Wednesday, July 4, 2018

For Thor - 95 - Three Little Birds

I woke up yesterday groggy and grainy-eyed. I slept okay but maybe not long enough. You know me, Thor, I'm part of the "gotta get my eight" crowd. 5:30 am saw me yawn and stretch and groan my way to the sofa where I took my spot to meditate. This morning ritual is so important to me as it allows the subconscious mind to arise and be gently cleared, one mantra repetition at a time. I liken it to cleaning glass and that each time I engage in meditation it's the same as wiping the crusty stuff off the mind's lens.

I never know what's going to come up. The subconscious mind is unpredictable, unscripted and unrehearsed. The myriad of impressions that are stored there show up in rambling jumbles without linear, timebound logic. My job is to sit in the weather and allow the thoughts to rise and then lovingly maintain focus on the prayerful intention of the repeated mantra. And it is a lot like sitting on a mountain-top totally exposed with nothing between me and the observation of the weather. Sometimes, my mind tries to latch onto one of these passing thought "clouds" and dwell on a remembered experience and I find myself mentally retelling stories and feeling regurgitated emotions. Steadiness here is important. I pull my focus back to the mantra and let the story go, recognizing it for what it is…just a thought. That thought is not ME, it's not MINE. It's just passing by. My attention is the only thing that can give it the energy to affect anything. And even then, what is really being affected? And this is the process toward peace. One thought at a time. One breath at a time. One prayer for grace at a time.

Grief, however, feels different. Its inherent relationship to Love puts it out of the realm of fear and passing fanciful thoughts. In the years I've been processing the intense emotions and rollercoaster responses to your death, Thor, I have come to learn a few things. One being that grief is not an expression of fear of loss - that is actually anxiety. Grief is an expression of Love that is crying out because of the misbelief that we are actually separated. Ultimate understanding of truth would free us from grief as we come to know that separation is not possible. Here in the dream that is this changing world (the heavenly world of the Creator cannot be anything other than changeless), we are destined to feel pain and suffering over the separation that our own minds have caused and continue to believe in.

Yesterday grief welled up in my heart and would not clear. It needed to be expressed, like a festering wound. A hectic work schedule and a frenzy of activity to make life plans had me swallowing my emotions. Not just around the pain of losing you, but for several other huge shifts in my existential understanding of this life; and a few actual big life changes that have me reeling. Shit is moving and changing fast, Bubby. I felt your energetic presence nearby as this wave of emotional intensity crashed in, on and over me. It was clear you were trying to help me "sit in the weather" and feel what needed to be felt so I could regain steadiness in these changing moments.

I haven't had a day like that in a while, where I found it hard to focus. I couldn't make decisions or think through problems with a clear head. I kept blinking tears back and swallowing hard…only to find myself in the ladies room crying my eyes out. It was hard to take a full breath and even harder to let it out. The sea of suffering had whipped up into a storm that seemed hell-bent on capsizing my little boat. I should have taken the day off, but no. I soldiered on; raw and free-falling back to the bottom of the well. The one in which I've spent so much time.

All change triggers the sensory perception that is around your death. This is because that experience eclipses everything else, without exception. There is no pain, stress, sorrow, suffering, anxiety, worry, concern or any of the counterpoints to those that are not permanently altered in my experience of them as a result of grieving your death. I am different. The lens is different.

Chaz moved out.

He packed a few belongings, the things he thought he'd need as he set sail into the world, and stepped away from the shore of his childhood home. He's nineteen years old, Thor. And is older than you having surpassed you in age, waking one morning to a dawn that is one more than you ever saw. Chaz is a remarkable young man, his intellect and natural curiosity seems to beckon the Universe to bring him an opportunity. This is a byproduct of saying Yes to life, even if we are scared. He likes to say yes but is choosy about when and where. Discrimination is a good thing.

I'm impressed with Chaz's determination and can see how the gift of his innate moral fortitude will serve him well. He is honest and insightful and kind. I'm so proud of the man he is growing to be. Just like I am proud of the man you became, Thor.

It's interesting how life, in its dogged insistence to be lived, constantly intertwines experiences of the past into the breath of the present while simultaneously challenging me to drop the past in order to experience the present…which will become a new past. There is a forward propulsion that has a trajectory, a heading, but the way ahead is all blue sky. I can't have a heading without a point of origin; this is the past. It's a moving marker, built moment by moment into successive nows and thens. Memory strings each moment like dew drops on a silver wire, reflecting the light and evaporating into the cosmic consciousness of experience.

I've been thinking deeply about as you brother looks to the horizon, gathers strength in his young wings and spring from the nest into the life that awaits him. You, Chaz, Xan, your dad…me. We are tied together. The silver threads of our lives are interwoven, but also separate. Yours was cut so woefully short. Chaz' life path is beginning to diverge, marked by his interests, desires, and will. It's exciting to see where he chooses to fly.

And Xander is not far behind.

He took off in his Jeep with a pocketful of paychecks to go see his girl in North Carolina. He'll be gone for two weeks. Independent and competent, strong and kind. He's building relationships with the world and figuring out what he likes and who he is.

The house is quiet. Just me and dad rattling around in here trying to figure out how to be just the two of us, again. My boys are grown and gone. This is the trigger that got me yesterday. My role as a mom has changed to a supporting role, not the pivotal position in their lives it's been all these years. But more like, it's my identification that is being challenged to shift to a new way of being…but it hurts. Once again, life pulls me farther away from my experience with you. Another chapter is closing, a new one is opening and you aren't here to be a part of it. At least not in the physical realm where I can hold your hand, share a laugh, talk through your ideas and help you realize your dreams. I get to do that with your brothers, but it's clear to me that I raised independent children. This is a great thing for the world, but it can be a little jarring to this mama's heart. I can see how some mom's try to bake-in a little dependency to stay important in their kid's lives. I could never do that, it's just not the way we roll. But it does mean staying on the shoreline and wave as each of you casts off on a new heading… You've taken the most dramatic and permanent course, which frames my response to these changes now.

I take some more shaky breaths and keep sitting in the weather. They haven't left the planet, they've just taken the first steps into their lives here. I can only pray that your brothers stay a little closer than you, Thor.

I think about you boys, my three little birds, and the words of Bob Marley come to mind:

Don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright
Singing' don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright

Rise up this mornin'
Smiled with the risin' sun
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Saying', (this is my message to you)

Singing' don't worry 'bout a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright
Singing' don't worry (don't worry) 'bout a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright

Yeah, Bob. That's just what I needed to hear. Thanks, man.

I love you, Bubby.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

For Thor - 94 - Tilling Deeper Earth

Something happened as New Year's Eve tick-tocked past this year, marking two years that I've been grieving your death. Days, weeks, months of processing and learning to live with the fact that you are dead has transformed me. The first days of this journey were fraught with bewildered agony and utter devastation. The sun continued to rise and the seasons turned on their wheel, one melting into the next. The breath of life moved in and out of my lungs. My heart pumped, and my inner gaze, fixed on my heart, saw that the most significant work I could do in this life is to grow and learn and expand beyond what I thought possible. This is how I survive losing you, Thor.

I spent some time re-reading these letters I've sent to you. They are breadcrumbs that remind me of how far I've come and of compelling insights that came to me. I am grateful I took the time to write down the song of my heart in each moment and send it to you. But on the anniversary of your death, I read them over, and something shifted. The inner work I've been doing took a turn to a deeper place calling me to look more closely at life. Not death. Not grief. But life, and how it is being lived through me. I felt your presence change in nature to be less binary mother/son to one of a spirit guide and traveling companion. I heard a query in my heart asking me if I am ready to LIVE? It came to me in your voice.

For two years I did a lot of healing, seeking, listening, observing and praying. But was I LIVING? Had I hit the pause button at some point in my life, given up on living my dreams? All the intense inner work of processing the loss of my beloved firstborn brought me to a new place; one where I could set sail to live intentionally, with an open heart, vibrant with all the gifts gleaned these two years. So what was stopping me?

Your Aunt Radha turned me on to a beautiful exercise where you take time to write down all the things that are important and the quality of things you want in various areas of life; Relationships, Career, Vacations, Friends, Finance and so on. I listened to the man introduce the exercise and explain the reasoning and purpose of creating a life plan in this way. Then I started writing out my plan. As the practice went on, I became blocked and sad. The vision I had for my life was okay, it had all the aspects one would expect in a "good life plan." But it was non-specific and not actionable. My "goals" were more like lofty mission statements, not a blueprint for making something happen. I tried to think of things that were more grounded and specific, but nothing would come to me. What was keeping me from even dreaming the vision of the life I want? How come I couldn't see it, even in my mind's eye, let alone begin to manifest it with a plan?

I sat with this in meditation for a few days when another gift appeared. I was introduced to the concept of self-love being the key to first envisioning and then building the life I want to live. Okaaaayyyy…self-love. Now what? I know a few things about self-love, but really it's just the psychobabble stuff we all hear about self-esteem as teens and what not. I didn't feel that this was where I needed to look. Fortunately, a little book showed up about the same time. "Love Yourself Like Your Life Depended On It!", 60-ish pages of pure, first-hand experience on how learning to bring self-love to the equation can transform the inner dialogue. The internal dialogue is the one that governs my entire life experience and is the channel through which life manifests. What was my inner dialogue saying? What lies, truths, half-truths or alternate facts was I telling myself and why did I believe it?

Well, Bubby, this became a seriously deep dive into a whole-lotta-stuff. Recognition and remembrance of old hurts unintentionally inflicted by family, seriously bad bullying incidents at many of the schools I attended, questionable teen behavior that signaled deep pain and a desire for self-harm came floating to the surface of my mind. I discovered that I've been walking through life feeling like I was never adequate or good enough, feeling like I could never be loved. The crazy thing is that without grief beating me up for two years to soften me up I wouldn't have come to this place. I was able to dredge all this up, bringing it to the light of day where it could be examined and tested for truth. Where I could begin the journey toward self-love. I started with daily meditations attesting "I love myself." As this practice went on for a week or so, I felt there was some other work to do, too. I would need to embark on a journey of forgiveness. I had a whole lotta of forgiving to do, mostly forgiving myself for giving up on me. For causing hurt and harm to others as a result of hurting and harming myself. Holy shit…this was a deep ass hole. But you are here with me, Thor, walking alongside and cheering me on, helping me bravely face what was and what is and what will be.

We are so blessed to have a family that is willing, and even eager, to process and talk things out with each other. Nana and Grandpa helped shed some light on things. Perspective is important, perhaps more important than facts. The emotional lens we view things through is what creates our unique versions of the truth. If I can forgive whatever triggered the emotional response to the situation, I can reframe it with self-love and be free.

Life wants to be lived through me. It calls and beckons and dances before me in a dazzling array of possibilities. I have choices, too. I can choose to live life worried that I'm not enough, pushing and propelling myself forward out of fear that others will discover my obvious inadequacy. Or I can choose to live life knowing that I, like everyone around me, am enough and that we are all dancing our way through this world as sparks of the Divine - each one God's favorite.

Living face to face and heart to heart with grief, as an aspect of love has taught me much. But ultimately, I feel like it's time for grief to take a back seat as my great teacher so I can embrace and learn from the Master, Love. Grandpa gave me an excellent book that is the best book I've ever read on the subject, "Discovering Love" by Dayananda Saraswati. What grace to have all this help appear right when I need it!

My to-do list:
Till deeper earth. Plant seeds of love. Let life be lived through me, intentionally, joyfully.

Oh, my sweet boy! I love you, so! I miss you tons, and I know you know that I cry when I hear certain songs. My heart soars to greet you on the rays of a sunrise and on the wings of our crows that caw, good morning! Our story together is not over, it continues to unfold and flow and it will last for as long as there is Love to share.


Sunday, December 24, 2017

For Thor - 93 - Bless Us All

It's Christmas Eve, Bubby. I'm sitting in the multicolored prismatic twinkle of the Christmas tree in the early morning hours. It's peaceful and still. Here in the quietude that is all too rare these days, we can have a chat.

We've been putting one foot in front of the other. Dad and I are getting by. Doing what we can. Finding scraps of joy, fragments of smiles, seconds of insight and perspective along the way. We can allow good friends and good music to lift us for a spell, like at the Dillwyn VFD Christmas Dance. That was such a heartwarming night. I was wholly not in the mood to do anything for Christmas, but being there with so many friends -- and your friends, who have become my friends over the past two years; my heart twists, expands, breaks and shines all at once when we look into the other's eyes and see the Thor-sized hole that shines back at us. We are drawn to each other like magnets, each one with a piece of a broken heart and a story to tell. We conjure you in those moments, speaking your name in stereo and paging you to drop by and embrace us. I can feel you there, in those moments when we bring you to life with our words and stories, memories and love.

Lately, I spend a lot of time at work. The job has escalated to a new frenetic pace which is a good thing - the company is doing well. What I didn't realize is how I depended on work to help keep the pain of this whole holiday season at bay. That is until we closed shop on Friday and I was faced with it all at once. Without the pressure of the work deadlines and accountability to the team, I was suddenly unmoored. My mind was unoccupied enough that the looming and ever-present agony of grief rushed into that void. Dread. Why do I have to do this? Every holiday season starting after Halloween ramps up in excitement and expectation, higher and higher until we get to Christmas Eve, Christmas, Day After and then….WHAM! We slam headlong into the brick wall of the dreaded day. The worst day of my life.

What. The. Fuck?

So this year we needed to shake it up a little. Neither Dad nor I could hang with our usual routine and all the energy it takes to make it happen. We put up a small tree, it's just four feet tall. But it's sweet and doesn't feel forced. There is an authenticity expressed in its diminutive branches. We are doing Christmas, but maybe just a little less. We've made it a little easier. We'll spend more time at Nana's enjoying the wonder and innocent, wide-eyed Christmas excitement of little Kai. It's good to have the little ones around to keep our hearts lighter. I want to read him stories and play with toys like I did with you and your brothers. Just the thought warms my heart…which usually means tears are merely a blink away.

I got to spend some time with Starr, yesterday. Which made my day. She and Diane gave me a glorious snow globe that lights up and twinkles around a beautiful cardinal. When I look at it, I imagine your presence is like that…sparkling and shining all around us. That the love we have for you sparkles in our eyes and shines forth. We had dinner and just spent the day together. You would have liked the stuffed shells. You probably would have been impatient with our sappy rom-com Christmas movies and would have wandered out to the barn with dad.

There are many memories to hold onto and cherish, the ones that keep your voice alive and let me see your face in the movie in my mind. Sometimes I rewrite the script, you know, to change the story. I take the raw material of memories and weave them into a new tale. What would you be doing right now? Would you and Starr be married? Would there be a baby? Would you be a supervisor at work? Would you build a house on our land? Would you have bagged that buck you were always chasing? Would you get a transfer to live near the beach? What would you be doing if a longer life had been granted to you? I like to dream up alternative storylines. They always include you outliving me in a long life full of joy and experiences and love and challenges and victories. I know the story I'm living too well…I don't need to think about it so much as your death is the daily backdrop to my every breath.

Christmas symbolizes many things for many people. For me, I've always felt it to be a recognition of the light returning to warm the earth, which is symbolic for us to recognize the Light of the God which illumines our hearts. This is further symbolized by remembering the birth of Jesus who is the light of the world for so many. I am trying to focus on the Light this season. Since I know that is where you are; you are a light being, free of these mortal coils, but still able to be here in the form of light energy. I see you in a sunrise and in a ray of light upon the water. I feel you in the warming sun that streams through my windshield when I drive. My heart recognizes your playful nature when rainbows and sundogs appear in the strangest places.

We watched my favorite Christmas movie of all time - twice now; The Muppets Christmas Carol. Every time I hear the song "Bless Us All," I cry. It's one of the best Christmas songs ever written. I hum it a lot lately.

Life is full of sweet surprises
Every day's a gift
The sun comes up and I can feel it lift my spirit
Fills me up with laughter
Fills me up with song
I look into the eyes of love and know that I belong

Bless us all, who gather here
The loving family I hold dear
No place on earth, compares with home
And every path will bring me back from where I roam
Bless us all, that as we live
We always comfort and forgive
We have so much, that we can share
With those in need we see around us everywhere

Let us always love each other
Lead us to the light
Let us hear the voice of reason, singing in the night
Let us run from anger and catch us when we fall
Teach us in our dreams and please, yes please
Bless us one and all

Bless us all with playful years,
With noisy games and joyful tears.
We reach for You and we stand tall,
And in our prayers and dreams
We ask You bless us all

We reach for You and we stand tall,
And in our prayers and dreams we ask You,
Bless us all

I miss you more than words can ever say, sweet boy. It's Christmas time, and the absence of your physical self is more keenly felt. My heart is shattered but gloriously alight with love. The rainbow that connects my heart to yours is vibrant and alive…so you'll hear me loud and clear when I say, Merry Christmas, Bubby! I am hugging you tight in my heart and imagine holding you in my arms.

I know you know, but I'll say it anyway;

I love you,

Monday, November 27, 2017

For Thor - 92 - Emotional Alchemy - Part 1

I don’t even know where there last 8 weeks have gone. In a blur and a rush, I woke last Saturday, disbelieving, to the first day of gun season for deer hunting. A flash of activity caught my eye outside as three deer hounds bounded across the field with joyful exuberance. The sky was tinged pink with the first blush of daylight that sparked in like tiny rose-colored diamonds on the frosted lawn. I heard the not-too-far-off boom of shotgun firing, and my heart twisted. This is one of your favorite days of the year; first day of gun season. You lived to be out with the fellas and the dogs, the trucks, and radios and walkies and trackers, bundled in cammo with just enough blaze orange to be legal…

You should be here.

That thought makes me cry, every time. I try to avoid the "shoulds" since I know that only regret and pain lives at the end of those imaginings. But dammit, you SHOULD be HERE! We are closing in on two years -  two fucking YEARS since you died and I am still brought to my knees by a simple thing like hearing the boom of a gun on the first day of hunting season. Proof, again, that there is no getting over this. Your death and my adjusting to it is a permanent part of my life story now.  I can't tell you how much I really hate that.

I've had no time to process lately, and we both know how that goes… I get upset at the littlest thing that is utterly unrelated to what's really bothering me. Recently it's more than merely 'missing' you. I feel the searing burn of your absence on the daily happenings in our lives, and it pulls at me. We gather for a meal and hold hands to say the blessing…your hands aren't there in the circle, you head isn't bowed with ours. We say at every meal that we are grateful for this family and for the wonderment of being together, but we are missing one of our whole…we are a family with a deep and weeping wound that will never heal. It can't ever heal because we will forever love and miss you, Thor.

As ever, when the emotions are too big to contain in the house or within the simply busy-ness of random chores, I take to the great outdoors to wail at the vast expanse of the sky, my heartbreak and tears lifted on a breeze and carried into the Biggest Big…to the bosom of Mother Nature herself. I ran into many of your hunting pals along the road. They were kind, offering my words of encouragement and telling me how well you were liked among them.

It was a comfort to be out there where I know you would be, with the men you counted as your brothers. The day was bright and breezy and beautiful. I sat for a spell on a stump overlooking a clear-cut with a grand view of the mountains. We had a lovely chat, you and I, while I let the tears fall unheeded and let the wind dry them. Then a buck bounded past me he didn't seem to be in a hurry. He quickly and gracefully loped his way across the stump-strewn landscape toward the nearby cover and safety of the pines. As he cut past me, I thought of you and how I've depicted you as a regal buck in the tattoo on my arm. I thought that maybe you had sent me that deer to cheer me; to let me know that you are still here with me even when I feel like I've been so busy and have lost our connection.  Sometimes I can be pretty hard-headed, thanks for being persistent.

We traveled to Mimi and Pap's in Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving this past weekend. It was the first time I'd been there since you died and I dreaded going. I knew being there would pry open a whole box of memories and all the deep emotion and intensity that go with those memories awaited me there. All of that topped off with the fact that it is a holiday rooted in family togetherness and being grateful…well, let's just say I put on my game face and rallied. The trip up was fun, we laughed and sang songs. Xanny played DJ, and I drove so I could stay mentally occupied as I prepared to face the inevitable. When we pulled in, I took Lady for a walk and strolled across the lawn taking in the landscape where you spent so many of your boyhood days, fishing in the pond, driving the quad, or the mower, going swimming in the pool, sledding, hunting with Pap. 

I felt like I'd been hit with a fire hose as the images of your sweet face came rushing to my mind's eye. Your Mimi's house is full of the echo of your voice and all the growing up you did under that roof. I sobbed violently wrapped in Daddy's arms that first night as this fresh wave of memories starkly outlined the fact of your death and the enormous cavity left in our lives. I didn't sleep…the tears just kept falling.

Thanksgiving day is a busy day, and that's a blessing in itself. You would have laughed, Mimi undercooked the turkey, again. It's sorta becoming a family tradition. I say it's not done, and she insists that it is, so I relent, only to discover that no, it isn't.  Every damn year. How funny is that? I stayed focused on preparing a meal because missing you threatened to send me round the bend. Dad sweetly gave me hugs and poured me a whiskey or two. As the time to sit to dinner approached, I just kept breathing, waiting for that dreaded moment when the family gathered together over the meal...and there it would be…the collective recognition of your absence. That heartbreaking moment when no one knows what to say--has no words to express the enormity of what we feel. Pap got too choked up to say the blessing, so Dad attempted a prayer that gutted Aunt Shari and me. He said something along the lines of being grateful that we are all together which drew stark attention to the fact that we were not ALL together. We will never ALL be together, again.  Shari burst into tears in a way that I certainly could relate to. And I fell silent, diving deep inside myself to find the reserves that I've been working to build these past two years.

The meal was good, the conversation bumped and jittered across the surface of the intense emotion in that room. So much was on the minds of each of us with nowhere for it to go. The thoughts and feelings too intense for dinner talk…so we chatted about this and that and tried to find a way back to levity, to a place we could smile and not choke on the damn turkey. We did okay, but it was hard on everyone.

We made it through dinner and got things cleaned up. We watched Christmas Vacation, another family tradition, that spun me down into a dark place inside. I could hardly stand sitting there, but I did it for dad and your brothers and Mimi and Pap. I felt like I was being stung by bees, so I retreated inside, hiding behind a veneer of automatic responses. I was grateful to have Lady to take for a walk. I went outside and talked to the stars.

On Friday evening the family came over. Mimi and I put out snacks, and the people arrived-- just like we've done dozens of times before. Mike and Dee, Cameron with his girlfriend, Gerry and Lorraine. And Dwight. "My good buddy, Dwight," as you used to call him, no matter to you that he is your Pap's best friend. Oh, Thor! They played guitar and sang the old songs. I drank wine and found people to talk with so I wouldn't be consumed with the agony of missing you from that scene. It was good to see everyone, but it is torturous to me to see everyone there without you. No one mentioned your name. No one said anything about you. No one knew how to talk about you, how to invoke your memory and insert the memory of your life into the moment. I felt like I was a dragonfly suspended in amber, time traveling back to a time before you were born.  Dwight, alone, seemed to notice my suffering. Perhaps it's because he's missing his Pauline so much, and his devastation recognized mine. He wrapped his arm around me and said, "It just f-f-f-ucking hurts all the time. Doesn't it? Have some of this wine, it numbs the pain. All kinds of pain." Then we sampled his homemade wine and raised a glass to our broken hearts.  Maybe I should take up winemaking.

As much work as I've done over these months, I am still crushed by the massive loss and the burden of living without you, my firstborn, a joy of my life (one), twinkling-eyed baby boy. 

What now? What now? What now? I ask. The emotional alchemy of turning grief and suffering into something different continues. There are days where my experiment blows up in my face. But I start anew as the sun rises in the East to greet the fresh day with fresh eyes and optimism that Grace has bestowed upon me.
What now? What now? What now? I ask.
Love. Tears. Love. Smiles. Love. Tears.
One step at a time.

There is more to say about all of this…I'll save it for another day when we get a chance to sit and talk awhile, Thor.

I love you.


Sunday, October 8, 2017

For Thor - 91 - Changing "Why me?" to "What now?"

Well, Bubby, we did it. And it was spectacular, my darling! Over a year of visioning, planning and building all came together last Saturday for Thor's Hammer Firefighter Games and Chili Cook-off. We rode high on a wave of love and shone the light of that love through our hearts for all to see. We brought Our Family Blessing to life and expanded the ranks of "family" to include everyone who came to share the day with us. It was perfect. It was humbling. It knocked my freaking socks off to see how much joy and love we generated in your memory, Thor. The resilience of the human heart to channel new pathways and transmute anguish and agony into something that bonds and shines is nothing short of astounding! We indeed are all blessed with grace to be able to offer our broken hearts up and ask…what can be done?...and then to do it.

So many people poured in to help; couldn't wait to help! People couldn’t wait to send donations of money and asked their local firehouses to send firehouse swag to give away. They jumped in and set up, cleaned, hauled, lifted, parked cars, tallied tickets, cooked chili, judged chili, ran the games, participated in the games, took photos, poured beers, served hotdogs, helped kids in the bounce houses, spun cotton candy and drizzled syrup over snow-cones, ran sound and played music; collectively each was host and guest simultaneously. In the words of St. Francis… It is in giving that we receive. We came together as a community inspired by love to celebrate our firefighters and were rewarded richly with hearts full of gladness and joy.

Most of that day I felt as if I was out of my body, much like during the night we had visitation at the funeral home when I hugged every single person that came through the line. I reserved nothing, held nothing back. The edges of "me" were expanded so far out that I could embrace everything and everyone. Your love, our love, shone through me like a million watt bulb. What was so beautiful to see, is that light shining back at me from the eyes of so many others, too. 

I jumped up and down like a kid when the firetrucks started rolling in! Oh, Thor! Firetruck Row a-freaking-mazing! All those machines that we depend upon to help people in need lined up and gleaming in the sun was a sight to behold. The tower dad built with the flags flying in that bright blue September sky was an inspired centerpiece where much of the action of the games took place. The teams of firefighters competed all afternoon in the games, and as they did so, they laughed together, talked together, worked together. Cody brought down a team from JMU, and I was so thrilled to see these young folks so excited to be there! The Buckingham Four - Arvonia, Dillwyn, Glenmore and Toga all showed up in style and ready to rumble. It was so much fun to have everyone there, chilling between events in Thor's Hammer tee shirts and turnout pants, leaning on the trucks. Dillwyn and Toga went head to head to win Thor's Hammer in the end. Dillwyn VFD finished that timed event first and emerged the winner of the trophy. But really, every team that took the field were winners that day.

We got there early to let the chili cook-off contestants get started and the morning air smelled delicious and mouth-watering! I sampled it all! And they didn't disappoint. I thought it was awesome that Starr and Kaylee won the grand prize. Your Starr, Bubby.  The winners got to go see Zac Brown Band in concert with us, so she'll be there along with her new man, Corey. He's a good man and is kind to Starr, but I worry about him feeling like he's always being compared to you. Watching the other people in your life move on with theirs comes with its own complement of heartache - and joy. I love them, too, and wish only the best. But damn, it's bittersweet to watch time roll on and not have you here.

As Thor's Hammer wound to a close, I got pretty darned tipsy (Xanny was tasked with taking care of drunk mom. Don't laugh! Okay, you can laugh a little.) It didn't take much as I was exhausted, expended, emotionally blown-out and elated all in the same breath. I hadn't accounted for the emotional intensity and the effect it would have on me. As the agony of your loss is in my heart always…I numbed the pain to keep moving. Eventually, the sun did set and it was time to go. I didn't want it to end. The energy and momentum of the day propelled me with a force that was so fast and intense, it would take days to ramp back down. You were so "present" all day that I didn't want to walk away. I wanted time to stop and leave me there in that expanded awareness and feeling your energy so close by. But my body certainly needed to rest and time is a relentless thing, so I left the field and waved goodbye to one of the most magnificent days I've ever seen. And while it may have been my idea and vision at the start, Thor's Hammer now belongs to all of us; everyone who loves you and to the community and firefighters you love.

That's the high of it. And it was oh, so high. And so vast and so breathtakingly beautiful and inspiring and full of awe was the whole experience. But still, at the heart of the matter, one terrible fact remains irrefutable and stubbornly, horribly true; you are dead. It blows my mind to think about how we wouldn't have done any of this if not for that. None of these connections, the togetherness, the fierce determination to change the question from "Why me?" to "What now?" would have come to pass. We would be elsewhere learning other lessons in how to love and live to our fullest potential. You would be here walking by our side in some different storyline. Would I be as fierce in my choice to live and to transform my heart's pain into a gift for the greater good? Would I have worked tirelessly for months on end if I didn't have the backdrop of tragedy to stage this against?

And so on Tuesday morning, three days after Thor's Hammer knocked my socks off, I found myself sobbing in the car on the way to work. I turned down the driveway to Nana's house and stumbled into the bedroom where I crawled into bed next to my mom and sobbed. All this beauty, love and amazingness was clashing starkly with the fact that you are still dead, my darling boy. I still cannot hold you. I cannot caress your hair, your cheek. I cannot console you over heartbreaks or advise you when your unsure of what to do next. I will never hear you say, "I love you, Mama." again. And so I cried and let myself be comforted by the sheltering arms of my mom.

The work of changing the question from "Why me?" to "What can be done?" is perpetual and unfolding in every moment in this life as a woman who has lost a beloved child. There is no break from it, there is nowhere to hide from it. I can only keep lifting my eyes to the horizon and asking for you to guide my steps into the next moment, hoping I can stay steady and keep growing in love. I pray for Grace to continue to rise like a wind under my wings to help me soar into the uncertainty of life with hope and joy in my heart. I pray that I am strong enough to keep saying, "yes" when the path is illumined before me, beckoning me to take another step. I pray that I continue to hear you in my heart encouraging me to stay melty and loving in a world that would force to me be sharp and pointed if I give in to fear.

Your dad and brothers and I will carry on, Thor. We remain here at the epicenter of the earthquake that rocked our family when you died. Together we are finding ways to both live on and to keep you alive along with us. Thor's Hammer is a gift to the world, born out of tragedy and love and imbued with hope for the greater good to be revealed.

Today, I'm resting in the chambers of the heart and listening for "what now?"

I love you to the moon and back, my boy. And I always will.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

For Thor - 90 - Crash

Yesterday may have been the single hardest day I've had in a long time, Thor. It was my birthday. Just a week after we marked your birthday. And two weeks after Xanny's, to boot.

I've held it together at home and at work. I've powered through the waves of grief that seek to swamp me and ride the storm to calmer waters. But the more tranquil waters didn't come yesterday. It was finally just too much for this mama's heart to take and I crashed hard.

You see celebrating another year in my life feels so absolutely horrible when your life is done. I don't feel guilty for being alive, I am devastated that you are not. My broken heart bleeds sorrow over this simple fact; somehow the sun still rises and sets over my head each day, but its golden rays will never shine upon your beautiful face, again. How can I possibly celebrate my life moving on, marking the passing years, when you will never see another daybreak, never draw another breath, never sing another song, tell another joke, nor live out your dreams?

Celebrating my birthday seems awkward if not impossible, now.  Last year I was held up and buoyed by the constant company of family and friends. This year I faced the starkness of grief and sorrow head on. It was time.

I cried my eyes out all the way home from work. I barely made it out of the office before I fell headlong into the well of grief and sank slowly to the very bottom, where I haven't visited in many months. I let it take me somewhere I could scream and beat my breast and exhaust myself of the pent-up, throttled-back feelings that had crystallized in my being. Then I sat in stillness and let sorrow sing her song through the tears that fell in streams down my face.

I sipped a beer and let myself feel everything that I've neatly avoided so that I could carry on living day to day. I watched the clouds scud in bright bunches across a gorgeous blue sky from my perch on the swing which I rocked with my bare toes in the grass. And the tears fell unfettered, unheeded and unashamed. I unpacked my broken heart and let the late summer breeze into its chambers to ease the burning agony that threatened to choke me.

We never get over it, I read that today. I already know this, but it was reassuring to read it from a professional in Psychology Today. She blasted the "stages of grief" theories that somehow imply that if we simply do the work in each stage, we will be transported to the other side of this sometimes raging and dangerous sea. She told me things I already know, but hadn't given myself permission to believe; that there is no "getting over it," that these anniversaries are real traumatic markers, that I'm not crazy or weak or depressed. My broken-heartedness over your death is part of my life story, now. And while there may be many more moments where I look "normal" than there are moments where I seem like an emotional refugee, it's still there; the all-encompassing, soul-etching, heart crushing, eviscerating grief. And it can show up anytime it likes. What a mother fucker!

Facebook lit up with bright, lovely, cheerful wishes for me to celebrate, enjoy, have a blast, be amazing…I just couldn't. I took 'em all in and smiled wistfully at each message, thinking not of myself but of the love and friendship I have with each person who took time to drop by and send me a joyful wish. A heart full of grief can still appreciate love, even if it doesn't feel like celebrating. So that's what I did. I allowed love to sit with me in the bottom of the well and let Grace find its way in, too. All those messages of love wrapped me in a warm blanket and held me safe while I let the tears fall. It may not be what everyone had in mind when wishing me a happy birthday, but the day was perfect in its agony and expression of the utter anguish I feel over your death, Thor. It was perfect because this grief is derived from and caused by the undying love I have for you.

Dad did the right thing, he brought some sunflowers, wine, and whiskey. He held me when I cried after reading his card. No one said anything about my eyes, swollen and red and still weeping right through dinner. The blessing dad said made me cry all over again. I took time to hug your brothers and enjoyed a slice of cake. I gazed at your photograph and allowed my heart to break anew with each beat.

Sometimes you just gotta go there, you know, and feel the enormity of the loss. I stand on the precipice of that abyss and leap, knowing that the universe has already put in place everything I need to not just survive, but to soar.

This morning I feel better. Still weepy, but not crushed. I'm ready to greet the day and the list of things I have to do with a quiet, wistful gentleness in my heart. Which is right where you are, my darling son.

I love you so,

Sunday, September 10, 2017

For Thor - 89 - Moonshine in the Moonshine

It's been eighty-eight weeks since you died and every single one of them has come with pain and sorrow. Each of them has led me further along the road of grief. The days peel away leaving me with lessons in love and compassion, vulnerability and strength. Some weeks are gentle allowing me to breathe into new ideas and expressions of sorrow with ease. Not this week. This one was rough, Bubby.

Friday we marked what would have been your 21st birthday. It's a day that you had been looking forward to for so long. And while turning 21 meant you could legally purchase a drink and go out with your friends without worrying about getting carded, it also meant you were truly an adult. There would be no more barriers or throttles holding you back. Turning 21 is a big deal. But you never made it. Instead, you left us at the age of 19, forever Peter-Panned (as Aunt Lakshmi coined) on the cusp of all that you had dreamed of being and doing.

We gathered together at Frida's, those of us who could, to raise a glass in your name. I saw some of your friends that I haven't seen since your funeral. We hugged. And laughed. And told Thor Stories. Good Lord, boy! You were a merry jokester full of mirth and good-natured confidence that belied your young age. Wickedly funny and beloved. We heard tell of the famous Thor Swagger and laughed at the retelling of how you would charm the ladies out of their phone numbers. It warmed my heart to hear how your buddies and you did so many adventuresome things. Luke Bryan, one of your favorites, put out a song that feels like an anthem for you guys. Whenever it comes on I sing out loud and think about you and the fun you got to have. 


You managed to cram in a lot of experiences in your short life; at least there's that.

Chaz was DD-ing me around after he dropped off dad and Xanny. I wanted to go see Janice down at Telly's house. We toasted you and the firelight shone on the tears in our eyes. They all love and miss you, too. Janice's words of comfort to me meant a lot. We had a good laugh about how you like to dance with her - Cotton-eyed Joe being one of your favorites. We left there and headed toward home, stopping at the wide spot on our road near the cut over where you guys always staged for the hunt. Bert, Travis, Kelly, and Andy were there in tribute of the love and sorrow we feel for our loss. We drank moonshine in the moonshine and listened to music. We laughed boldly and brashly in the face of the agony in our hearts. When we hugged goodbye in the wee hours of the morning, I could feel you there with us, conjured by our collective love and memory.

It's easier being on the other side of the milestone. This was a big one that choked me up all week. I'm proud of myself for making it through, for going to work every day. And while I may have been a little wobbly, the grief wasn’t debilitating as it's been in the past. Grief is pervasive and I believe it can kill a person, perhaps literally, but certainly emotionally. I've been doing the work, taking the highs and lows and keeping my heart open to what they would teach me. I have more resilience, more capacity, more connection with you and that allows me to bear this burden as I walk ahead. You are on my mind every single day nearly all day long. When I see the sunrise and say your name or a cloud limned in gold and think, "Hello, Bubby." A crow caws and I look to find him so my feathered friend can deliver a message from my heart to yours…

Happy Birthday in Heaven, sweet boy. I love and miss you more than words can say. We all do.

I love you so and always will,

Friday, August 25, 2017

For Thor - 88 - Chain Link

Yesterday morning the alarm went off at 4:30. Dad and I threw on our clothes and headed to the surgical center in Charlottesville. The docs finally felt like they could remove the shard of glass that's been in my toe for over a year! While it's only minor outpatient surgery, it's still surgery. And they have protocols that they want you to follow. Don't eat or drink after midnight. Don't take any medications. Don't use hair products that have alcohol. Remove all jewelry. When the nurse called to talk to me about these pre-op requirements, she was emphatic on this point. All jewelry must be removed. Yes, that included the wedding bands that are almost impossible to get over knuckles swollen with the toils of everyday use.

The night before, I carefully removed my rings which took a while and the seven earrings I wear every day which I never take out. I took a few moments to remove the chipped polish off my toenails just so everything was clean. I paused to look in the mirror to see if I looked any different without those diamond studs shining back at me, framing my face like stars. My gaze dropped to take in the moonlight silver gleam of the chain -- your chain -- draped around my neck. I ran my fingers over the warm links inching toward the clasp to spring it open when suddenly I couldn't move. Tears stung my eyes as I considered removing from my neck. I imagined lifting it off my chest, feeling it gone from that place it's been all these months. I haven't taken it off since your dad put it there on the day of your funeral. He had gently unclasped it from around your neck as you lay in the coffin and settled it around mine. Then we turned, holding each others shaking hands our heads tipped together, and we gazed for the last time at your face as they closed the lid, and we saw you no more.

My breathing became shallow, and my hands got sweaty. I traced the links one by one and raised the chain to my lips and kissed it, blinking away hot tears. There was no way this necklace was coming off. Not until the day I die, and it passes to one of your brothers, will it leave my body. The surgical team would just have to figure out how to do whatever they need to do with it in place.

So we hurtled through the pre-dawn darkness, arrived at our destination, checked in and waited. I knew they would challenge me saying the chain wasn't safe, that somehow it's a liability to have it on during a procedure. I knew they would want to make me conform to the rules, but I couldn't. Any more than a veteran with shrapnel could remove the metal from their body could I remove this chain from mine. A bomb had gone off in my life, blown apart our family, my faith in the world, my heart, our lives - the chain that was once yours had been transferred to me.

As expected, the very professional and astute nurse spotted the necklace and told me I would need to remove it. I told her I can't, that I had tried and found it impossible. I said it belonged to my beloved son who died and that I tried to take it off but ended up freaking out. She told me about the bad things that could happen in surgery if a person is wearing conductive metal - burns, mainly. I still shook my head. I asked what you would do if I had metal pins in my bones? There has to be a way for me to keep it. Can we wrap it in a towel, I asked? I cannot take it off, I gasped and shook my head with tears running down my face.

She asked me how long I had been wearing the necklace. I told her 19 months and 20 days.

They brought me a waiver to sign. With a shaking hand and teary eyes, I did. I would rather be burned than suffer the pain of removing that chain. But the nurse warned me that every other person who saw the chain would tell me I need to remove it. Already triggered, tired and upset and admittedly a bit nervous about the prospect of what we were actually doing there in the first place, I burst into tears again and felt a full-blown panic attack coming on. I asked her to please call your dad to come from the waiting area. His steady presence was a godsend. He looked right into my eyes and said it would be okay. His hand held mine, pulling me back from the edge one step at a time.

Meanwhile, the doctor arrived. Through the striped privacy curtain, I overheard the nurse tell him about my plight. To his credit he whooshed right in with a warm smile and calming manner to tell me not to worry, he wouldn't be using the tools that conduct electricity. I could wear the chain without any concern for burns. The prep nurse and then the OR nurse and the anesthesiologist all came in and each one, in turn, assured me that I would be okay. That the wearing the chain was okay. They all asked about you. Gradually, my breathing returned to normal. But the tears kept running, and there was nothing I could do about it. I've learned not to turn them off.

The procedure went well. I'm glass-free and so grateful. But I was still raw and upset over the whole experience.
I look in the mirror and the reflection staring back at me appears normal, but I'm not, really. Or maybe I am. Maybe this is normal for a mom that's enduring the loss of her beloved boy. Maybe this is as good as it gets as I learn to live my life with the horrible truth that you died. Each and every day I think about and miss you, Thor. The maelstrom of emotion swirls and heaves beneath the surface of this normal-looking fa├žade. I apply moisturizer and mascara and paste on a smile to greet the day.

And the days go by, peeling in a constant curl as the blade of time cuts through. Grocery shopping and back-to-school planning, cooking meals and giving the dog a bath, going to work and taking care of the chickens, dinner conversation with your brothers and downloading the day's stressors with your dad…I carry on. And I look pretty normal. People don't suspect the vastness of sorrow that sits just below the veneer. I have become a good actress, not only for the world to see what it wants. But for me, too.

A few days ago, on an otherwise "normal" weeknight, Steve Bodek came by on his day off. It's not often that I see him out of uniform and his appearance at the house one evening in his personal vehicle and in plain clothes surprised me. We visited a bit about this and that while we waited for your dad to get home. Eventually, dad rolled in, and we all came to the house, Bodek insisting that we call Christine, who was apparently a co-conspirator in this venture and get her set-up on speaker-phone. Then he told us to find a comfortable seat and that he would follow us in bearing the gift he'd brought for us.

I'm glad Dad and I were sitting down because nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. Steve started by telling us how much he loved you, Thor, like his own son. (I didn't know that) He said that he thought the world of you and considered you to be one of the best kind of people. He told us that it meant so much that he was able to be with us at the scene of the wreck that claimed you. I know what it meant to me to have him there, and his surety that you wouldn't be left alone kept me from losing my mind. And as if that wasn't enough to count him as family, Bodek and your dad share the Marine Corps bond.

Then he humbly revealed a beautifully handcrafted piece of art that is so heartfelt and personally meaningful that I could barely breathe. He had taken a gorgeous piece of cedar from the interior of a church (infused with all the prayers and hymns over decades) and added to it a scroll-sawn Maltese cross on one side and a scroll-sawn heart-stopping firefighter in profile with angel wings. Christine had given Steve a photo of you wearing your gear that he could use to draw the piece out. And it really does look like you, too. He added hand-cut lettering that stretches across the bottom and reads, "Forever on our minds, Always in our hearts." which is so true for all of us who love and miss you, Bubby. Then, literally to top it off, in sycamore wood (what could be more fitting for a boy from Sycamore Creek?) he added the letters, T-h-o-r.

To say I was moved to tears is a vast understatement. I, once again, got a glimpse of how much other people regarded and loved you, Thor. All these months later, when I felt like maybe it's time for me to bear this burden mostly on my own, Bodek shows up with an utterly stunning tribute of love and respect - and mourning - that bowled me over. Many walk this road of sorrow over your death, Thor. We all miss you so much.

With this experience so recent in the rearview and knowing that what would have been your 21st birthday is just around the corner, I suppose it's no real surprise that I lost it over the idea of removing your chain. You are present and close these days, picking up on my thoughtful dialogue and sending me songs. Thanks for doing that. Thank you for all the signs you send and for being patient with me when I'm too wrapped up in grief or anger or stress to see them.

I love you,

Sunday, August 6, 2017

For Thor - 87 - Soar

Good morning, Thor!

Gosh, I miss saying that to you and be rewarded with your sweet smile in return. It's Sunday, again, I was thinking of making chicken & dumplings for supper.

Last weekend, I took part in a beautiful and healing Yoga for Grief and Loss retreat with other women who have suffered traumatic losses in their lives. It was right here at Yogaville, so I didn't have to travel and got to sleep at home. I did, however, drive past the site of your wreck each day. On the first morning as I headed to the retreat house, I was compelled to stop there and sit, once again, on that ground; the last place on Earth where you were alive, and feel anything that came up. This pause in the forward momentum of the day was powerful, helping me surrender and open myself to feel the pain I carry around daily, wrapped and bound. I allowed myself to sink into my heart and to give voice to those waves of grief that crash and swell inside.

I picked chicory from the roadside and wove those tiny blue star-bursts into the wreath that adorns the tree that abruptly halted your flying truck and sent you into a new realm. It is a tragic and magic place, both. It is the sacred site where you slipped through and became a bigger version of yourself, leaving me here to figure it out. To walk on. Every single day of my life from now on is reframed with this knowledge: That which we love can be taken. Nothing is guaranteed. Change is the only thing that is certain. Love is the only constant that exists beyond this ever-changing-certainty.

A few days before the retreat started I received an email from a blog that I subscribe to, in it I was gifted a message that was timely, something to use as a new focus. Suzanne Giesemann offered this from the Sanaya Says collection of posts:
“I will grieve for the rest of my life.”

"If this is truly your belief, then for you it will be your truth. Do you wish to feel the deep sadness for the rest of your life, or do you wish to continue living and growing without that feeling as a constant companion? You will always be able to recreate that pain. You know the trigger points and you know how it feels to grieve, but hear us well: you can train yourself to become aware of when you feel that pain and transmute it with higher emotions. “Ah yes, I miss my loved one. I know this feeling, but now I choose in this moment to focus on the joy my loved one brought me and to be grateful for that experience.” From there you can allow your thoughts to drag you back to that place of pain or ask those you miss to remain in your heart as a pleasant, ever-present companion. What do they want for you now from their vantage point across the veil? Peace. This is the training ground. You control your thoughts."
Several ideas stuck out for me in that writing:

  1. I can always recreate the pain of losing you. It's so true. I can ruminate upon that night and caress each terrible memory taking the stabbing pain like a masochistic and embracing it. My heart breaks and my emotional body responds with wracking sobs that stop my breath and buckle my knees. I can cut myself on the sharp edges where your death blasted through the fabric of my life and altered me forever. 
  2. I can choose to do this. Or I can work toward a new awareness.
  3. This is a training ground and that I am training to experience Peace. I can train myself to feel that pain and learn to transform it with love and joy. We had a lot of love and joy in our life together, Thor. It is not hard to remember the sweetness of being your mom.
  4. We stand on this precipice together and with training, practice and no small dose of bravery, I can step out and trust that my heart will rise on the wings of love and lift joyfully to the open expanse of possibility. 
This is my work.
The first night of the retreat we go around the circle and talk of our departed loves and on the second time around the circle we are asked to set an intention for the retreat. At the retreat I did last October, my intention was much more focused on survival. This time I felt compelled to take a new direction, to move beyond survival, because that intention has been met. I'm here and my heart is still open. I smile and laugh and make plans for tomorrow. I didn’t give up, shut down, crawl in a hole and wither. I didn't will my heart to stop so I wouldn't feel that agony. I steeped myself in the pain when it needed to be felt and allowed it to breath through me and be released through tears, and hugs, and prayer -- and writing. Every time I write to you another piece of this experience is allowed to float away. My choice was to survive the devastation of losing you, my beloved son, so that I could learn to live again. This time when we went around the circle the second time I threw a handful of sage leaves on the flames and as they ignited and lifted white smoke to the sky I said, 
"My intention is to SOAR."
Easier said than done, for sure. And that's okay. I know where I’m going now, I charted a new course in this journey we're taking, Thor. We're going up! But like any journey, it's a process. I have to start from where I am and allow for the gentle unfolding and inevitable challenges and unforeseen beauty to be revealed. 
This is my work.
So I stopped at the tree each day of the retreat as I made my way from home to join my fellow travelers in grief. I went there to remember that fateful night and to begin to insert new emotional programming into that memory. I sat on the ground where you breathed your last and I thought to myself that the veil might be super thin right there in that spot. I closed my eyes and sent a huge wave of bright, yellow sun energy toward you. My heart song said, "Thank you! Thank you for letting me be your mom. Thank you for the love we share. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for staying by my side, even now." Tears fell from my eyes, but they were not bitter, salty tears of anguish and suffering. They were bright and beautiful and as the light shone through them, they turned to rainbows.
Later that day, surrounded by the love and support of my new sisters in the sacred space we created together, I wrote a poem and created a mandala art piece that reflected this pivotal experience, Thor.

Rainbow filled teardrops fall
    to the earth
From the blood-red chambers of my heart
            to the earth
From my pinon-colored eyes
                   to the earth
Where flowers burst forth
                                 and bloom
Yellow tickseed bobs in a breeze
    Periwinkle chicory twinkles
        in the high-summer sun
            The color of your eyes
                 when they regarded me
                    Adoring and bright 
                        with the love we share
      My sunshine!
             My son shine!

So, here we go, Bubby. Soaring on the wings of love across a chicory-colored sky.

I love you, beyond words, beyond realms, baby boy!

Saturday, July 22, 2017

For Thor - 86 - Take the Helm

Grieving your death is a terrible and beautiful journey through the blasted and burnt landscape of my heart. Healing is happening, but the road is fraught with perils and pitfalls; images and sounds that spin me back to that moment, that contracted pinpoint moment, when your dad shook his head slowly and said, "He's gone." That's the second from which all the rest since then rise and fall in a cascade of horror, sorrow, shock, love, gratitude, agony, expansion, grace, inspiration, growth, longing, disbelief…utter fucking heartbreak.

I've walked this road for eighteen months. Eighteen inexplicable months of life moving forward without you. Days melted into weeks that hold new memories and laughter, new life milestones dot the landscape now as the play continues to unfold for those of us left here to live on after you. For me, each and every one of them is imbued with an air of sorrow. It's proof to me that a single moment can, indeed, hold profound sadness and exquisite joy. These two co-mingle like positive and negative charges electrifying my emotional expression, blowing down the constructs of what I think is possible and destroying expectations of How It Should Be. If I am to survive these forces I must be edgeless and open. If you look inside me now, there are no new walls.

When I was a kid I remember a survival class at school telling us that finding shelter is the best way to survive the wilderness. So I tried to put up a lean-to or a freaking tent to escape the constant howling winds that purge and blast my heart. But this was a short-lived experiment. Grief and sorrow tore them down, longing and love tumbled the pieces back into the Sea of Grief leaving me feeling bewildered and lost, again. Camping out inside a hidey-hole on this journey is not an option. Separateness and withdrawing into myself is not an option, either. The agonizing sorrow of your death, I have come to find, is my constant companion and teacher, always pushing me, driving me, forcing me to MOVE along the path. Solace and peace exist in the moments when I am able to abandon the idea of me, apart. I must continue to expand. Sometimes, it's flat out excruciating because my broken, sad mama's heart still holds onto you in your life here with me, with us.

I miss your smile and laugh. I miss the feeling of your hair when I tousle it. I long to hear your voice and talk over your life plans. My heart leaps when I catch a glimpse of a truck like yours and just for a moment I think…Thor! I cook dinner sometimes and think to myself, "I bet Thor would really love this!" and I wish I could call you up and invite you round for supper. It's both wonderful and agonizing when your dad and brothers play guitar without you. One of them usually plucks your black Fender from its stand and strums it in tribute, including you the only way left to us now. Your friends are getting married and going to college, worrying about girlfriends and making plans for jobs and life. Your Starr has found a new beau and I'm so happy for her but also sad thinking about what you've missed out on. I think you'd like him, Thor. He's a VDOT guy and looks like a cross between you and TJ! I wonder if you had a hand in sending him her way? Madhuri got married to Nick and is happier than I've seen her in a long time. You were supposed to be in her wedding. I know you were there in spirit because I could feel you but still Not. The. Same.

I'm taking this sorrow and love and channeling it toward something good. Thor's Hammer is coming along very well as an event. The plans are taking shape and the outpouring of support is magnificent to behold. It's hard for me to operate out of both my head and my heart so intensely at the same moment. But just like I learned that sorrow and joy can exist in the same moment, the broken heart is leading the charge, the logical mind just has to follow. My undying love for you drives my actions. Your love for the community inspires and is guiding us to find the path forward. It's a lesson in vulnerability for me, though. To create such a love offering for the whole community and then wonder, will they come? Will it be okay? Is it needed or wanted? Am I blinded by my love for my boy? Can I do this? Is it enough? Am I enough?

There is no answer to these questions. They are silly queries that arise from being unsure and sad and in pain, from fear. What will be, will be; and that has to be okay. Love is the reason for what we do, so how can it be anything other than perfect? I continually learn to stay open and vulnerable in so many difficult passages. I've already gone through the worst, you'd think I could easily handle these lesser trials. The thing is, every experience is related to THAT experience now. All loss feels like THAT loss. All fear feels like THAT fear. All uncertainty feels like THAT uncertainty… those terrorizing feelings that raged and tossed the Sea of Grief so violently are still active forces. I have a stronger vessel now, with mended sails and a deep rudder. I can navigate and ride the crests into the troughs and not drown in the waves that crash over my bow. Still, it's a rough ride that starts each morning when I open my eyes and look to the sun on the horizon. Another day of life is graced upon us full of blessings and possibility. Another day dawns and arcs across the sky, the sun shines on the Earth where you once walked, talked, lived, laughed and loved. The wind blows sand across your footprints. I reach out from my heart to touch the sky, the place where you melted into the Great Light of All and take the helm…

What will today hold?

I love you,