, in fact, at this moment, is a deep sense of peace, of calm, and—when I think of that picture of my mother—joy.

Why now, after so many years? Does Grief have an expiration date? Is it, perhaps, Maturity (I did just turn forty-five last week; maybe there’s an age cut-off)? Or—and I can’t rule this out completely—perhaps Abba had it right with their song “Chiquitita” (one of my mom’s favorites, and, by the way, this version is a fun one to watch), and you actually do get to a point where “you’ll be dancing once again and the pain will end, you will have no time for grieving.” (There’s nothing like 70s pop for philosophizing, is there?)

Maybe it’s all of these things, a little. Maybe, too, it’s that I’ve finally come to realize that it’s time to stop focusing on all that I lost and concentrate instead on all that I was given: laughter, friendship, wanderlust, wonder, literacy, ferocity, integrity, strength, independence, courage, and love, love, love, love, LOVE.

Yeah, I guess maybe it is time.

The_Prophet_CoverMom left behind a collection of books by Kahlil Gibran. I think her favorite may have been The Prophet, due to all of the passages she underlined and made notes on. One of the most heavily underlined passages is this one:

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain…

When you are joyous look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Mom, you were definitely our delight, and I have spent many years weeping for the loss of you, but maybe now, I am ready to look again in my heart, to feel the joy again of having had you for the years we did—and to see the truth of that joy again. That is another gift you gave to me, and so today, perhaps I will find myself dancing instead.

Life After Death

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On October 2, 1996, I was, as usual, running late for work. I wasn’t thinking about my birthday, only about the 62 Spanish tests I hoped to get graded before the bell rang at school, and the fact that I couldn’t find my car keys or travel mug wasn’t helping get me on the road any faster.

The phone rang and I automatically checked caller ID: Mom.

I sighed impatiently and picked it up, knowing the call would make me even later.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, tootsie! Happy Birthday! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mom, listen, I—”

“Are you doing anything fun today?” Vicarious excitement filled her voice.

“I don’t know. I don’t really have time to talk right now, I’m running late. Can I call you later?”

“Oh, okay. Sure, I’ll be around. Love you, honey. Happy Birthday!”

“Love you, too, Mom. Talk to you later.”

I’ll be around.

The day got away from me, as it turns out, and I didn’t call her later, but I was sure she’d understand, being a busy educator herself. I didn’t call her the next day, or the next, or even the day after that. In fact, as it turned out, that brief, impatient phone call with my mother was the last time I ever spoke to her, because on October 10, just eight days later, my mother was dead, felled without warning by a blockage in a coronary artery. She was just 57 years old. Eight days, and I still hadn’t called her back.

I’ll be around.

It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that it’s been so long since I last heard her voice. Time, as they say, has healed much of the initial grief, but there are still days that are tough, and my birthday, every year, is one of them, because as soon as I open my eyes and become sufficiently aware to remember that it’s my birthday, I remember how casually, how arrogantly, and how foolishly I threw away that opportunity, and guilt and sadness overwhelm me once again. It’s a tough way to start your birthday every year, and it makes it really hard on my family and friends to know how to help me have a good day. I’m not sure I know how.

Regret can do that to you.

I’d be minimizing things if I said that my mother’s unexpected and untimely death had merely a big impact on my life these last sixteen years; the event was a seismic shift which has colored my world every day since, a brutal reminder of life’s fragility and impermanence. But, as evidenced by my handling of that crucial phone call sixteen years ago, I clearly needed brutal reminding.

Yes, I learned a lot that day, and in the ensuing years. So today, in honor of my mother and in remembrance of the sixteenth anniversary of her loss, I want to share some of the lessons I learned that beautiful, sunny, fall day so many years ago.

Life is short. Even for my grandmother who is 102 years old. There will never be enough time to do all of the things on your to-do list, but there are some things you need to do now, not tomorrow, not next week. Now. You are not guaranteed tomorrow; no one is.

So—

Tell people you love them. Daily. Hourly, if possible.

Give and get hugs. Lots of them.

Get back in touch with old friends. Go out to lunch or dinner with new ones.

Forgive, because while life is finite, mercy should be limitless.

Once a day, turn your face to the sun and know that it is divine grace you feel warming your cheeks.

Slow down. There will always be another load of laundry, another errand to run, another meeting, another spill to clean, another email to check, another Facebook post to read. Those things are, unlike life, unlimited in their supply. Let them go, for a little while, every day.

Create something. A garden, love, an app, a poem, a picture, a sweater, a bookshelf, a family. That is as close to immortality as we will ever come.

Let the chip fall from your shoulder. If you walk around expecting the worst of everyone around you that is invariably what you will receive. Have some faith that everyone is not out to hurt you or bring you down. The vast majority of people are, just like you, trying to live their lives the best they can, the only way they know how.

Find a reason to smile and laugh, as often as you can.

Learn something new, every day.

Be actively and consciously kind. You have no clue what burdens and sorrows other people are carrying around. There may be a really good reason the barista spilled your coffee or your co-worker yelled at you or that moron cut you off in traffic then slammed on his brakes (I confess, I struggle to practice kindness with that last one, but I try). My personal philosophy really comes through on this one, because I believe if everyone practiced this—kids, grownups, politicians, governments, corporations—half of the world’s problems would vanish overnight, allowing everyone to work together then to fix the remaining half. It all starts and ends with kindness.

Share. The last cookie. The change from your latte with a homeless vet. The road. Your story. Your knowledge. Your experience. Your love. Everyone has something to give, so be as generous as you can afford to be.

Practice patience. As a mom myself, I’ve learned that the more I rush my kids, the more slowly they move. Impatience is not an effective motivational tool.

Help someone. How doesn’t matter—just find a way to make someone else’s life a little easier. Don’t be afraid to think small, either; what you think is an insignificant or unimportant act could make all the difference for someone else.

See beauty. Fall is a breathtaking, lovely season, especially this year. Notice it. Drink it in.

Listen. To music. To each other. To your elders. To your children. To birds singing. To the wind in the trees. To the rain on the windowpane.

Those are the things I’ve learned since the day my precious mother left this life without my calling her, without my talking to her, one last time. I had the chance, and I didn’t do it, and on my birthday, every year, I let the regret over that consume me.

But the other 364 days of the year, including today, the anniversary of her death, I turn that regret to purpose, because I am determined to live my life in such a way that regret is never an item on my to-do list.

And I always return phone calls.

I love you, Mom, now and always.