First Blood of the Passion

My goal has always been to try to blog daily, but sometimes the best laid plans of (wo)men and mice gang agley as Bobbie Burns says. Mine have gone astray with yet more things to do with my mother's estate.  It sometimes feels like it will never end!

While I've been getting death certificates and financial papers in order, I've also been thinking about the upcoming Passion Week, the High Holy Days of Christendom.  In particular, I've been thinking about Holy Thursday and the events in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Like a lot of Catholics, for me Holy Thursday has been a day when the emphasis is on the institution of the Eucharist and the foundation of the priesthood. Gethsemane is sort of an "add-on" that happened, but not much attention is paid to it.  It's sort of like Gethsemane is the transition between the Last Supper and the Crucifixion, with not all that much happening.

Oh, yes, there's that whole "Your will not mine" episode and the betrayal of Judas, but those things often get sort of swallowed up in the following events: the trial, the scourging, the via dolorosa, the crucifixion and the burial.

That's why I think we need to take a new look at Gethsemane. The events in the Garden are, to my mind, exquisitely poised to help those of us who are living in these times cope with the stresses and pressures of our times.  A new kind of meditation, one that is centered on  Gethsemane, might be just what the modern world is seeking.

Let's begin with the first and perhaps most startling revelation I had.  It was in the Garden that the First Blood of the Passion was shed. We talk about the "Blood of the Lamb" in reference to the Crucifixion, but it was there, under the olive trees that Jesus first began the Passion. Luke 22 says, "And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground."

 Now for most of my life, I sort of assumed that this bloody sweat was unique to Jesus, but it isn't. Other people, most notably a young girl terrified of the World War II air raids in Britain, have experienced it as well. It's called hematohidrosis and according to wikipedia:

Dr. Frederick Zugibe (former Chief Medical Examiner of Rockland County, New York) stated: "The severe mental anxiety...activated the sympathetic nervous system to invoke the stress-fight or flight reaction to such a degree causing hemorrhage of the vessels supplying the sweat glands into the ducts of the sweat glands and extruding out onto the skin. While hematidrosis has been reported to occur from other rare medical entities, the presence of profound fear accounted for a significant number of reported cases including six cases in men condemned to execution, a case occurring during the London blitz, a case involving a fear of being raped, a fear of a storm while sailing, etc. The effects on the body is that of weakness and mild to moderate dehydration from the severe anxiety and both the blood and sweat loss."

The key here is severe mental anxiety. Jesus was so terrified of what was coming, his blood vessels hemorrhaged. I don't know about you, but I've never considered that the calm, in control Jesus that we always portray going to his death experienced such "severe mental anxiety" the night before that he, quite literally, panicked. And in his panic, he shed the first blood of the Passion.

This seems to me to contain a powerful lesson and example for us.  Stress, anxiety and panic are so common that millions of Americans take drugs every day to cope. To think that Jesus was subject to the one of the greatest maladies of our time gives me pause. 

I have more to say about this tomorrow, but for now, just consider for a moment that of all the events of Jesus' Passion, the one that we can relate to the most in our day and age happened in that time we so often gloss over--in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Sunday Gratitude for the end of March

Sundays are hard for me. I used to spend them with Mother and so the emptiness is more intense than on other days. And then there are old memories of other parts of my life that seep into Sunday as well, making the day just plain tough.

That's why I decided to use Sundays for listing gratitude.  When I'm feeling my darkest, it makes me look toward the light.

1. Blue nail polish.  I've always liked nail polish and for some reason blue polish just tickles me.

2. Half and half.  Yeah, so it's hard on the arteries and skim milk or soy milk is so much better for you.  But in a cup of coffee, real half and half can't be beat.

3.  My son.  I got to talk with him yesterday and that always brightens the greyest of days.

4.  The public library.  I love being able to browse for books that I might not have ever thought about reading, either electronically or physically.

5. Wifi.  Of all the recent inventions, wifi has got to be one of my favorites.  Sitting anywhere in the house and being able to access the internet and email is magical.

Reflections on Poverty

 Parts of this will be in my new book on Facing Adversity with Grace coming out later this spring.

I have to confess that I’ve long had a problem with those who prattle on and on about how poor Jesus was and how destitute the Holy Family must have been. Before anyone has a coronary, I agree that Jesus and the Holy Family were “poor,” but their “poor” and our “poor” aren’t quite the same thing. First of all, in first century Palestine, in fact, in first century almost anywhere, there were only two categories—rich and poor. The  “middle class” didn’t emerge until quite recently in history. Jesus and his family certainly weren’t rich, so by default they were poor. But being poor wasn’t the same as begging at the gates of the city for scraps and even first century Palestine had its share of beggars. Poor was what everyone (except the rich) was. Poor was average.  

To say that the Holy Family lived in abject poverty seems to me to be quite insulting to Joseph. He was a tekton, a skilled workman more along the lines of what we would call a contractor. He wasn’t whittling the occasional little bench or stool for his neighbors in exchange for a handful of grapes. He probably was involved in much larger construction projects, possibly even working in the nearby Roman city of Caesarea where massive public building was going on. If he was unable to adequately provide for his family given his talents and abilities and if they were reduced to begging for handouts from their neighbors, which is what the truly poor had to do, then he shouldn’t be held up as a model for husbands and fathers. The same goes for Mary. If she was such a poor homemaker, unable to manage with what Joseph provided, that the family was the poorest of the poor in their region, then why do we look to her as our role for ideal wife and mother?  

Those who want to call attention to how poor the Holy Family probably aren’t imagining that they lived under a palm branch at the city wall, digging in the garbage for their food and wearing cast-off rags, which is what the truly poor would have been doing. I know that people claim as proof of their destitution the fact Mary and Joseph offered a dove instead of a lamb in the temple at the time of Jesus’ birth. Again, I’m not so sure that’s proof positive of poverty. I personally think it’s more common sense. If you could get the same blessing for buying a dove instead of a lamb, wouldn’t you buy the dove? I may be wrong, but I’ve always thought of their action as more like buying “generic” instead of “name brand.” In addition, I have the hunch that the only people who bought lambs were those who wanted to show just how important and wealthy they were. Mary and Joseph had no need to show off, even if they did have an idea that their son would turn out to be someone quite special, so they didn’t splurge on a lamb.

It seems to me that instead of calling them “poor,”  it is much more realistic to think of the Holy Family as “average,” not the elite with their marbled baths and hummingbird tongue banquets, but a family who had adequate food, sufficient clothing and a satisfactory dwelling to be able to live a normal life. In other words, the Holy Family was pretty much just an ordinary family doing ordinary things. If you are still questioning this, then consider that when Jesus was 12, they traveled to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. It wasn’t cheap to travel now and it wasn’t then. They had to pay for the caravan, their food, the temple sacrifice and all the other expenses that come along with a “vacation.” If the Holy Family were truly the poverty-stricken beggars of Nazareth, they wouldn’t have been going anywhere, much less to the capital city for the biggest festival of the year when all the prices would have been elevated to make a profit off the visitors. 

Or think for a bit about the Wedding Feast of Cana. If the Holy Family were the truly poorest folk in the village, why would Mary even presume to talk to the wine servers? She would have been grateful to be allowed into the festival at all, much less get involved with the matters of what was being served. She wouldn’t have been calling attention to herself or her son, but probably sneaking a few morsels into a bag for the next day’s meal. 

As for Jesus himself, it is true that he said he had no place to lie down his head, but again I think he said that for emphasis’ sake. After all, he did have a mother and family back in the old hometown and I’m pretty sure they would have found him a bed and a blanket if he knocked on the door. Moreover, the women who accompanied him and bankrolled his ministry, like Mary Magdalene and the Johanna, the steward’s wife, were wealthy. I can’t imagine that they didn’t provide more than adequately for his needs and those of his disciples. Why else would the gospels make a point of telling us that they were rich?

Jesus might not have had much money of his own, but his ministry was well off enough that he and his disciples had money to give to the poor, since we are told that Judas complained about spending money that could have otherwise been donated. If the disciples themselves actually were the poor, they would have been receiving money, not giving it away. In addition, they had sufficient funds to rent a place for the Last Supper and eat a full-blown Seder meal. Even in those days, the absolutely poverty-stricken couldn’t afford a lamb, much less the rest of a Passover meal. Jesus and the disciples had to have had sufficient funds to afford what amounted to a catered dinner. Finally, the robe he wore to his death was so well made that the soldiers cast lots for it. It couldn’t have been the rags of a beggar or they wouldn’t have bothered keeping it.

I expect some people will be shocked and even angered by this, but my point is not to say that Jesus was rich; he wasn’t. My point is to show that suffering from severe financial hardship doesn’t have to be considered a goal of our lives just because we have been taught that Jesus and the Holy Family were “poor.” Jesus said he came to bring us abundant life, not neediness and poverty. Moreover, being poor and in debt doesn’t automatically create holiness. If it did, the crime rates in slums and inner cities would be lowest anywhere. Of course, wealth brings its own set of temptations and struggles, but the reality is that even saints need money to do their good works, even if they merely have the money long enough to give it away. The only time that poverty is a true blessing is when it is voluntary. Having to worry about where the next meal comes from is suffering, not grace.

The Mind Killer

 I've always loved this quote. Now, when I face fears I thought I had vanquished, it is even more meaningful.

“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
Frank Herbert

Accepting New Normal

Today, the beginning of Spring, much of the US swelters in a heat wave.  Here in Oregon, we are having a new Ice Age. It's been several years since we've had this much snow...and to have it in March just isn't right. I mean it's REALLY NOT RIGHT.

I was completely snowed in this morning, and without internet, phone or tv. Cell coverage was spotty, only allowing for the occasional text  message to get through. Plus I have a horrible runny nose, itchy eyes and cough.  I'm not admitting to it being a cold, but it bears a certain resemblance to a cold.

So, as I have been sitting here, feeling a wee bit sorry for myself, I've been contemplating what I call my "new normal."  New normal is what happens to you after (or while you are in the midst) of a major shift in your entire life.  For me, it began with the death of my mother, or more precisely, a year before when she broke her legs and we started on the long journey home.  In these past 15 months, everything that I had thought was "normal" has been upended, from my role as her daughter and caregiver to finances, to becoming involved in a criminal investigation (not my own!) to spiritual shifts to...well, nothing that I had considered "normal" a year and a half ago now is the same. 

I've been bucking and snorting at the enforced changes. I don't like any of them, thank you very much.  I want to go back to the way things were...when I knew what normal was and could plan for my future. 

As if any of us can truly plan our future.  We might as well try to plan the past.

Which brings me back to "new normal." I have come to the conclusion (insert much bucking and snorting) that it comes down to one of two choices:  live or die.  I either have to accept what looks like will be normal from now and continue living...or fight it and die, either figuratively or literally.  Them's the only choices available.  Live or die. 

So what does "new normal" feel like?  For starters, it's very alone.  For my entire life, I had my mother with me and now I am truly and utter alone.  (Nefer and Basti would beg to differ, but feline companionship isn't quite the same thing as human.)

For another, it's scary. I never used to fear adventures or insecurity, but now everything from financial issues to fallen tree limbs from the snow feels frightening. The future, which used to seem rather far away, now skitters around the edges of my consciousness like a very nervous rabbit being chased by a starving coyote. It's easy to slip into full-on panic mode about tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.  In my imagining I'm living in a cardboard box, sleeping on a urine-stained mattress, eating cat food out of a dented can while dying from cancer because I can't afford treatment. (See Anxiety Girl.)


Finally, "new normal" doesn't feel very normal. Which makes the aloneness and the scariness of it even harder to accept. But it is what it is, as a friend tells me, and until I can come to grips with the fact that my new normal contains these elements, I'm probably going to be creating more of both the aloneness and the scariness. 

So today, as the snow starts to fall again (in March!!!), I am taking a few deep breaths and telling myself that what is now my life contain both both solitude and fear.  But I'm also telling myself that perhaps, just perhaps, once I embrace these two and invite them to warm themselves by the fire, that some other parts of "new normal" will also manifest themselves.

Like peace. 

Or, who knows, maybe even hope.

Fear, Excitement and Chemical Soup

A friend asked me today what was making my griefwalk so challenging.  I had been thinking about that myself and so I had an answer, or at least part of one.

For as many years as I can remember, back to my childhood, my mother was always the most significant figure in my life.  As she aged, and I took on more and more of her care, that central role became more prominent.  Now, at her passing, it's not just her death that I grieve, but a radical shift in my whole life.

My friend commented that such a place to be could be a bit scary.  And yes, it is.  For my entire life, I had one constant--mother, her needs, her wants, her presence.  Now, all of sudden, she is gone and there are possibilities and challenges opening up that I never even considered before.

I learned in a seminar that the chemical response to fear is only one molecule different than that of excitement. That's why things like roller coasters that terrify me can be thrilling to someone else.  In their chemistry, the experience is processed as exciting; in mine it comes across as terror. They think, "Woo Hoo. This is a blast!"  I think, "OMG, I'm going to die!"

Right now, my chemistry is looking into the future with terror, not excitement.  My heart pounds, not with the thrill of new horizons, but as if a rabid wolf who hasn't eaten in a month is right on my heels. So last night, I tried something.  I tried consciously to shift my feelings from fear to anticipation.

Now I'm not going to say that it was a resounding success and that I flashed from one state to another, but I did sense a tiny little shift in the chemical soup that is coursing through my veins.  It was if I could see that fear and excitement are truly close and that maybe, with practice, I might be able to create and hold that shift for longer than a nanosecond.

It's worth a try.

Sunday Gratitude for mid-Lent

I know that listing the things one is grateful for is an important way to refocus.  Sometimes it's easy to find dozens of things; other weeks, not so much.  That's why I'm limiting my list to five.  That way if I have more than enough, I can pick and choose and if I'm struggling, I only have to think of five. 

So this week's five:

  1. Lemon water.  I really like lemonade, but in a pinch, water with a squirt of lemon, even from one of those plastic lemons is thirst-quenching.

 2. Clean kitty litter boxes. Freshly bleached. Self-explanatory.

3. A pellet stove.  When it's snowing in March, nothing makes the room cozier.

4. Enough ice cream in the carton for a nice sized bowl.

5. St. Joseph.  I really love him as a patron and tomorrow is his feast day.

A Message from the Other Side

I had been told that sometimes, when you are grieving, you dream of the person you've lost.  I've never had that experience...until last night.

Last night I dreamed (this does sound like the opening to Rebecca) that my mother visited me.  She was seated on a sofa and I was kneeling at her feet.  We talked about things I can't remember, but what I do remember is looking directly into her eyes and thanking her for coming back one last time to see me.

She then held out her hand with two Mass cards. (For those of you who aren't Catholic, a Mass card is card presented to a person telling them that you had a Mass said for them or someone they love.) The cards both had written on them very clearly "May 12," which is the date of my father's death.

I got the sense that she wanted me to have Masses said on that day, which I will.  Then, as I watched, she gradually got younger and younger, her hair growing darker and her features becoming more youthful until, she before she disappeared, she had long dark brown hair, just as she did when I was born.

And then I left my hypnogogic state and came fully awake.

Was it a dream? Or did my mother really visit me?

I'm not sure, but there's one more thing that happened yesterday that was unusual.  My mother was one of the most disorganized people in the world.  Everything was jumbled and tossed randomly and now much of it is in boxes in my garage.  Unsorted boxes which could contain anything from check statements from 1952 to the last napkin she used and stuck into her purse.

I felt compelled to go out there yesterday afternoon and, as I stood in the middle of the boxes, tears streaming down my face, I cried out:  "What is it you want me to find, Mother?"

I then opened a bag that had some keys and coin purse and piece of paper with her distinctive characteristically beautiful handwriting:

St. Jude Thaddeus, Known to help us and (I) pray that my daughter never lose heart when the way has so many pitfalls and God guides her step as she is shown the way....Let her know this will not be the true and final case....

I'm not quite sure what to make of it all, but I have the distinct impression that I've been given a message from my mother.

Tear Soup

Sometimes the best resources are written for children.

I went to a Bereavement Counselor today and read Tear Soup. 

I can't recommend it enough for anyone who is griefwalking.

Radio Silence Grief

I have discovered a new stage of grief.  I didn't know it was phase until a widow friend told me it was: the quiet time. 

I find myself withdrawing into silence, into myself.  I don't want to talk to people, go out, see anyone.  I just want to be alone...in my own inner being. I don't want to remember out loud or share.  I am griefwalking in radio silence.

It's rather odd, actually.  It feels like introversion to the nth degree and while I am an introvert at heart, this is extreme even for me.

My friend says that it's just a stage and it will pass.

I wonder what other surprise stages are waiting for me.

This is me.  I can immediately leap to the worst possible conclusion.

Pain in my shin? 
Cancer of the bone!!!

Higher than expected heat bill?
Foreclosure on my house!!!

Haven't heard from my son in a few days?
Dead in a car accident!!!!

It's a talent.

Sunday Gratitude

Just before my mother died, I was beginning to use Sunday's posts to list things I was grateful for.  I sort of fell off the gratitude stool into the grief pit, but today I'm making an effort to be grateful. It might not be bouncing up and down with whoop de do joy, but it's a start. 

And a start is the best I can do right now.


1. For primroses that survived since last spring.

2. For chocolate ice cream.









3. For a bit of sunshine today.

4. For the prayers of friends.

5. For Simply Lemonade.

A New Chapter

 From my upcoming book on Facing Adversity.

The poet Dylan Thomas wrote, “After the first death, there is no other.”  Some have interpreted that line to be a poetic way of saying “we only die once,” but like all good poetry, it is subject to a variety of interpretations. For me, it has always meant that once you truly experience the profound suffering that comes from losing someone you love, you’ll never experience grief the same way again. But that “first death” isn’t necessarily the first time you experience death; rather it’s the first time you experience it in a way that wrenches your heart and soul.

As I write this, I am mourning the loss of my mother, who died at age 92 after a lengthy period of decline. While my heart aches, hers was not my “first death.” I experienced that some years ago when, of all things, a beloved cat died. It was then that I was utterly struck by the pain and loss that death brings and the soul-wrenching loss of grief.  Of course, the grief from the loss of a pet, no matter how beloved, differs from that of the loss of a human, as it rightly should. But the one thing that I learned from that “first death” was how I process the stages of grief made famous by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance).

The fact is that we all process grief in our own unique ways.  Some are stoic, keeping a steely countenance and dealing with the emotions internally.  Others are wild-haired and vocal in their suffering, keening and wailing both literally and figuratively.  The comfort that comes after once having experienced real grief is that from then on you know your own reaction, the way you will cope and process it.  And, in addition, you know that you will get through it.  Along with recognizing the stages of pain, you can begin to see the stages of healing as well.

For me, I know that I pass through the stages of denial, bargaining and anger relatively quickly, but become ensnared by depression and deep sadness before I finally come to acceptance.  For me, some time after a grievous loss, even the most sunny of days is tinged with grey clouds in my soul.  But I know, too, that when I first begin to sense a quickening of hope and a calm, no matter how momentary, that the healing is beginning. It may take a long time, especially when the loss is as profound as that of my mother, but having lived through grief before, I also know that healing will come, in its own time and own way.

---

Vaulting to Easter

I've written a couple of posts and then erased them without publishing because I was sort of embarrassed by them.  You see I'm not really over my grieving yet and well-meaning and well-intentioned friends are getting impatient with me.  It's been nearly seven weeks and they are not only ready to move on, they have moved on. The fact that I'm still not over mother's death and the other things that have happened and am not fully ready to slay dragons and take on new challenges is frustrating to them.

It's a little frustrating to me, too, and it's a bit embarrassing to admit that some days it's really really hard to even get out of bed, much less face the world with a song in my heart.

Deep down, I know that it's okay to take the time I need to process the changes, but it also hard to admit that I am not one of those people who is able to get over and get on with it quickly and easily.

I think one of the reasons people want me to be all better by now is because our modern version of Christianity likes to leapfrog from the cross directly to Easter. In fact, sometimes I think modern Christianity doesn't even pause at the cross, but vaults to the rolled away stone at the tomb, maybe even to the Ascension into glory in one might bound. It's as if because we know how the story ends, we don't want to deal with all that messy stuff of Good Friday along the way.

However, the messy stuff of the Good Fridays of our lives doesn't just zap away because we know there is an Easter.  The cross remains, and it's a cross for good reason.  The living through it is hard, painful and sometimes seems as if it will never end. 

I try to assure my friends that I'm not just wallowing in self-piteous grief to be frustrating and annoying.  I'm doing all the things that you are "supposed" to do to move on.  It's just griefwalking has its own pace and route.  I'm happy that, for some people, their episodes of grief were compact and completed quickly.  Mine is just taking time.  Time to feel, let go and then feel again.  Time to remember, to cry, to buck up and then repeat the cycle.

It is getting easier and less painful, although the betrayal that I still can't quite talk about publicly (but I will as soon as I can legally) has added an extra layer to the process.  When one of the griefs subsides, the other roars in to take its place.

One of the things I have learned thus far is that compassion for one's own journey is an essential aspect of getting through.  I'm hoping that I am learning compassion for others as well so that maybe one day my griefwalking will help someone else who is feeling embarrassed because they aren't "all better" overnight.

For now, I'm working on having compassion for me.

I spent the afternoon getting the taxes together for my mother and me.  Finally, after wrestling with numbers and information, I went in to pick up all the forms I'd printed only to discover one of the cats had peed all over the stack.  (I think I know which one, but they were both had the "Who? Me?" look when I got there.)

Now after all that has happened this past six weeks, from death to taxes, the cats must have decided that my life was, to use a phrase, piss poor these days.  Wasn't it nice of them to make the comment for me?

The Winter of My Discontent

"Now is the winter of our discontent /

Made glorious summer by this sun of York."

When I was little, I had this perpetual calendar, a sort of circular thing with the months on it. December, January and February were winter. In my mind, the year is still divided that way and tonight, as I get ready for bed, I realized that tomorrow begins a whole new season!!  March/April/May are spring according to my internal calendar from childhood. (Never mind that November through June are essentially grey winter here in Oregon.  I'm not going to think about that!)

Since tomorrow is March 1, I am hoping and praying that there will be a lightening of the burdens that have plagued all of the winter of my discontent.  It's been a very very long winter and I'm quite ready for the summer, not by the sun of York, but by the Son of Man, to come.

I'm Sorry

I owe everyone who has lost a loved one an apology.

I never realized just how exhausting and painful griefwalking is.  I bought into the cultural norms that say that a month after a death should be plenty to move on with life.

It isn't. 

It's just the beginning.

Oh sure, the acute stage is over and I can go a day without crying (usually), but the sense of loneliness, of abandonment, the weight in the pit of the stomach, the fear that wells up in the middle of the night...these things are still very much present. 

I didn't know.  And because I didn't know, I wasn't as fully present, as sympathetic, as empathetic to those who were grieving as I could have been.

I'm sorry.  Please forgive me.  I now know better.

Betrayal: the Monkshood of Life

Mother died a month ago today but this isn't about missing her. It's about another kind of loss.

I received word today that I had been betrayed by someone I considered a good friend and trusted companion.  This betrayal that has shaken me to the very core and has catapulted me into a whole new cycle of grief.

What makes betrayal so painful is that it requires a high level of caring, intimacy and vulnerability. When the dagger is inserted, the pain comes not just from the wound but from seeing who wields the weapon.  I suspect that's why Caesar's last words were, "Et tu, Brute?"  The pain of betrayal was more agonizing than the mortal blows.

 
As I think about the betrayal in my life--and it is a betrayal that involves more than just me and my feelings; it will end up in both civil and criminal courts on a federal level--I am struck by the passage in Scripture that says evil can appear as a angel of light.

It reminds me monkshood, a lovely flower that is so deadly that it contaminates the very soil it grows in, rendering the earth itself poisonous. It's so toxic that you dare not weed around it without wearing gloves and even then, when taking off the gloves, you can be in mortal danger. Yet, the flowers are almost incomparable in their beauty.

Betrayal is the monkshood of life.

Couldn't have said it better

Grief is an automatic process in which a period of denial helps buy time to process the loss. Although we tend to believe grief passes through consecutive stages, it doesn't. Emotions come and go in no particular right order. We respond with numbness, shock, denial, intense sorrow, pain, anger, confusion, loneliness, emptiness, depression, guilt, fear, abandonment, isolation, physical symptoms, irritability, fantasy, restlessness, disorganization and even moments of hopelessness.

Grief taxes the immune system, making the body more susceptible to illness. Physical symptoms can include headaches, fatigue, appetite loss, dizziness, heart palpitations, numbness and insomnia. The overall feeling is one of exhaustion caused by the intensity of emotions.--Dr. Linda Mintle

Emily Dickinson Kick

I'm on a bit of a Emily Dickinson kick these days.  She is one of the few poets whose words I know by heart.  Today it's:

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I can wade grief

I can wade Grief --
Whole Pools of it --
I'm used to that --
But the least push of Joy
Breaks up my feet --
And I tip -- drunken --
Let no Pebble -- smile --
'Twas the New Liquor --
That was all!

Power is only Pain --
Stranded, thro' Discipline,
Till Weights -- will hang --
Give Balm -- to Giants --
And they'll wilt, like Men --
Give Himmaleh --
They'll Carry -- Him!--Emily Dickinson

Saints and Grief

 When I was writing my book on Saints and Suffering last year, I didn't include a chapter on Grief. There were several reasons for that, but probably the main one was that I didn't realize just how much suffering there is involved in the grief process.  Now that I've been griefwalking throught my loss, I think I'd like to investigate how the saints dealt with and handled their grief. 

The one place I do talk about grief is in the chapter on St. Jane de Chantal.  In it, I wrote:

St. Jane de Chantal had more than her share (of suffering)

It began when her beloved husband, the Baron de Chantal, died from an accidental gunshot wound, leaving her a widow with three small children. Jane was inconsolable and despondent, falling into a deep, grief-fueled depression for at least four months. For various reasons, including protecting her children’s estate, Jane was forced to live with her father-in-law, a difficult and tyrannical man who made her life miserable. For seven long years, she lived in virtual servitude until finally, as her biographers say, her patience and virtue triumphed.

Yesterday I talked about how our culture expects us to be over and done with grief in a matter of days (preferably hours if not minutes), but that grief doesn't work that way.  I find it surprisingly comforting to realize that a saint was "inconsolable and despondent," even deeply depressed, after a death.

Because we are so loathe to let grief has its time, the depression that falls like a soggy wet tarp on life isn't something we are comfortable discussing.  "Get something to help!" is the well-meaning advice of friends.  What they really are saying is "Your depression is making me uncomfortable, so take something so that you act happier and that way I won't have to feel so uneasy when you burst into tears over a cup of tea."

Taking a drug to mask the feelings only means that the feelings are submerged, and submersion isn't the same as healing. Healing is a process...a process that takes time. If it took St. Jane four months to begin to come out of her grief depression and she was a saint, then it's okay for me (and for you) to take the time we need to experience our walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

Moving On...or Grief is SO 12 Seconds Ago

Our society is very instant-oriented.  Movie stars separate and the tabloids have them "moving on" to their next relationship before the indentation from the wedding ring has time to disappear. The commerical for ATT&T captures it perfectly. "That is so 12 seconds ago!"

Grief, however, still responds to older, deeper rhythms. Rhythms that can't be forced into our Insta-Over-It mentality.  The stages of grief have to be processed in their own time, and that processing simply takes time.

For me, with my Mother, several of the stages were accomplished on the long journey.  I didn't deny her passing or bargain with God about it.  I was ready for the stage of sorrow and gradual acceptance before I got the actual phone call.

As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, feeling sort of out touch and out of reality, I know that the grief I'm feeling comes from two sources.  First, the great sweeping waves that come when I think about Mother.  I surf them, feeling them rise and fall beneath my heart, taking my breath away as they crescendo.  

Then, there are other waves; short, harsh, choppy waves like the sea in a storm, pounding and battering against the shore of my being. These waves of grief come from the whole situation swirling around the friend who was arrested for a white collar crime.  (Since it isn't my story and since we are still innocent until proven guilty in this country, I choose not to disclose anything more about it here.) These waves of grief are on an entirely different schedule than those surround Mother.  They answer to the names of denial, bargaining, anger and fear.

When I am between waves, I think, "How odd to be caught in two different grief cycles at the same time."  Then a wave comes, be it sweeping or short, and I feel the ancient rhythms of pain take over.  There is no way out but through.

God grant that I have the strength to make it through two cycles simultaneously.

Let It Be

It's a bit surprising to me that I have been getting up, going to a new part-time job, working on my regular writing and editing, feeding the cats, feeding me and even, once in awhile, sweeping the floor, all on a sort of autopilot. It's only in the middle of the night, when there is nothing conscious to block the subconscious that the feelings of fear and pain surge.  I wake up every couple of hours, heart racing, mind whirling, fear-filled and sorrow-drenched.

Grief is a night stalker.

As I remind myself to breath, I am acutely aware that Mother died three weeks ago today. I received a check in the mail for the deposit we put down several years ago on her room in the assisted living/nursing home where she lived and died. It was a breathing-sucking moment to see her name on the check.  I laid it on the seat of the car as I drove into the driveway from the mailbox and it's still there.  I probably should go out and get it, but I think it can wait until morning.

I've never exactly believed that hard things come in threes, but they do seem to cluster in our lives.  Perhaps the good things cluster too, but we just don't pay as much attention to the good as the hard, sad, difficult things.  However, these past three weeks seem to have been a knotted cluster of pain.  There is, of course, Mother's death and all the commensurate pain that surrounds the loss of the woman who was the most significant and influential person in my life.  Added to it is my sorrow, confusion and pain over a good friend who was arrested in connection with a white collar crime. Not to mention the feelings that came with being interviewed by the police. No matter that I know nothing, it's still a bit disconcerting to have a police detective arrive on your doorstep. And then there is the heartache for a friend whose mother had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.  Having just walked through several months of hospice, I felt my heart being pulled the pit of my stomach at that news.

This afternoon, despite the fact I had more to do than time to do it in, two friends asked me to join them for a cup of coffee at the Washburne Cafe.  After driving by it three times (It's that autopilot thing again.), I finally found a parking place and feeling like my inner and outer being was in shambles, I met them.  I could barely tell you where I was, but they steered me to a table, gave me something to drink and began to comfort me.  We talked and laughed and prayed.  They lifted me up and reminded me that all things have a season and nothing lasts forever---good or bad.

"It's been a long season," I thought, remembering back a year ago when Mother broke her legs and the long long road that finally led home. I didn't want them to know, but surges of panic were rising again as I thought about how to manage her last affairs, pay her taxes, and try to find a way to now take care of me and my own needs.

Just then I noticed that there was a song in background.  I hadn't heard any music playing the whole time we were talking, but suddenly I heard the words, "Let it be."  The Beatles song was coming from somewhere.  I stopped and listened:

And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow, let it be
I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
There will be no sorrow, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be.
Let it be.

I truly believe that God was sending me a message at that moment.

Let it be. Let it all be just as it is.

There will be no sorrow. Let it be.

Praying for Summer

If some King of the earth have so large an extent of Dominion, in North, and South, as that he hath Winter and Summer together in his Dominions, 

so large an extent East and West, as that he hath day and night together in his Dominions, much more hath God mercy and judgement together: He brought light out of darknesse, not out of a lesser light; he can bring thy Summer out of Winter, though thou have no Spring; though in the wayes of fortune, or understanding, or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintred and frozen, clouded and eclypsed, damped and benummed, smothered and stupefied till now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the Sun at noon to illustrate all shadowes, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons—John Donne

Small Surprises

I've been an orphan for two weeks now.  I realize that's an odd way to express it, especially at my age, that is the reality. Two weeks ago, at 4:14 am, the world as I knew it altered forever.

These past two weeks have been filled with a lot of sadness, but also some small surprises. Maybe, because there is so much heaviness in my life right now, I am savoring the small bits all that much more.

Like last night.  I was having a massive craving for chocolate, but there wasn't anything in the house and I up to going out.  On a whim I opened the cookie jar, which never contains cookies and LO!!!  There were four, count them, four OREOS!!  I don't know exactly how long they'd been there, but they tasted just fine as I snorfed them down.

Just a small surprise in the midst of dark days.


(And while I'm talking about dark days, I have a friend who is experiencing some huge issues with his business and another whose mother has just been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer.  So to those who find and read this blog, a few prayers, good thoughts and positive energy sent their way would be most welcome.)