Grief

I’m Adopting the Term ‘Brutiful’

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“There’s going to be a blizzard,” they said.

Well, maybe not so much. This past weekend all of the Front Range hunkered down and expected to receive anywhere from 10 – 24 inches of snow. I took the picture above on Sunday afternoon at about 2 pm. While snow may have fallen from the sky for most of the last three days, anything that actually accumulated and stuck to the ground melted quickly. My tulips survived under buckets, and we didn’t even have to shovel.

And that, my friends, is why we live in Colorado. Spring snow continues to be a Colorado phenomenon, but we bask in the promise of returning sunshine when the storm passes.

A friend recently introduced me to author and blogger Glennon Doyle Melton. She has this phrase that I kinda love. She says on her ‘Meet Glennon’ page, ” Life’s brutal and beautiful are woven together so tightly that they can’t be separated. Reject the brutal, reject the beauty. So now I embrace both, and I live well and hard and real.”

This is right where I’m standing. In the beautiful pain and potential of grief. In the letting go of my dad and gaining support. In the looking forward while honoring the past.

So this week, I shift my focus to accept the “Brutiful.” I share in vulnerability some of the ‘brutiful’ things I experienced this week.

I found the hand-written toast my dad gave on my wedding day. I want to treasure this piece of his handwriting on folded notebook paper. As I sat down to read his words I sobbed, real loud ones, and Dylan had to come and give me a hug as I let the ache move through. It is brutal to know that this piece of paper will be the last handwritten note my dad ever gave to me. Beautiful to have his words, his heart, his wisdom, maintained on paper.

I had ten wonderful women over for dinner, wine, and coloring on Saturday night. Magic exists when women gather together and share their experiences over food and drink. We laughed, ate chocolate, and several of the wiser women scared me into postponing parenthood even further than my “five year plan.” Beautiful to be surrounded by friends and support, brutal to know that despite best efforts to socialize, the ache still exists in my heart. Hello heartache, I see you.

As I move forward in this dance, I am thankful for the balance of acknowledging both places, and realizing that I can exist in the middle. Thankful for the beauty of Sunday night dinners as my brother’s friends helped set the table. Thankful for the ‘brutiful’ ceremonial recognition my mom gave at that dinner as she invited my brother, my husband and me to share in the sitting at the head of the table. My dad may be gone, but patriarchy be damned, we are feminists in the house I grew up in. We will now take turns sitting at the head of that table.

I read two beautiful books this weekend, and took comfort in the words written by Clara Bensen in her book “No Baggage: A Minimalist Tale of Love and Wandering.” This exchange of dialogue was particularly comforting:

“She paused, measuring her words, and then said, “I wonder what would happen if you quit trying to be normal and just let yourself be exactly where you are?”

“What, just let all this happen?”

“You might be surprised,” she laughed. “Maybe life as you know it has shifted. But just because you are lost doesn’t mean you can’t explore.”

 

Keep searching for the beautiful. Keep exploring. Keep honoring your heart. Keep waiting for the spring snow to pass. Beautiful summer is coming.

When Friends Take You Grocery Shopping

Life has brought me into a new season. A five letter word. A season of grief.

Previously, I have experienced loss in several capacities. I’ve said good-bye to my grandfather, and watched my childhood friend say good-bye to her father when he lost his five year battle with cancer three years ago.

Never have I experienced, however, the crippling shock that results from loss on a deeply personal level. When I received the call that my dad had passed unexpectedly, the first thing that came into my mind was the song lyric from Baz Luhrmann’s “Everybody’s Free to Wear Sunscreen.” Well, maybe not the first thing. But these words were certainly rolling around in the mess of thoughts and emotions that flooded my brain.

Luhrmann says, “Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind. The kind that blindsides you at 4 p.m. On some idle Tuesday.”

For me, it wasn’t a Tuesday. It was a Friday, and it was 3 pm.

If there is one thing I’ve learned in the last few weeks, talking about death, loss, and grief can make people feel pretty uncertain. I know this is about them, and not about me. However, it doesn’t feel great to watch how your own pain makes others twinge in discomfort, or inspire fear in how they, too, could experience such an event. Grandparents, those we expect to lose. Not your dad, at the age of 58, when he was seemingly healthy the night before.

As the weeks and months move forward without my dad, and I continue to process this change in my life, it is not my intention to make others uncomfortable or to be seeking sympathy.

Rather, I choose to dwell on the fact that stories of shared experience bring me comfort. Over the past few weeks I have had several people share with me that they, too, have lost their parents unexpectedly. Co-workers and high school classmates have shared their hearts and insights as to how they have moved forward to survive without their loved ones. And so I am choosing to share tid-bits of my experience here. Maybe my experience can bring you some comfort or something to relate to in your own journey. I now know that even in the midst of terrible loss, there is beauty to be found.

 

Rewind to two weeks ago. Thursday night. I had planned my meals for the week ahead as my mom and dad sat on my couch. We shared glasses of red wine and caught up on the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Jotting down what I needed to get at the grocery store on Saturday brought comfort and a small sense of accomplishment in getting ahead on regular tasks.

IMG_3667This damn grocery list has sat on my kitchen table for the last two weeks because with a flood of funeral obligations, family time, and throat-aching sobs, I did not find the time to make it to the store.

Plus, the outpouring of support from our family and friends allowed our freezers to be full of casserole, lasagna, and breakfast burritos. Chores as mundane as grocery shopping quickly fell to the back burner.

However, as we marked the two week anniversary, it became pretty apparent that grocery shopping was necessary. Yet, the list continued to sit on the table. It can be challenging to return to routine after such a shock. At times, the thought of every day life just feels like too much.

On Friday evening, I had the blessing of two girlfriends coming down to join me for a meal out. After eating and drinking and discussing our lives, we decided to skip on dessert and make brownies at home. We had to stop at the store to get a boxed batch of promised, gooey, deliciousness.

Both of my friends insisted on returning to my house to get my list – the neglected reminder of my last night with my dad. I hesitated and said I could manage by myself, later in the weekend, but they insisted. Pissed, I grabbed my grocery bags and got back in the car, quietly feeling scared of undergoing such a task. My dear, gentle friends followed me around the brightly-lit aisles, put items in my cart, and helped me complete one of my first attempts at returning to normalcy.

Because that’s the thing when you lose a loved one – life continues, trash needs to be taken out, and you return to work, but picking out peanut butter can be a gut wrenching experience. The presence of these two women in a King Soopers on a Friday night was the most beautiful example of ‘showing up’ and letting me be me I have witnessed in my experience with grief.

Thank you to my dear, beautiful friends who have shown up in so many ways over the past few weeks. Thank you for wiping my tears, reminding me of love through candles and journals and phone calls with sobs, for bringing us Easter hams, and sending chocolates from across the world. For the cards, the flowers, the sentiments, and the continued communication of love and support as we move forward. Friends are the most beautiful things.

What are your experiences with grief? How have you moved forward? Do you find sharing your stories is comforting, scary, or even allowed?

 

Zoom In

The world hurts. The world aches. This blog was created to alleviate some of that internal tension for myself, to look for the silver lining, and the good amongst the struggle, the suffering, or feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. On every level, I am learning, we have the choice to acknowledge the broken parts of our lives while striving for peace and enjoyment.  You know that video from elementary school that starts with an atom and magnifies and magnifies until you are stuck in the middle of the cosmos? This one? 

I’ve been thinking about how we are called to examine ourselves and the connections on each level of magnification. Where do you stand, and how does your world expand or contract based on your own power of ten?

On a macro level, it is no surprise that our world is struggling. The refugee crisis that is unfolding has caught my attention in ways that are new to me. I’ve always loved history and quite often said if I was given the opportunity to go back in time, I would search for an adventure during World War 2. The thousands upon thousands of stories that come from those years peaked my interest since sixth grade. Twentieth Century Politics was my favorite class in high school and I was shocked by the way one book written by Marx could influence so many lives through political repercussions leading us to where we are today.

Now, however, I am realizing that tomorrow’s history is created in the present. The political conflict that is occurring now will be in textbooks when my children reach high school. These choices that leaders are making are affecting trajectories now, and that potential is of monumental size.  These are lives of individuals, families, societies, that are living today. The ‘then’ expressed in history textbooks has caught up to the now – at least in my almost fully developed frontal lobe. I send empathy and compassion to those attempting to rebuild, to strive for something good, to make sense of things that seem unfathomable overseas.

As I zoom in a little bit, and reflect on community connection, waves of sadness hit me too. A young man my brother grew up with lost his battle to mental health this week, and I was shocked by his passing. Pain on a micro level ripples here too, in our own little communities that are supposed to be free of these social issues. I’m learning no, the suffering is here too, in our own circles, with our own friends, with our co-workers, and women in our book clubs.

I am not claiming I can begin to relate to these stories, these struggles, or the tremendous questions that arise out of situations like this. Rather, I am asking myself this week to zoom in. Zoom in and think about how my actions can help or hinder other’s struggles. Zoom in and allow myself to cry, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, while we try to make sense of these situations that are never perfectly going to make sense. Zoom in and recognize the beauty in feeling all of your emotions.

…….. the emotions related to your own relationships

……… the emotions related to situations outside of your control

……… the emotions of simply being human

The beauty in feeling the confusion, the grief, and the gratitude for the knowledge that by acknowledging these emotions, they too shall pass. Find someone you trust to process with. Or perhaps schedule a time to cry in your planner. Either way, allow yourself the space to find release.

Sometimes, you can plan when tears will cleanse. Other times the process of emotional release catches you off guard, and you have to weep. Keep weeping, keep feeling, keep searching for the beauty in the feeling not so very beautiful. This dance of zooming in and zooming out helps us find our place.

 

 

 

Here’s to You

Sometimes, I worry about development – about our houses and our gyms and our stupid super stores taking over the planet. Yes, this trend is concerning and I want to rip developer’s “FOR SALE” signs out of those open fields. But then, I take a road trip to the Mid-West. It is when I drive through parts of Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin with miles and miles of corn, and I think “Ok, we’ve still got plenty of open space.” I am so snobby that I fail to remember that lack of things to look at on I-90 means food on the table, corn in my belly, orange soda in my hand. I’ll admit it, I’ve got some Colorado elitism in me and I carry some opinions about our neighbors to the east. I am, after all, a Colorado Buffalo. Sorry Husker fans. Did you know there isn’t a Starbucks within 200 miles between cities in Nebraska? I looked.

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This road trip helped me to identify a few growth areas within my personality – say some acceptance for slower ways of living, a respect for those who don’t sport my same coffee addiction, and a questioning look into my privilege of honestly craving carrots and hummus on the road rather than fast food. This trip, too, gave me an appreciation for roots, and for tradition, for open spaces, and for love that families create.

Dylan’s grandfather passed away last week. It wasn’t expected, and he was fairly healthy at 84 years old. It was less than 48 hours between finding out he fell, to finding out he had passed on. News like that is never easy to absorb. It is easy, however, to mobilize, and within a few days we packed up a car and ordered snacks, and loaded our Kindles to make the 15 hour drive to Wisconsin because nothing else in that situation would make sense.  Seven adults in a Ford Excursion is a lot different than a road trip with the cousins when you are ten or eleven. We still had fun, still made the most of it.

It can be, at times, hard to find beauty in tragedy or peace in the midst of suffering. My experience participating in Dylan’s family as they began to grieve was very different than that of when my own grandfather passed away. We all handle emotions differently and my family is known to be, well, “over processors” when it comes to emotion, so I wasn’t sure how to act or what to expect.

Tears were shed, and stories were told, and laughter was more common than silence or weeping. I was exposed to a Catholic funeral, a viewing, a rosary – cultural experiences I had never had before. We ate a lot of cheese curds, our sandwiches had butter on them, comfort food was shared.

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This is Grandpa as a kid – an original Cheesehead I suppose

 

What I found to be most beautiful in this experience, however, was pausing to reflect upon all the lives this man created and influenced and impacted. Gerald had six children, and a few married or committed to someone, and a few of those six had their own children. As the grand kids grow new additions get added on – me included. He has three great-grandchildren. Gerald served in the Army and the Navy so many men from the VA, or VFW or Knights of Columbus came and shared their respects. What a powerful thing it is to honor someone who has served our country.

I feel so blessed to be a part of their story – that I could hold some tissues, and hold Dylan’s hand, and give support to a family that has long ago accepted me as one of their own. It is never easy to lose someone you love, and even harder to think about what they will miss in your own lives. A part of me is really sad that the wedding did not come sooner – had we not postponed, both of our grandfathers would have been able to attend.

While I did not know this man very well, I have been blessed to be exposed to the beauty of what he created. A family of expansive love that gives freely, and ask questions, and has fun. So here is to you, Gerald Sullivan. Thank you for what you have given this world, and by extension, what has been given to me. Please know that you are loved.