Life, Love, and Loss

     While practicing yoga in my She Shed this morning, I acknowledged the beauty of the rainy weather visible through the glass door, as I reflected on the intense ups and downs of this past week. A roller coaster of emotions to process on the mat.
     It began Monday morning, with a call informing me that my brother had been admitted to hospital due to suspected heart attack symptoms. I spent the day sending both him and his wife loving energy, knowing that whatever transpired in there, it would be without the support of any visitors at all.
     Tuesday, I received an encouraging update on his health, along with the good news that a procedure had been scheduled. Then, deciding I needed a hit of grandkids, I hopped on my bike with coffee tumbler in hand, to my older daughter's home for an outdoor visit, all of us maintaining our two metre spacing.
     Wednesday, a COVID wedding with five of us present and physically distancing, of course.  No matter how big or small, officiating wedding ceremonies always brings me joy. Then later in the day, a treasured conversation with my younger daughter, hearing about her rich metaphysical experiences.
     Thursday morning, a message from my brother that he was feeling good and going home. A huge sense of relief. Then after lunch, I walked down to the village to tie a bouquet to my mother's memorial bench so that it would be in place for the following day's anniversary of her death. 
     Friday, I enjoyed a morning forest walk with my husband, reminiscing about my mom and thinking about how much I wished she could still be part of our lives. Then after our lunch, the two of us drove out to the valley for an overdue visit with my brother and his wife, during which we chatted for over four hours, seated around their backyard fire pit. So grateful for the chance to see them in person.  
     Saturday afternoon, I had the immerse pleasure of officiating two more weddings, both outdoors under dry skies.
     And then, Sunday. With three outdoor weddings scheduled, it would be a full day. After the first one, I had a couple of hours free, so I returned a missed call from a young friend. Sadly, I was informed that Kelly's dad had died unexpectedly, on Friday evening. My heart immediately went out to his family in particular, now thrust once again into that painful state of the newly grieving. I had the honour of being the celebrant at his marriage. Now, less than four years later, he has returned to the in-between, reunited with his daughter.
     A few hours later, after returning home from the third wedding, I sat down to relax with a glass of wine. Scrolling through social media, I saw the article that I knew my husband had recently been interviewed for by the local paper. Well written, it was primarily about my husband's sense of humour as expressed on the sign mounted outside his business here in our community. However, partway through, still within the context of the story, there was reference made to Mike and Kelly's deaths. So of course, the tears started flowing.
     A week filled with deeply emotional experiences of life, love, and death. All clear reminders of what really matters.
www.diaryofanintuitive.com
Image credit: Gordon Johnson, Pixabay

You're Lucky You Don't Have a Son

I love family celebrations and fortunately there have been many, of late. Three birthday parties (including a milestone one for my 90-year-old father-in-law), as well as meals shared over Easter weekend. And coming up, a get-together for Mother's Day. After any family event, I always experience the inevitable emotional letdown of missing my son more acutely, but thankfully, the intensity of this feeling usually dissipates by morning.

Today, however, there are still lingering effects from a celebration that took place over a week ago, due to a comment an extended family member directed at my husband that evening. The words continue to reverberate in my mind, triggering this ache in my heart: "You're lucky you don't have a son." This, from someone who had known Michael. Obviously, it was an off-the-cuff comment; this person certainly did not intend to cause any pain. Still, it is difficult to understand how he could forget that we had had a son. Maybe it occurred to him later, maybe not. Upon reflection, there is the off chance that he hadn't forgotten, but neglected to consider the consequences his words might have. The impact this comment had on my husband and me was twofold: one, the shock upon hearing the words themselves, then the resulting pain, and two, recognizing the stark contrast between these two realities. My husband and I live with this profound loss every single day and yet, for this person, it appears that our son has slipped completely off the radar. And so, it goes. The learning continues.

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. 

Opposite Sides of the Same Coin

Eighteen months in and still, most moments in my day are filtered through the lens of losing my son.  Thankfully, a little less frequently, and for the most part, with reduced intensity.  Two recent experiences in particular come to mind.  Both nonevents to an outsider, yet milestones for me.  Firstly, the entire twenty-four hours of August 7th passed without registering the significance of that date at all.  The first time, since March 7th, when I did not reflect upon a one month marker. Largely due to being out of the country and in a completely different time zone.  While observing this the following morning, I was enheartened. Pleasantly surprised.  Secondly, later that month, after an evening of exploring Zurich with a Swiss friend, I returned to my hotel room.  It was only then when I realized that not once had I thought of the loss during that entire six hour excursion.  The longest stretch by far during this year and a half.  In both cases, it was recognizing the absence of something that left me feeling encouraged.  Seeing what was not there. Experiencing opposite sides of the same coin.  This coin most definitely a penny.

Silent Screams

Experiencing total relaxation.  For mind, body, and soul.  Upon waking, allowing each day to comfortably unfold.  Choosing to make only minimal plans in advance.  Savouring an espresso on the deck. Practicing yoga outdoors.  Meditating in the warm breeze.  Hiking in the shade of the woods, or in the full sun along the alpine trails. Devouring simple picnics or elaborate restaurant offerings.  Falling asleep under a feather duvet, to the soothing sounds of the mountain stream nearby.  And yet, still hearing the silent screams in my mind. Accompanying me on this journey across the ocean.  Loud and clear. My psyche continuing to process the loss in minuscule pieces.  On that deepest level, wisely accepting only tiny fragments of the situation at a time.  Just as nature intended.  Leading me to consider Edvard Munch's famous painting The Scream.  The artist creating a visual representation of the weather and surrounding landscape of that specific moment.  He sensing something deeper in this expression of nature.  He hearing a silent scream too.

Fish Out of Water

At times, verbalizing the loss leaves me struggling to breathe.  Straining to fill my lungs with oxygen.  Imagining a fish would feel this way, if plucked from the sea, then tossed ashore.  Undergoing this sense of insufficient intake of life sustaining fuel.  Experiencing it particularly when speaking to a very close friend or loved one about the impact of his death.  When acknowledging aloud that the space he held in our family has lost its density.  My reaction indicating there is still much left to release from within.  Even after spending hundreds upon hundreds of hours writing about it.  Thinking about it.  Talking about it. Connecting with spirit about it.  The journey continues.  There is no shortcut.    

Reconnecting

Attending a funeral at Boal Memorial last Tuesday.  For the mother of one of Mike and Kelly's good friends.  First time back in that chapel since Michael's service.  So many familiar faces.  Seeing Kelly's family, along with numerous young men and women experiencing that great loss last year.  Personally finding great comfort in reconnecting with them all.  Despite the sad circumstances.  Then later, flowers in hand, walking up the pathway into the forest alone.  Towards the two plaques positioned side by side on the wall.  Surprised and thoroughly heartened by the sight of so many of Kelly and Mike's friends already there. Followed by many more joining in.  Recounting stories.  Some tears. And laughter.  Punctuated by quiet reflection.  All acutely feeling loss. Then one young woman reaching down to the ground.  Picking up a penny lying beside a pot of flowers.  Directly in front of the plaques. Holding up the coin to show me.  The two of us shaking our heads in amazement.  Sharing a smile.  Recognizing and appreciating the ongoing marvels.

Heartfelt Visit

Spending an engaging evening over wine and appies with one of my daughters here last night.  Along with two acquaintances adjusting to a very recent loss.  This mother and daughter now a family of two.  The four of us taking turns filling each other in.  Sharing anecdotes about the ups and downs of life.  Some much appreciated laughter too. Touching upon the gifts available to us after experiencing a profound loss.  Greater compassion for others.  Increased confidence and freedom to make fitting choices for oneself.  Deeper appreciation for the right here, right now.  A heartfelt visit leaving me feeling connected, uplifted, and grateful.

Postcard From Hawaii

Very much appreciating these rejuvenating days in the sun.  Yet, there is no escaping the loss.  No place on earth exists where that would that be possible.  Not even here in paradise.  Marking eleven months today. Thinking about you innumerable times, each and every hour.  While swimming with the honus and asking to share their strength.  In conversation with the affable young man considering a job opportunity in Alberta.  When spotting the handcrafted transparent shell ornament consisting of two doves with a heart suspended between them.  And so many of the moments in-between.  Postcard from Hawaii.  Michael, wish you were here.

Unique Journey

In discussion with other parents experiencing the loss of a child.  One mother mentioning something most can identify with.  Likely our biggest common denominator.  "The most important rule in life got broken."  Outliving ones child.  All of us branching out from there.  So many aspects influencing this journey of grieving.  Just as with any huge life altering experience.  The age of the child.  How she died.  The quality of life he was having.  The nature of the parent child relationship.  Family dynamics.  Personality traits.  Spiritual beliefs or the lack thereof.  Personal challenges the parent was facing in addition to this death.  Degree of available resources and support.  A unique journey for each one of us.  No two paths exactly alike.

Urge to Call

Find myself longing to talk with my daughters more often.  Phone conversations every few days.  Meeting up weekly if possible.  Craving that ongoing connection.  Even more so than before.  In part, to counter my sense of vulnerability.  Of loss.  While reflecting on my recent phone conversations with them, the urge to call my son came on with great intensity.  The desire to speak with him as I could when he had a physical presence.  To ask about his week.  Touching base.  Longing for the banter.  Grateful for the new style of communication we do have, but often missing the old.

Connecting the Dots

Reflecting on some of the key events that led to the existence of this online diary.  Connecting all the dots.  Winning that trip to Mazatlan which required my daily posts on a promotional blog during the first week of January this year.  Describing the smorgasbord of experiences encountered there.  Blogging.  Something I had never done before.  An amazing opportunity.  Then, a month later.  The first week of February.  With prompting from my paternal grandmother's spirit, I committed to posting five days a week on my own blog.  Assuming at the time that the each entry might take thirty minutes or so.  Soon realizing that it took a couple of hours a day. Before long, the first week of March had arrived.  During which an accident occurred that would take their lives.  And change mine forever.  More than six months have passed since that first entry entitled "It's Just a Life".  Now, writing closer to three hours a day.  Spending many more playing with the possible concepts and themes.  Gaining clarity and awareness in the middle of the night.  Rising every morning, inspired to write.  Engrossed in the process.  Recognizing how much it nourishes me.  Curious to see where it leads.  This, the monumental gain from that tragic loss.

No Better Word

Words.  When expressing emotions, I have hundreds of eloquent ones to choose from.  And yet, on occasion it is a very primitive utterance that fits best.  F**K.  An expletive used to voice the deep sense of overwhelming loss I often feel as I reflect upon all that has happened.  When it hits me hard that they will not be back.  That physical connection, gone.  No more hugs.  None of their laughter or smiles.  Spoken silently in my mind or forcefully expelled from deep within my chest.  Sometimes it is the only word to choose.