“Why are you so afraid to tell the whole story? You’ve paid for the words. Say them.”
-Matthew D. Eayre
I first read the above quote on a post that was sent to me by a very brave, dear person speaking her truth during April’s sexual assault awareness month. There was so much pain, truth, and loss on her healing journey. In reading her experience with this quote, I sat, gutted. Excellent pieces of writing that share truth and vulnerability while touching the cornerstone of our very own pain, awakens the soul and brings the senses alive. It is the place where our humanness greets sacred space, shared by one another that says: There you are, I see you, I honor you and your pain. Allow me to sit with you and I’ll be still in your grief, loss, and healing journey.
Like many of you, I’ve been glued to my couch watching the television series “Yellowstone” over the past years and I recently finished the prequel “1883.” Wow! There is such grit and lessons and rich histories in our journeys. And that’s what “1883” accomplished as I binged watched over two days. I noticed that the parallel of life and loss portrayed in the series stirred in me an array of emotions. I was both gutted and inspired. Both small and large losses and traumas were depicted and somehow always rooted back to the experience of being gutted emotionally in both pure joy and pure devastation. Throughout the episodes, the healing bounty of Nature tied the heartaches together with some form of a promise of new life – a breathtaking sunrise, a quiet prayer, still waters, a mirage of a flirtatious smile dancing with a dimpled grin – some form of life that stirred in me the whole story. And then, like all forms of inspiring art, I thought of my whole story. I thought of saying my words and wondering if there was in any way, even one person who felt heard or inspired to reflect on their current or stored pain and joy. If so, what a lovely garden we could cultivate together!
Loss and death rearrange us. They transport us forward and backward in time, sometimes in search of answers, other times in denial for a much-needed reprieve. Grief and pain oftentimes take us to another realm, and although needed, lets us eventually remember the here and now to help us heal and grow, even if it means sitting on the riverbank breathing in the new life of summer or allowing the wind to take our anguish out to sea in the crashing of the waves. Notice the blooming flower, the old, rooted tree, and the soar of the eagle, for they too have been broken yet live again.
“There came the time that the risk to remain tightly in a bud hurt more than it took to blossom.”
Anaïs Nin
The morning of Sunday, August 23, 2009, was one of the most beautiful mornings I’ve ever witnessed. There was a calm energy in the air. As one of my early morning summer rituals, I ventured into my gardens and prayed, got lost in my thoughts, breathed in deeply the smell of nature, and listened to the birds. Sitting in my garden labyrinth that morning between 6:30am and 7:00am, my thoughts and prayers were for my children, especially Jacob as he was feeling sad for a few days after one of his best buddies had just left out of state to play college football. Jacob’s summer was coming to an end and my heart needed help in letting him go as he was preparing to attend the University of Cincinnati. I sat in silence, scanned the yard, and smiled at my gardens. I closed my eyes then quickly sat up, writing these words:
“There is something authentic about early morning walks in the garden - cold dew on my bare feet, aroma of fresh herbs, late summer flowers, a comfortable silence, and the humbling reminder that there is a power much greater than us.”
On that same Sunday, at about 5:50am, my 19-year-old son, Jacob headed out the door for work. His job was at a golf course, and he enjoyed the outside, earning money and joking around with the older employees. I am an early bird, so I was awake with my Earl Grey decaf tea in hand. As Jacob was walking out the door, I teasingly yelled in a southern voice, “Hey, you get back here and give your mama a hug!” He smiled a sleepy smile, shook his head, and hugged me. There was a wistfulness in his eyes that morning…something was on his mind, and I think it was a girl who had his heart. The thought of that made me smile. We said our traditional family goodbye of “Love ya, see ya,” and he walked out the door. I watched him get into his car and drive away, my heart tugging as I pictured the anticipation of the next month when he would leave for college. I took in a deep breath, exhaled, and watched the last of his red taillights wave goodbye to me as he turned the corner.
That was the last time I saw my son alive. He was in a car accident and died upon impact. From the moment I found out about his death, I really was a changed woman. I fought that concept for many years because I loathed the thought of me being both full of life – loving nature and god and my family and friends, loving the work I do as a therapist - as well as half empty – cancelling plans with friends last minute, more introverted than I already am, and a few days a year, like Jacob’s birthday and death day - feeling as if I couldn’t breathe for a few days leading up to the actual day.
But, what I’ve learned over the almost 13 years that Jacob has passed is that it really is okay to take those days and slip into a dark, heavy thunderstorm of grief that cracks with pounding booms after strikes of lightning hit like a frightened dog let loose - running thinking she was free, only to find out she’s trembling with fear and gut-wrenching desperation wondering if she’ll ever find her way home again. I’ve learned although a very real feeling, it’s also a temporary feeling that continues to help transform loss and grief. Both personally and professionally for my clients, I cannot stress enough the importance of allowing and experiencing those overwhelming thoughts and feelings that continues to morph us and lead us through the pain. There is room for life and death to hold space together. And yes, it is okay and necessary for both healing of mind and body to experience loss and life together – especially allowing the struggle to meet reprieve so we can experience deliverance for a time and eventually watch ourselves transform through the ebb and flow process of loss.
Today, June 13th, 2022, would have been my son’s 32nd birthday. A few days before are always the worst because of the anticipation of leading up to what I know will be an echo of emptiness in the background of thankfulness and joy as I reminisce about that incredible life born into my world and handed to me to share his first hug. Feeling vulnerable upon waking, I gradually become stronger throughout the day, ready to smile and laugh and reminisce as the day goes on, eating his favorite strawberry shortcake, sharing time with my husband, daughter, and granddaughter as well as receive words of support and share great memories from friends and family. The peace begins to flow as I accept that life really does continue and joy really does invite herself – sometimes intruding, yet I’m always eager for the reprieve.
How blessed am I, for I was able to give Jacob both his first hug when entering this world and his last hug before he departed. I am forever grateful for that incredible boy and through my tears and smiles I shall eat strawberry shortcake, tend to my gardens, look for orange butterflies, hug my husband and daughter a little longer and watch my sweet granddaughter run and laugh and talk about “Uncle Jacob” as if she already knew him. At 9:52pm, the time Jacob was born, my husband and I go outside in the dark, light a candle and sing happy birthday. A bittersweet time to connect and remember.
May peace find you in your lowest times and sustain you in your most joyful times. May courage radiate from within and from above, ascending from a higher source other than yourself. And may your story of tragedy and joy inspire others, so that truth and love vibrate with nature, beautifying the earth and her people, with light and harmony.