Body and Soul

 

     Awoke to a bright, blue sky morning. A walk in the sunshine along the ocean later today wins out over an indoor swim at the local pool.  The sun lights up the floating shelf in the den, dedicated to pictures and mementos of Michael, as well as Kelly. Knowing it had been quite some time since I last dusted up there, I grabbed a cloth, and one by one, removed each piece in order to clean them, as well as the shelf itself. 

     I reflected on the memory of each precious item: the photo of the two of them at our oldest daughter's rehearsal dinner, a candle I had lit for Kelly at a Compassionate Friends event, a picture of Michael as a young teen, another of him as an adult, a starfish decoration representing "as above, so below" from a dear friend, a silk butterfly from a floral arrangement sent by a salon owner I had only met a few times, the framed Post-it Note Michael had written to remind the two of them what had to be dealt with before they departed the cabin that fateful morning, and a tiny crystal bowl cradling found pennies, feathers, a baby picture, and more. 

     Midway through this process, it dawned on me that the sadness that had been creeping into my body and soul over these past few days was most certainly due to the fact that the anniversary date of the accident was looming. In nine days, we will be at the ten year marker. A decade since he passed. The word decade has weight, representing a significant span of time with respect to human life, but of course, with respect to grief, it means little. One year, five years, ten years, it hardly matters ... none of the anniversaries really feel much easier than the others.

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Healing Energy for All

     

     Outside of my native Vancouver, the city of Paris lies closest to my heart. I have never lived there but have treasured memories of visiting over the decades. I have always felt a strong connection to everything French, perhaps due, in part, to previous incarnations. The sights, sounds and smells of Paris resonate deeply. Its lively neighbourhoods, magnificent museums, striking architecture, incredible food and lovely public spaces, to say nothing of the beautiful language and passionate people, all contribute to the vibrant pulse of this beloved city.
     So when the tragic news of malicious attacks in Paris erupted on Friday, my heart broke. It broke for the innocent victims. It broke for my beloved city of love and lights. It broke for humanity.
     And later, upon learning that many of the dead had been young people in their twenties and thirties, an added layer of sadness descended over me while thinking of all the mothers and fathers who will have to endure the added grief of losing their child.
     The card I wrote, the flowers I placed, the love I send will not undo the damage done, but with millions of people around the world doing the same, collectively we imprint healing energy on everyone affected, including ourselves. 
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Courageous Choice

The concept of courage has presented itself numerous times over these past few days - shown to me in a meditation, discussed while walking with a friend, and presented as a online forum topic.  For those who make the conscious choice to continue embracing life, despite having challenging experiences thrown in our path, courage is what we draw on in order to keep angling our souls towards the light, rather than retreating into darkness.  In the face of ongoing pain or grief, making the daily choice to find joy and gratitude is an act of courage, requiring an enormous output of energy.  The return on that investment is the gift of a life worth living.

Another Grave to Tend

This week, I was informed via snail mail from Germany, that an uncle of mine had passed two days before Christmas.  Sadly, he had smoked himself to death.  He and I were not very close.  Outside my handful of visits there, we had little contact.  Through my aunt's annual Christmas cards, I received updates on their lives.  And even though they were well off, it is likely that she would have considered it an unnecessary extravagance to give me the news of his passing via a long distance call.  And computers are not part of her world.  This aunt, now in her mid-seventies, is no stranger to grief.  She was a four-year-old child when her father died. As a young mother, she had buried her baby boy within days of his birth.  Some years later, her mother passed.  Then, nearly twelve years ago, she experienced the loss of her only sibling, my mother.  Now, with her only child living a fair distance away, and without any friends to speak of, she will understandably feel very alone. I hope she finds comfort in her religious beliefs, as well as support from her church.  And, as she continues taking her daily stroll to the cemetery across the street, to tend yet another grave, I hope she feels the presence of her God walking with her.

Peeling Back the Layers

Last week's yoga class left me feeling quite undone.  Rather than returning home in the usual state of gratitude and contentment, I encountered a crushingly difficult, grief-filled evening instead.  That overwhelming sense of loss dominated much of the following day as well.  This was a first - yoga had never had that affect on me.  Upon reflection, I realized that my grief had been triggered by the teacher's suggestion that we each set an intention for class.  After some deliberation, I had silently asked for a hug from Michael.  Of course, my rational mind knew that was physically impossible.  However, another part of me entertained the notion that the hug may come in the form of spirit connection.  Alas, in Savasana pose at the end of the class, I recognized that neither had occurred, and the tears flowed.  I was again reminded that a physical hug from my son would never occur. Obviously this was not new information, so what was going on?  Why such an intense response?  Perhaps it was the perfect time for me to access yet another layer of grief.  My mind, body, and soul were in that deeply connected state of existence, allowing for further penetration of reality. Peeling back the layers.  Like in the onion analogy often referred to with regards to personal growth.  I wonder how many layers this onion has. 

I Still Call Bullshit

This morning, while placing flowers at the memorial plaque engraved with my son's birth and death dates, the voice in my head is still calling bullshit.  On a soul level, I understand Michael's passing, however, as his mother, I doubt if it will ever make sense.  The accident happened two and a half years ago today.  It might as well be two and a half months ago, since time has done little, if anything, to alter my day-to-day reality with respect to this intense loss.  How could it?  He is gone. He will never again give me a hug, never again call me on the phone, never again sit down to a family meal.  Regardless of what is happening in my day, experiencing joy or sadness or anything in-between, this companion called grief is with me, always.  I would not have anticipated this is how it would be, but as with any profound life experience, you don't know until you are in it.

Smiling Faces

We could not have asked for more perfect weather for the year's first visit to the cabin -  just shy of midway through spring, we enjoyed a taste of summer.  My husband and I appreciated the three glorious days of bathing suit weather and meals on the beach.  A lovely mix of outdoor work and play - attending opening day at the farmer's market, cycling along the channel, rowing around the lake, and yoga on the dock, interspersed with tending to maintenance chores and general cleanup of the property.  Within this perfection, grief continued to be my constant companion throughout each day - it does not take a vacation. The daily challenge of ensuring that sadness does not gain a strong foothold is always present but being up at the cabin continues to be more difficult than being at home - I hope this will not always be the case because it is so beautiful there.  Out for a run on the back roads this morning, through acres of wild flowers, amid a symphony of bird songs, I was having trouble shaking off the sadness which was threatening to prevail.  Then, halfway along the route, Michael and Kelly's larger than life smiling faces appeared, side by side.  Their sparkling eyes met mine, sending me encouragement and cheering me on.  I could feel the love and support emanating from them.  My sadness lifted and joy filtered in as I happily returned their smiles.     

Having Resolve

Having resolve means deciding firmly on a course of action, making the best of a challenging situation.  It requires digging deep to draw on one's inner strength, which leads to becoming even stronger.
Having resolve is what my newly separated, fifty-something friend is choosing as she creates a new life for herself after being informed by her husband of almost thirty years that he no longer wants to be married.   
Having resolve is what my recently married, twenty-eight-year-old acquaintance is demonstrating as she courageously undergoes surgery, chemo, and radiation for her recent breast cancer diagnosis.
Having resolve is what I choose every morning, then repeatedly employ over the course of the day in order to not go under from the grief.  The reward is personal growth, and opportunity for personal growth is what our life challenges are all about.

Moving On?

Moving on.  Well-meaning individuals tossing versions of this phrase into conversations.  With regards to grieving the death of my son.  "I'm glad to see you're moving on."  Implying leaving something behind.  As if putting it somewhere in the past is the answer.  Not relating to that concept at all.  Not moving anywhere.  Living with it.  Choosing to be in the present as much as possible.  Experiencing what is, right now. Extremely sad that Michael is gone.  Beyond description.  Living with that reality.  This not something that can change.  At the same time, loving the presence of my granddaughter.  Lucky enough to be kissing and holding her often.  Appreciating that immensely.  Grief and joy co-existing daily.  One not precluding the other.  Moving on?  Not part of the equation.

Self-Help Strategies

Recognizing the need for additional self-help strategies earlier this week, while navigating a predominantly grief filled day.  Prompting me to make an appointment for an early evening massage.  Contacting one of Mike and Kelly's friends to plan an upcoming coffee date.  Bundling up against the cold and stepping out to absorb some late afternoon sun on the patio.  While there, breathing deeply with eyes closed, asking for a sign of reassurance from my son.  Within moments, hearing the distinct sound of a hummingbird flying by.  The first one I have noticed this season.  Then moving inside to settle in on the sofa.  Rereading an old copy of The Little Prince.  Allowing this exquisite story to wash over me.  At the end of the day, none of these activities "fixing" the situation. Just doing what they were intended to which was to support my spirit. And that, they did beautifully.

Eight Months and Thirty Years

A morning filled with intense emotions.  The highs and lows of motherhood swirling within.  Today marking thirty years of being a mother.  Reflecting on how astonishing it feels to have a daughter this old.  Appreciating the good fortune of being able to share my life with her.  Valuing our loving relationship.  So proud of the woman she is. Simultaneously, recognizing it was Monday morning eight months ago today when my son left this world.  The feelings of grief understandably heightened.  Powerful emotions stemming from these two extreme experiences.  Coexisting.  Realizing love is at the core of it all.

Cloud of Grief

Yesterday morning.  Blindsided by a heavy cloud of grief.  Blew in without warning.  Undeterred by the bright skies and sunshine outside. Stubbornly anchoring itself.  For no particular reason.  The date having no special significance.  Not missing them more than on other days.  It just happened.  This process of grieving so unpredictable.  Resulting in a 'holding my head above water' kind of day.  Profound sadness penetrating my entire being.  Weighing it down.  Tears flowing. Breathing laboured.  Despite meditation.  Not eased by the self talk of how much worse it could be.  Its firm grip remaining even after a long walk along the ocean.  Not relieved by a conversation with a friend or phone call to a relative.  Accepting this is what it looks like at times. Hopeful that today will be better.  Confident of being able to weather it if not.

Pure and Simple

A moment infused with tranquility and contentment.  Across the lake, early morning sunlight streams onto the hillside.  Mesmerized by the magnificence.  Another day full of possibilities and potential.  In this beauty, the tears fall.  My body expressing the layer of grief that can only be processed on the physical level.  Regardless of time spent intellectualizing the situation or focusing on the spiritual aspect, there is energy still needing to be released.  This not negating the presence of the glorious day before me.  Pure and simple.

Six Months Today

Grieving the loss of a loved one is difficult.  Two simultaneously, doubly hard.  Six months today.  Both of them in or around my thoughts most of the day.  Some of the night.  Grief still residing deeply in so much of my being.  Eased at times by the knowing they are together.  That was Michael and Kelly's destiny.  Finding a measure of comfort in this.  Also buoyed by their smiling faces when asking them for help with all of this.  Diesel on occasion showing up with his grin.   Envisioning them watching over all those who loved them, with pride.  Observing us carrying on to best of our ability.  One hundred percent behind us.  And always in our hearts.

Sea of Emotions

Finding every day to be a very bumpy ride indeed.  Travelling in this sea of emotions.  Sadness, contentment, disappointment, joy, grief, love, loneliness, and gratitude.  Often shifting from one to another in mere seconds.  Some days filled with more of the uplifting feelings.  Others weighted in favour of those that can be difficult to endure.  When experiencing prolonged periods of the challenging emotions,  I think back to a recommendation heard regarding cravings at an addictions education seminar last year.  To notice the urge, acknowledge it, observe it, and remember that it will pass.  Works with uncomfortable feelings too.  A healthy prescription for helping to stay the course.

Seeing the Similarities

I ran into a business acquaintance yesterday and she shared her condolences.  She then exclaimed, "I know exactly how you feel!"  My first thought was, "No you do not".  Middle aged, never been married and no children.  She knew exactly how I felt?   She proceeded to tell me that after her mum died, she had cried every day for eight months.  My mind quickly proceeded to judgement - grieving an eighty year old mother versus a twenty five year old son.  After a few minutes of small talk we said our goodbyes.  As I left, I reflected on her comment and my reaction to it.  I then remembered something that I had momentarily forgotten .  Grief is an emotional reaction to the loss of any relationship that had great meaning in ones life.  She obviously experienced very deep pain with that loss and imagined the same for me.  My desire to measure and compare our situations focused on our differences and created separation in my mind.  Seeing the similarities brought me back to a place of connection.  Much better.

A Cup of Tea

Sharing a cup of tea.  Being a life long coffee drinker, I am curious about this notion that has been repeatedly presenting itself to me these past couple of days, that of sharing a cup of tea with a friend.  I have many acquaintances but I do not have a large group of close friends. Which friend is it that I need to share time with now?  Obviously, a tea drinker.  Specifically, one who can understand the deep sadness that comes with being the mother of a child who for many years often struggled with such pain and despair resulting in many harmful behaviours.  One who will listen as I share that the grief I am experiencing now is not for my son, but rather for myself as I begin to fully acknowledge how wearing that was.  I will call my tea drinking friend of thirty three years this morning.

The Weight of Grief

As I trudged along the mountainside trail early this morning, rain mixing with the tears on my face, I felt the weight of grief sitting on my shoulders, and in my heart. With each step, my legs felt as if they were carrying the load of a thousand pounds.  I had to look hard for gratitude and glimpsed it in the knowing that I will be surrounded by so many others this afternoon, all of us sharing our love and support in the sorrow of missing our beautiful Kelly.