For Thor - 82 - Dirt

What do I want to say to you today? On this bright, beautiful first day of April with the birds singing and the tulips bobbing their heads in a gentle breeze I feel you here, but I have no particular words. And yet, I'm drawn to write, to spend a little quality time with you.  So I guess we'll just see where this takes us today.

The past few weeks have been hectic for me. I don't like it because I can't hear you as well when the pace of life is fast and loud. But I'm putting that rainbow connection we made to good use so that even in the whirlwind of a crazy day I am able to sense you better and see the signs you leave for me. Like the enormous rainbow that was practically in my lap the other day! Wow! These signs that tell me you're with me, even if your body is dead, that you are near even if I can no longer hold you in my arms and inhale your smell; a blend of fresh air, body wash, diesel fuel and awesomeness. A mom's longing to hold her son never diminishes, you know. So that is just part of my daily life now; learning to live with the longing, the heartache, the heartbreak and the sorrow. I have become an expert repurposer, turning these pains one by one into new pathways toward joyful living, love, and gratitude.  There are times though when I just have to sob, and that's okay. I miss you, and I'm really sad that you're not here to do all the things you wanted to do, to share in the beauty of life together.

Last week Xanny and I went to see Florida Georgia Line in concert. I know you already know this because you were there with us the whole time. And what a show it was, eh? When I learned FGL was coming to town, I knew we had to go for you and for us. Your Spotify playlists are chock full of FGL songs and so many of them seem like melodic biographies; telling the story of your life. You loved living in the country, the lovely gals, the jacked up trucks, hanging with your friends, and fun on a Friday night. Living, loving, laughing every minute of every day like there was no tomorrow was your credo. And I'm glad it was because you truly experienced so many things in your short years here on earth. It's a lesson to any of us who choose to live timidly or disconnected from our own power and voice. Tomorrow isn't promised, but right now, this very moment IS…what are you going to do with it? How ARE you in it?  Life is all about the experiences, right? FGL makes me think of this as I sing along with "This is How We Roll."  How did life express itself through me today? What experiences did I bring forth? How did I connect with and build closer relationships with others through these experiences? Yeah, I think about stuff like this while sipping that whiskey on a Friday night, Bubby.

I want to tell you THANK YOU for sending that tractor for your dad! If ever there was ever a doubt that you are helping us as much as possible, this tractor showing up as it did would put that doubt to bed! Everything about this tractor says it's from you. First of all, we looked around, and everything we found that met our needs was way outside our budget. So we kept looking. Dad thought he'd get some really old tractor and work on it. To which I said, hell no! I want a machine that's going to work a while before we have to put any money in it. And so we looked some more. Then dad found a 1996 John Deer 955 with very few hours on it that he could get with a rake and bush hog - for well within our budget. 1996 - the year you were born. John Deere - your and dad's favorite tractors. I knew in my heart that you had helped get that machine here for daddy.

I think we're going to name the tractor, "Li'l Lewie. I help dig!" in honor of you (your middle name) and the story from when you were two years old and scared the crap out of Pad and Dad.  They were digging a trench to put in a water line and were standing in the ditch with mud up to their knees using shovels and digging bars to break the earth when they heard an engine fire up from around the garage. They looked at each other and realized it was the backhoe that they heard. In the next instant, they realized that there were the only two people who would operate the backhoe, right? Unless, possibly... gasp! Well, those two grown men leaped about four feet in the air and ran to where the backhoe was parked to find your two-year-old self up in the seat jiggling the controls with a determined look in your eye and a smile a mile wide… "I help dig!" you said as Pap turned the key off and dad stilled your little hands on the controls that had the bucket bouncing up and down. "I help dig!" you insisted when they pulled you down and wiped the cold sweat from their foreheads. Needless to say, they never left the keys in the machines ever again! But that didn't stop you from wanting to ride on or drive any kind of tractor or truck, ever. And it certainly didn't keep you from digging. Dad and Pap gave you a little shovel to help them the old fashioned way…and you used that shovel anytime you could. One time you and Chaz even dug up the gas line two feet underground with plastic beach shovels!

We're putting in a meadow this year so that we can have forage for bees next year. It's going to be so beautiful to see a field of clover and orchard grass swaying in the breeze. I think I'll finally have some bluebirds come to live here with open space like that. You seem to like sending me birds. I'll keep my eyes open for whichever of avian beings you choose to send a message. I see them and send a kiss and a hug back to you, carried on their wings into the ether where you can catch them. 

I'm trying to get used to this new relationship and most days I do okay. I accept the gifts you send as evidence that I'm not dreaming this up. But sometimes it's just not okay. I know you see me struggling at times and that you try to help. Thank you, sweet boy, for sticking by my side and helping me up. The signs and the messages and the overwhelming feeling of your presence keep my head above water. And one by one, pain by pain, I turn them into new pathways…one step at a time, one tear at a time, one smile at a time into joyful living.

For today, I'm gonna get my hands in the dirt. Spring is in the air, and you are outside calling me to come out and play. I have some digging to do and a little raking, too.  A Florida Georgia Line song comes to mind… see you out there, Bubby.

I love you, Mom

DIRT - Florida Georgia Line

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42uphHWxmFU

You get your hands in it

Plant your roots in it

Dusty head lights dance with your boots in it (dirt)

You write her name on it

Spin your tires on it

Build your corn field, whiskey

Bonfires on it (dirt)

You bet your life on it

It's that elm shade

Red roads clay you grew up on

That plowed up ground That your dad

Damned his luck on

That post game party field

You circled up on

And when it rains

You get stuck on

Drift a cloud back

Behind county roads

That you run up

The mud on her jeans that she peeled off

And hung up

Her blue eyed Summer time smile

Looks so good that it hurts

Makes you wanna build

A 10 percent down

White picket fence house on this dirt

You've mixed some sweat with it

Taken a shovel to it

You've stuck some crosses and some painted

Goal posts through it (dirt)

You know you came from it (dirt)

And some day you'll return to

It's that elm shade

Red roads clay you grew up on

That plowed up ground that your dad

Damned his luck on that post game party field

You circled up on

And when it rains you get stuck on

Drift a cloud back Behind county roads

That you run up

The mud on her jeans that she peeled off

And hung up

Her blue eyed summer time smile

Looks so good that it hurts

Makes you wanna build

A 10 percent down

White picket fence house on this dirt

You came from it,

And some day you'll return to it

For Thor - 81 - Crows & Rainbows

The bright red plumage that bedecks the peppy cardinals in the cedar tree always catches my eye and makes me pause a moment...to breathe, and smile, and feel, and sigh, and allow the love I feel for you to swell into tears of longing. I am grateful for these all-too-rare visits from our crimson mediums that send me a message from you, wherever you are, right to my heart. As much as I cherish and am dazzled by a cardinal hopping about in the yard, there are other avian messengers more steadfast and sturdy. Since the day after you had died our resident family of crows began to behave a little differently. They gathered around the house taking turns as sentinels in the tree-tops. Raucous cawing alerts me when people come up the drive and wake me in time to see a sorbet-colored sunrise. They leap-frog from tree to tree escorting me along the driveway as I leave for work in the morning or come home in the evening. The cardinals are gorgeous heart warmers, but the crows, well they are something more akin to an animal guide who is working with us, Thor.

It's funny how we know things, but doubt ourselves until we get a third party to verify them for us. This is how I feel about my communication with you. It's so clear to me, but then I worry that it's just my heart's longing conjuring up a feeling, an idea, a notion…anything…that would corroborate my sense of connection to you. The cardinals, the crows, the music on the radio, the wind chimes outside my window. All these things that feel like places where your spirit can interface with us here if we just take the time to see and feel. I know two things for sure, the love in my heart can never die, and the love you have for me and all of us here can never die. So, if I can sink into that love and stay there, I can find you, talk to you and hear you. But still my mind can doubt, so I seek for outside help to give me something more evidential, more concrete, more believable.

A few weeks ago I had a massage with a healer who works with energy, similar to shiatsu, but more accurate to certain energy patterns. During this work, we built a rainbow bridge that connects you to me for ready, easy, clear communication. Since then I have focused on this rainbow connection that emanates from my solar plexus directly to your heart, Thor, to send love and little conversations. It's brought me such peace to have this energetic pathway for direct-messaging you whenever I have the notion.

Last week I spoke with a woman who has a strong connection between those of us who are incarnate and those of us who are discarnate. We set out with the intention of connecting with you, Thor, and we were not disappointed. You were able to communicate many things through her; special images and fragments of ideas that resonated in my heart to bring me solace and peace. But you clearly stated that the "big black birds" are your personal envoy and for me to keep tuning into them. Then she said that you sent her a very strong image of a rainbow that ended with me and that you are getting the messages and that the bridge is good! I tell ya what, I got goosebumps! That made me smile all the way through my whole being.

What a blessing to have found these beautiful helpers as I continue my journey into grief, love, and joy. I say all three because without the inexplicable, unfathomable heartbreak of losing you, Thor, my heart would not have been pried open to the greater experience of universal love. And without understanding that grief is an expression of that love, the love that binds us all, I could not have turned the corner to realize joy. Joy is our natural state. I'm not talking about the fleeting, conditional joy that is bound to this ever-changing world. I'm talking about the joy that pervades everything and is as necessary to life as air and water.

When I sit to meditate in the morning, I focus on my solar plexus where a ball of bright-yellow energy shines and pulsates like a million suns; the source of life lives in us all and radiates from this third chakra point to fuel our daily actions as well as our intuitive sensing and ability to manifest our intentions. I say Our Family Blessing and then repeat, "I live in a state of being that allows a greater experience of Love. I live in a state of being that allows a greater experience of Joy. I live in a state of being that continually rejoices in life." From the bright sun center, my focus moves to my heart which is still broken open, but it is warm and willing to experience everything; it can never be anything other than this, as it is altered forever by your death. Only now the sorrow and the love that live here are not just for me. My awareness is expanded to encompass the beauty and the suffering, the love and the light of all beings.

In my broken-heartedness I am not alone; countless mothers have walked this road before me and countless more will come - and have already. In the short months since you died, Thor, several young people from families I know have left this earth unexpectedly and far too soon. The wake of agonizing pain, grief, suffering and illusion-shattering transformation that follows those terrible deaths calls to me now. I know the journey, even as it continues to unfold for me revealing new truths and insight. I know the breathless depths and constricted heartbeats and stupefied disbelief and anguish and anger that backfill the holes in our being when our children die. I have found a path forward across the shards of my shattered heart to a new way of being.

When the news came that a dear friend lost her sweet boy, I was, at first, triggered and thrown back into those first hours and days after you died. My understanding of my friend's pain is so utterly deep that all the pain of my own experience came rushing back like a black wave. I cried long and hard in the shower, letting the water pour over me carrying the anguish with it. I sobbed for my friend and for me and for all the mothers whose hearts are ripped open with the death of their kids. We are united in a terrible and powerful sisterhood, our collective experience is one that binds us in sorrow and love and infinite empathy. It is the compassion for the suffering of others that alleviates our own - we are not alone! And it is this empathy that floods love across the pathways that connect us all. From here I can receive love, too. I feel it soothing and easing the sorrow, uplifting and carrying me when it hurts too much. And so I can eventually find my way back to the focus of my meditation…"I live in a state of being that allows for a greater experience of love. I live in a state of being that allows for a greater experience of joy…"

The bright sun in my center reaches out in an arc of rainbow-colored energy to tell you, I love you and I miss you, sweet boy. I listen to the silence of the morning as it is startled awake with the raucous caws of three crows in the tree outside my window. And as my eyes open from meditation I catch a glimpse of their black wings cutting across the saffron sky, their cacophonous chatter telling me, "I love you, mom and I always will."

I live in a state of being that allows a greater experience of love and joy. I know now, that even when there is sorrow, this is possible. This is what it means to truly live.

I love you, Mom.

For Thor - 80 - Cash Out

Hey, boyo.

It's clear, cold and sunny this morning; crisp. But there aren't any birds at the feeders. I'm not sure why. Maybe the cat has been prowling, again, and has them skittish and scurrying for their sanctuaries in the sky. I know how they feel; one minute hopping and pecking along and the next thing there is a shadow looming over me and looking to swallow me whole. 

This is how it's been this first month of the Year of Seconds. One would expect for it to feel safer, easier, freer to be a year away from the tragedy that ripped you from our lives. And in many ways, it is. I have some experience being a bereaved mom, now that the utter shock has worn off. It's mellowed like a river into a deep and lazy course. Grief still has me gripped in its current only now the waters have wisdom in them, they are not the white-capped rollers that dashed me on the rocks of my own broken heart those first terrible months. Some days I don't cry, I am able to carry the weight of your death as a part of me. It's braided into the fabric of my life, into how I prioritize daily tasks and how I spend energy. Over the year, I've certainly changed my capacity to live with grief has deepened and widened along with that flow.

And then there are times when that river is squeezed by canyon walls that loom impossibly high, blocking out the sun. Pressed into these tight spaces river turns frothy and treacherous, again. I am once again brutally tossed, submerged and tumbled by the current that drives me through that canyon. Riding the whitewater is something I'm used to, but it feels more intense now that I'm not doing it every day. Perhaps it is because of the contrast between the "good days" that makes the bad days feel worse. Early on in this journey, I measured each moment, hour and day in varying degrees of heartache and bewilderment as I sought to find refuge in the decimated landscape of my inner being. Now I am a veteran with the scars of battle crisscrossing my body. I know what's at the bottom of the well of grief and have found peace there when I am able to move beyond the wailing of my heart's longing.

This week a check came in the mail. It was the life insurance payout from your policy at work. We knew it was coming. We had to wait a year until your brother was eighteen and could receive the funds. Even with a whole year to know this day would come, I was not prepared for the emotional storm that hit when I saw that check. Your brothers, dad and I had discussed ideas on what to do with it. We made some plans that were not too specific, but at least we'd had a conversation. But when it came down to actually acting on those plans, I lost my shit.

Dad called in the troops to come help pick up the pieces. Nana and Grandpa were here in a flash wrapping me up in big hugs while I sobbed and sobbed.

That check felt like so many things all at once. But the first thing I felt was a terrible finality. It's the last thing time the world would recognize you officially. Thor Stish, as a person, with accounts and all the things that make up a life had wrapped up his final piece of business. Everything has been settled. I felt that you had been cashed out, processed out of the system and removed from the rolls. This was it. I couldn't stand the idea of divvying up the funds (even though I know we will) at first. I just wanted to let that check sit a while, resting, whole and intact. I need to catch my breath and open my broken heart to be able to receive this gift - a year later - from you.

I can feel you smiling from the other realms knowing you were able to leave a little something to help us financially. And I am completely amazed that a young man at nineteen years old had a life insurance policy at all. I mean if you were to poll nineteen-year-olds, I am pretty sure most of them wouldn't even think about it. Even so, it's bitter, bitter, bitter to hold a check in my hand when all I want is to hold you in my arms again. So the tears fall.

After Nana and Grandpa left I heard you ringing the chimes outside the window on a windless evening. And you gave 'em a good shake, too! I smiled a crooked, shaky smile through the wracking sobs. It calmed me to know you were there, lending support and holding me close. I'll be okay, but it takes some time for me to get my feet back under me after the river runs high and wild and crashes me on the rocks.

The arrival of the check was the big slammer on what had already been a hard week. My heart was sore, and I there was no exterior reason for it. I miss you, plain and simple. And I miss you more each day, but my capacity to carry this weight is greater, too. So I walk ahead with this giant longing in my heart that continually reaches out to you, in search of connection, broadcasting a message of love. It was in this aching place that a series of Thor sightings took place. There is a young man in Scottsville who drives a truck like yours, wears his hat, sunglasses, and beard like you and even wears an optic green shirt with reflectors like you did at work. I see him a few times a week on my way to town, and every time my heart leaps to my throat, and my eyes are transfixed to "see" you like that. Sometimes I end up crying all the way to town and sometimes, I smile and say "thanks." It just depends. This week Chaz saw him, too, and we both felt it hard. I was glad to have his hand to hold until I got my breath back.

On Tuesday we had to put Arturo down. His health had been failing, and it was time to set him free. It was hard on all of us to make this decision, and it was really hard for your dad, especially. We love and miss Arturo, he was a sweet pup. But the death of our four-legged family member triggered us to remember the pain of losing you, too. It's compounded and amplified, dredging up so much more than a sad farewell to our fur baby. I felt you hovering nearby. Maybe you met Arturo at the rainbow bridge to throw some sticks and scratch his super soft ears. I know he'd be happy to see you.

I'm not sad to see this week come to an end, and I think you'll agree, it's with good reason! This morning I'm grateful for this time to unpack my feelings in a note to you. It's been too long since I sat and shared what's on my mind and in my heart. Of course, you probably already know even without me writing it down. But it helps me get clear and feel lighter. I'm not sure when I'll write again, but know that each and every moment of every day, I am open to sensing your presence.

Our new relationship is different and satisfyingly rich in many ways. But I do long for your physical presence. I long to hear your laugh and get a big hug. I'd be thrilled to have you walking across the living room in muddy boots, leaving a trail of dirty clothes and dirty dishes in your wake, if it meant you were back. But those are foolish longings that cause so much pain, and unfortunately, I fall into them often. I do inner work to stay focused on the love we share and am using that to keep our connection open free of the narrative of longing and aching over lost time together.

'Til next time, sweet boy.
I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 79 - 365 Days

I've seen 365 sunrises arc across the sky and melt into sunsets through tear-stained eyes. I slogged through fifty-two Monday through Sunday schedules filled with the mundane, the spectacular, and the unbearably sorrowful. I flipped twelve calendar pages one by one as we slid through four seasons in turn; winter, spring, summer and fall. Our earth spun one orbit around the sun marking a full year since that last amazing and tragic day of your life.

It's astounding to me that a whole year has flown by, all this time, all these days and experiences without you here. You didn't breathe a single breath of air in all of 2016, exiting as you did at 9:45 pm on New Year's Eve, 2015. I arose before the sun today and watched the sky turn orange and then peach and pink through teary eyes. There are not enough words to say how my heart hurts at the thought of this year coming to a close. As hard as this year has been, it was all so new and I felt close to you. The year of firsts is intense, but special, too. And now I find myself on the threshold of the anniversary of the worst day of my life - the last of the firsts. The Big One. After today it will be the year of Seconds which feels infinitely farther away from that pivotal point in our lives. There is a precious, tender poignancy to the Firsts that doesn't carry forward as they turn into Seconds. I imagine this will make the year of Seconds (and Thirds and Fourths and so on) that much harder. There is a terribleness to the process of growing accustomed to something as awful as the death of a child.

One full year has passed since I saw your sweet face; since you had that last fantastic day of your short life. What a day that was! Hunting, hanging with your pals, enjoying the freakishly warm day in a tee-shirt, riding around in the truck with the windows down and music blasting, spending time with Starr, eating all your favorite foods, laughing it up with your brothers, singing and dancing to the soundtrack of your youth with the family. When I reflect on that day, it makes me smile and cry at the same time. It makes me wonder if somehow, on some level, it was a gift of God knowing that the end was nigh and so you were granted a perfect, glorious last day with us. It gives me something to hold onto, something that allows me to forgive myself for parenting mistakes, missed opportunities, causing you harm in any way. I have this last day to remember you by and the treasured last pictures of you; me and you dancing in the kitchen.

As much as I don't want to believe it, the calendar doesn't lie. Tonight some of us are gathering at the launching pad (the tree), to light candles and remember your life and passing, Thor. We all are changed by your life and love, and because we love you so much, we are transformed by your death, too. It will be so terribly difficult to stand in that spot, on the anniversary of that moment when your truck screeched around a bend and hurtled through the December night air to end its flight in an abrupt stop at that tree. It will be impossibly hard to stand there on that piece of ground where your body lay as the warmth of life leeched into the leaves beneath it. But there is nowhere else for me to be. I must be there on this last of the Firsts - the First anniversary of our last day with you. This is our story with its tragic twist. It's the way it unfolded for us, and the path of grief is the path I face. I could choose to sidestep, ignore, downplay or deny what is, but that, somehow, demeans your life and that's something I can never do.

And what a life you had, my darling! What joy you brought to me--to us! I miss you so much. I long to laugh at your infectious playfulness. You had a quick wit and funny sense of humor that brought laughter to anyone, even if they were feeling sad. You were willing to make a fool of yourself for the sake of getting a laugh. Sounds a lot like your dad, to me. I hear time and again how much your friends relied on your kind and empathetic listening ear. You had a wisdom about you that belied your young age, and you shared what you could with others when they asked. You embodied and shared many of the spiritual lessons you learned during your young years at the Yogaville school. Mr. Mahen and Mrs. Raji, along with the families all helped to fortify and give voice to that inherent goodness you were born with. Even so, you were rascally and wild and free, (sounds a lot like your mother…ahem!) you lived each day like it was the last and didn't have many regrets, in the end, I think. Maybe you would have like more time here, but I don't know if souls have those kinds of longings. I hope not. Regret sucks.

Recently, I chuckled to myself when I thought about how many times you skipped school so you could do whatever it was you wanted to do. It makes me wonder if, on some level, you knew you had a short time here, and it couldn't be wasted in a classroom. Still, you managed to graduate and could walk with your class (thank you, Sue Miles!). I snapped a photo during graduation where you have the sweetest expression on your face, it melts my heart.

I loved cooking for you. Since you started eating food you gobbled up whatever mama made - heck, you loved breastfeeding for that matter! Ha! I miss your appetite and appreciative Ooohs and Mmmmms! I baked you epic birthday cakes that took hours to decorate; your wish was my command. Monster Truck cake? Sure! Hot Wheels cake? No problem! I still prepare your favorites, chicken & dumplings, chili, venison chops, pork chops, gumbo or jambalaya, often and think of you as I do it, offering it up from my heart to you, wherever you are.

I would give anything to have you come storming in the house full of excitement because you had landed deer or were heading out to go fishing with Travis and Aaron or any your dozens of friends. The outdoors called to you, it was your favorite place to be. Well, it might be a toss-up between the great outdoors and cruising and thumping in your truck along a country road, both were right at the top of your list of Awesome Shit To Do. Also on that list was: riding four-wheelers, mudding, drinking a cold one, hanging with friends, spending time with family, working on motors, building something, helping anyone with anything, loving a pretty woman, picking and grinning with dad (and showing him up, a little) - not necessarily in that order.

I long for the hugs we shared. I think about your little arms when you were small wrapped around my neck for comfort or security. As you got older, those hugs became a somewhat more sporadic but no less sweet. As you grew into a strong, young man I treasured the days you'd come to visit, and you'd wrap me up in those big arms and plant a whiskered kiss on my cheek with an "I love you, Mama." I wish so badly that we'd get more of those days.

Most of all I miss your physical presence, your vibrational energy that was larger than life; a vibration that we echoed in each other since before you were born. It was suggested to me that you and I might be operating as twin souls; we are brother and sister of the spirit taking new life with each other to further the experience for each.  This notion fascinated me and resonates as true, it speaks to the inexplicable, deep connection we share.

Last week, at work, I heard Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison, and I broke down and cried. One of my favorite songs since I was a girl, Grandpa let me listen to that 8-track tape over and over and over again. You told me that you wanted that song for us to dance to for the Mother-Son dance at your wedding - whenever it would be. Even if I don't get to see you get married, at least I have this, we had our plan. Every time I hear that song now, I imagine you and I dancing; me a proud mom of a handsome groom and you, happy and excited for your life with your new bride. Some might think that's just crazy to think that way, so painful and sad. But not to me, it's an imagining full of wishes and love that squeezes my heart just enough. I think that if I wish it enough, we'll get to have that dance someday, maybe on a day when we're both angels.

Yesterday I reread many of the letters I've written to you over this year. I wanted to see if I still feel the same way. If I've made progress (whatever that means). I discovered many things about myself and about love through the profound and crushing weight of grief. I plunged myself into the pain, suffering and sorrow to explore and understand what lessons they could teach me. I read my words where I poured out longing and confusion and frustration and anger. It's amazing to me how often I found Grace and Peace and Love as a salve for my bloodied, battered and bruised heart. This year of firsts brought more heartache but also more open vulnerability to experience Love from a deeper place. As the weeks folded into months and the winter melted into spring, I dove to depths of my heart to find what matters.

We've all come so far on this road. Your dad, brothers and I traveled to mountain and shore together, learning how to BE without one of our limbs. We let the wind and the waves wash away the agony of heartache and let the sun warm sink it's healing energy through our skin and down into our bones. We learned how to smile and laugh, again. We see you all around us in the beauty of nature and hear you in the chimes that sing in the wind. Over these months we've leaned heavily on each other and on our friends, calling on the prayer-energy and love that surrounds us to keep us afloat. We delved into new hobbies and homestead projects to keep our hands busy and our minds from stewing too long in the agony of grief. Our hearts are heavy with loss, but also light with love and the happy memories of our life together. We smile through the tears and somehow find the will to carry on.

I am a broken shell, (aren't we all?) beautiful in its imperfection; the symmetrical whorls cracked to reveal a new, unique pattern. I can live with brokenness. It's not a death sentence, but rather an invitation to explore a different way of being. It takes guts to embrace the jagged edges, own them, walk ahead with them as part of my new arraignment. I am adorned with the crystalline pieces of my heart strung like a necklace about my neck and shining like diamonds from the waves of my hair. If I pause to look at these shards I see the love we have for each other reflected there; it shines like a million suns and dazzles in dancing rainbows. I am broken, but remade, rearranged and attuned anew to a higher vibration.

The experience of mourning your death has transformed me into someone I hardly recognize, but whom I kinda like, Thor. A purer, lighter version of me emerges from the crucible of sorrow with much of the calcified layers of opinion, ambition, self-doubt, insecurity and fear burned away. I am content in my own skin. There is still so much work to do, Thor, so I can stay rooted in and living from peace and love and joy. As far as I've come, I still slip and fall on this rocky terrain. For the road is not smooth nor predictable. And for all the inner work I've done, the fact remains that I will live the rest of this life with the terrible knowledge that I've lost a beloved son. That's a hard life path, baby. I feel more equipped to travel this path through the rocks and crags now. I am delighted to find surprise oases of pure Joy and Light; for while the road is impossibly hard, the treasures along its way are unspeakably rich and rewarding. My job is to keep moving and stay open to what the journey reveals.

A year has flown but the number of days between us can neve diminish the love I have for you. It only grows stronger.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 78 - Kintsukuroi

Broken Vessel by Nancy Cupp

Well, Bubby, I survived. One more holiday milestone has come and gone. I worried and cried and hurt over the idea of a Christmas morning without you here. I retreated deep inside myself to weather the storm of emotions that raged inside of me. I made a plan and went about executing it step by step, with all the determination of a space explorer; follow the flight plan and survive, don't follow it and risk being blown into oblivion. This morning as I sit listening to the soft patter of rainfall outside, I see that I did more than merely survive it; I nailed it. I enjoyed celebrating life and love and being together with your dad and brothers, and with all the family and friends. I didn't spend the whole day teary-eyed and sad, missing the moments with my loved ones who are still here for mourning the death of the one who isn't.

This is not to say I didn't have excruciating moments where I felt hollow like a gutted fish and was sure I looked just as glassy-eyed as one of those finned creatures laying on the ice in the grocery store, staring blankly at nothing with nothing to look forward to but a frying pan. But that hollow-fish feeling didn't rule the day. The big sunshine-yellow shot of JOY that you dropped by to give me several evenings ago, the one that lifted my heart out of sorrow long enough for me to smile widely and laugh from the depths of my toes, that JOY is what came through in the end. It oozed in and around all the cracks in my broken heart and melded them together with delicious warmth. Like a Japanese Kintsukuroi pot, except all the cracks are filled with golden LIGHT instead of molten gold.

Of course, the survival plan had it's part in keeping me buoyant, too. And this plan was designed to ensure complete mental, physical and emotional occupation, and to get something useful out of the deal, to boot. After all, Thor, your mama is nothing if not pragmatic. I was worried that the long weekend would allow too much time for us to fall headlong into the Thor-sized hole in our lives. We needed something we could all do together that didn't allow us (okay, mainly me) to sink deeply into the morass of grief. And so we decided to remodel the kitchen. It's something we were planning to do last January, and with everything that happened after you died, we never got it done.

We started the demolition on Christmas Day, in the afternoon, after the gifts were opened and we'd drunk our traditional mimosas and noshed our traditional bagels. (This year, Chaz made the mimosas for me, willingly taking on the task you used to do so well.) We emptied the cupboards and ripped out the counter tops, took out the sink and lowered the light fixtures. Then we began putting it all back together in the new configuration. Mimi and Pap came for their annual Christmas visit and helped us get it finished. Then Nana came over to help me re-organize all the cupboards and throw out boxes full of accumulated things that I no longer need. By the afternoon of the 28th, the project was DONE. Oh, Thor! You would love it! It's a beautiful labor of love.

In the middle of all this chaos, Lady had to go to the vet for emergency surgery to remove some bladder stones, one of which had become a blockage. Driving in the car is when I'm tested, for real. Rolling down the road with the countryside sliding by in a spectacular wintry display of pinks and blues is when the busyness ceases, and I'm peaceful enough that my feelings can rise to the surface of my consciousness. There within that bubble of steel and glass is where I face the day-to-day stark reality and horror that you are dead and gone. It's also where we get to hang out together. I listen to the music that feels like the soundtrack of your life and conjure your beautiful face in my mind. Some days I cry a lot. Most days it's the greatest comfort in the world to spend that time thinking about you.

Xander rode along with me to keep Lady calm and even with the worry of Lady looming large on my mind, the sorrow over your loss found footing and began to rise. It's fingers wrapped around my neck, choking me with unshed tears. I tapped my fingers and breathed great puffing breaths, sharply exhaling and then biting my lip to keep from falling into the wracking sobs that I knew were coming. We dropped the pup off, leaving her in the capable hands of Doc Auten, and got back in the car to head home. I turned on the car and as the stereo started up, the first bars of "I Love This Life" came on. I lost it. I stopped the car and let the tears come. They felt good and right and would not be denied for even one more second. I know you don't want me to cry too much, but sometimes it's good to lance the wound of this grief and let off the emotional pressure. As good as I'm doing at times, that wound weeps constantly. I think you showed up in that song, in that moment with a cue to cry, like a pin prick releasing the pent up sorrow that I've kept in check for your dad and brothers' sakes. For my sake.

And for your sake, too. A couple of friends mentioned that seeing us happy and finding our way out of the wrenching pain of acute grief would give you great peace, too. One of them told me that a departed soul has to spend time absorbing the lessons of the life lived and also to see and absorb the suffering left behind. And that seeing their loved ones finding their way back to joy, peace, and love would help them with this process. I don't know if it's true, none of us does, really. But it's a beautiful thought, that our healing here is somehow helping you there, wherever that may be, Thor.

Last night you woke me with the wind chimes, again. I sat in the glow of the eternal candle that flickers next to the urn holding your mortal ashes. My mind was still churning with to-dos and musts. So I sat wrapped in the warmth from the woodstove and rocked gently in the chair. Gradually my thoughts quieted down, and my mind stilled, like a lake surface that is no longer whipped by the wind. Thanks for reminding me that I need to carve out these times of sanctuary, not so much to feel grief, but to cultivate an experience of peace. As this first year without you ticks to an end, I find that grief is more often replaced by peace. There is peace in knowing we are forever connected and that our love will never die, even when my life is over, the love that brought you to me as my son carries on. The comings and goings and doings of the earthly realm are not what that matters most. And while we can experience many things here, the love that emanates from the soul comes from that endless source, the wellspring of life itself. Tapping into this peace and love is what matters most. Living from this peace and love is what matters most. Experiencing and sharing this peace and love is what matters most.

Keep waking me up so we can sit a while in the wee hours of the night, Thor. I'll be listening. We'll have a cup of tea at the new kitchen table.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 77 - Comfort & Joy

Dad and I have been wrapping gifts, buying the groceries and planning a project for our time off, but I go about these activities with a pall of sorrow. I feel like a jewel-toned watercolor painting that someone washed over with gray. It's still me; I'm still here, but all my colors are subdued, muted. Functional (mostly), okay-ish (mostly), happy-ish (sometimes), grateful (always).  As I drove home from work yesterday evening, I ticked off the last few shopping things I needed to do before allowing myself to settle in and experience whatever this first Christmas without you has in store for me.

After supper, last night dad and I wrapped a humongous gift for Chaz and were quite the pair of giggling conspirators as we tried to figure out how to cover this box that stands 7 feet tall! There was joking, all on Dad's part. To get me to smile, he is willing to be ridiculous, silly, bawdy or anything else that might make me grin. And it worked. I'm not sure what happened, but I know you rode in on that joy like you'd be waiting for the shell of heartbreak to crack, again, as it has so many times this year. Every time I allow myself to be broken, open --- melty, I am able to rest in that state of being that allows for a greater experience of love.

Later last night, the insistent tinkling of the wind chimes outside my bedroom window caught my attention and drew my gaze out across the darkness to where the constellation that I now call, Thor, sailed high in the sky. Under the steady gaze of those stars, a feeling of giddy happiness bubbled up from inside as if my whole heart had swallowed the buttery-warm tonic of the sun. I laughed out loud in what can only be described as an expression of pure joy. This is your gift to me this Christmas, Thor. You came to visit us as we prepare for the holiday and literally warmed my heart, touching me with your spirit; bestowing an angel blessing upon me. There are many Christmas memories to treasure from the nineteen magical years together, and this is a new one from our new way of being. Now we're separated by the veil of the unknown, but we are also connected by what we do know in every cell of our Selves: Love.

We took our places in the living room to watch A Christmas Carol, and as we settled in, I made a joke, that was very much at your Dad's expense, but it was so funny that I cracked myself up. Xan and Chaz cracked up, your dad took it well even if he was stunned that I would make such a joke. But I think he appreciated the fact that I was laughing. I mean, I really laughed for the first time in a year. I attribute this to the shot of Joy you hit me with when you called me to stand by the window and listen with all my being for what you're trying to tell me; Live in Joy, Mama!

Grief is an expression of love, pure and simple. Grief grips me tight because I cannot hold you in a big hug and I will never get to see the father you would have been. I won't get to see if your children favor you in looks and charm. I grieve because there is a hole in my heart that cannot be filled because it goes all the way through to the core of me being, back to where we all come from. I grieve for your life cut short, for our journey together this life ending the way it did. I grieve for your brothers and dad and your Starr. I grieve for your friends who miss you terribly and feel uncertain in life, now, not sure about what can be counted upon. I grieve for so many reasons, but they all come back to one root, love.

I grieve because it's Christmas and you're not here with us in the flesh, eating, drinking, laughing, plotting about gifts and making plans to celebrate with your friends.

If all of this is love dressed up as grief, I say that Joy is an expression of Love, too. I am joyful because I am your mom and we share a love and bond that even death cannot break. I feel joy for the memories and the stories I carry that keep you alive in my heart. There is the joy for the way you changed me from being a woman to being a mother, your Mama. I find joy in loving your Dad and brothers, and you. I express joy through tears as I am overwhelmed with love every single day. My broken heart is open to the simple beauty of seeing the full moon setting in the West while the sun graces us with a soft glow in the East - a sight that sparked joy in my heart. Joy can live next door to grief because it is the same love that expresses in each. And if joy is an expression of love, then it can fill the Thor-sized hole in my heart, because if you are anything to me, you are joy and love combined.

When I bought my new car in September, I also got new license plates. I picked out the Protect the Pollinators style that has hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies on it. And then I personalized it with a message not only for me but for anyone who happens to be riding behind me on any road; LIVJOY. I admit, Thor, this is a fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of statement, allowing myself to LIVE in JOY and to LIVE JOYFULLY eludes me at times. Grief and sorrow will not be denied, they have their way with me, wringing my heart and sweeping it clean with tears. But it's okay, I don't mind the grief. It is ours, together. But now we are sharing Joy, too, and that is the biggest gift of all.

I'll try to remember your visit as we roll closer to the anniversary of your death. That is a sad, sad day for me. But I am staying open to what you might reveal in the wee hours of the night; of how I might find my way out of pain and into Joy more fully. I'll be listening for you to ring the chimes and sing to my soul, sweet boy.

It's Christmas Eve, Eve and we'll be going to the party with the family. It's going to be hard to be around everyone with that empty spot where you should be standing, in the picture, in the conversation, in the making of new memories. But I'll do my best to tap into that ball of yellow, sunshine, JOY you hit me with.

There will be tears.
Tears of sorrow. Tears of joy. Both bring comfort in their turn.

I haven't been able to wish anyone a Merry Christmas this year. The words get stuck in my throat and dry to dust in my mouth. I think this is because I don't feel merry inside. In order to bestow a wish, one must feel the thing being wished for; happiness, merriment, etc. While merriment might be out of the scope of my experience this year, comfort and joy are certainly in my grasp. I can wish Glad Tidings of Comfort and Joy!  I'm grateful for this gift, dear boy. Thank you for staying close and for helping me find my way. 

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 76 - One Step. Then another.

This was a heck of a weekend, Thor. The holiday rush is upon us in a cascade of red and green, of gifts and festive gatherings, of traditions made rich with the love of friends and family. And we wonder moment by moment how we do this without you here. I find myself at odds with the expectation of carrying on and the desire to experience some joy here among the living. Some moments can be called good, these days, but most are hindered by the choking weed of sorrow that has taken root in the garden of my heart.

Dad and I went on a grand adventure yesterday. We decided that we are going to "do" Christmas this year as we have every year. There will be presents and a visit from Santa. I'll bake cookies and will prepare all our traditional favorites complete with ambrosia and mimosas on Christmas morning. There was shopping to do, so we sojourned on our annual trip to "the North Pole" as we always say, braving the crowds and moving shoulder to shoulder with our fellow Christmassers through store after store. It was a good day and also a very rough day. Many times I conveniently got lost for a moment or two so the tears that pooled in my eyes could slide down my face unnoticed by dad. I thought of you, and my heart broke over and over as we moved about the day and through the motions of preparing for this holiday without you.

Little things triggered a smile and fond memory alongside the tears. Monster Trucks in the toy aisle were especially moving for me. I have many memories of you and your brothers playing with the Monster Trucks, and then of watching them one TV each night. You and I liked Max-D while the rest of the family stuck with Grave Digger. Remember when we went to Monster Jam live? And the Monster Truck birthday cakes? And Christmases with Monster Truck tee shirts and pj's and remote control vehicles… I laid a finger on one little die-cast truck yesterday, and it all came flooding back.

Putting things in the cart in sets of two instead of three was another tough one. A million little paper cuts sliced my heart as we didn't have a list to fill for you. It was a silent omission as Dad and I selected things for your brothers, like usual. Stocking stuffers and sets of pj's, normally bought in threes all reduced in number by one-third.

We've had other milestones this year, the firsts of many important days that found me aching over your death more than words can say. But Christmas is different, it hurts more and in deeper places. It's so entwined in my memory with the magic-like happiness of my youth and, later your youth, too. We pass the joy we knew as children on to our own in the handing down of our favorite traditions, the ones that make our hearts sing. Christmas is pregnant with romantic illusion, it can elevate us to great heights of joy for those who are able to keep that spirit alive, or it can crush us under the weight of sadness when the chambers of our hearts are full of sorrow. I'm mostly in the latter state, I'm sorry to say. But I'm soldiering on, one step at a time and then another and another.

It's the grinding, ever-present grief and heartbreak that wears me down. I feel like I'm being ground into dust and that one good gust of wind could vanish me. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, I'm still here. My body still breathes the cool, clean air of a new morning and my heartbeat still quickens when I see something beautiful. I have hope that I won't live my whole life feeling like moon dust inside, devoid of life.

As if to prove this to myself, today I baked Christmas cookies. I made Russian Tea Cakes, poppy seed and nut rolls. Later this week I hope to roll out and ice the sugar cookies. But we'll see. I'm just glad I baked some cookies. All these things are so hard to do this year, and yet doing them is helping all of us feel a little better. Somehow, I feel like if I'm able to do Christmas by our tradition, it's doing so much more. We're looking for joy at a time when we could be easily consumed by a dark and sucking sorrow. So, I'm glad to have the fortitude (and Grace) to carry on, even if only in the modest action of baking some cookies.

Your cousin, Rani, graduated from JMU this weekend, too. What a great accomplishment for her. She struggled a lot during the spring semester after your accident. But now she's done and is preparing for the next adventure, in England. There was a gathering of family and friends at Nana's house this afternoon. I went over for a few minutes, but even if I didn't need to get back home, I couldn't have stayed. The tears I held back all week and then all day yesterday so we could get the big shopping done, finally started. The trigger, of course, was being in that roomful of the family who knows me so well and is hurting, too. They know I'm barely hanging in and there's no point in hiding it…cue the tears. Life is moving on for everyone, but it's your brothers' and cousins' new adventures that are so bittersweet. You should be here with them, celebrating, lending a smile, teasing and joking around. Mahi got married, Rani graduating from college, Madhuri is in school and working. The Bertram's are moving to England. Xanny has a girlfriend and Chaz is a published journalist for the college newspaper. So many things are happening that you aren't here to see and experience with us. That's one of the biggest things that guts me, the knowledge that we won't get to share more experiences together in this life. That just flat sucks.

I sense you being "here," but it's not the same you know. We're living on, continuing to play this game, whatever it's point, while you've slipped into a different dimension. You're here, and you're also everywhere. I'm not sure how that works. I suppose we all find out, in time.

Starr and Kenzie came over today. I hadn't given Starr her birthday gift, and I wanted to be sure she had it before she got her Christmas present. Kenzie brought your dad and me some sweet little gifts. I got a pair of cardinals that now sit near your portrait. As Kenzie said, they represent my visitor from Heaven; you! I also got a beautiful sign with the saying from Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear. "Don't forget, You are braver thank you think, Stronger than you seem, Smarter than you think and Loved more than you'll ever know." Blew me away. I am going to take it with me to work so I can see it all the time during the day. We had a good visit. It feels so good to hug Starr Baby. It's like you are there hugging us both. We watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas with Kenzie, shared some laughter and some tears, too. This time of year is really hard on us, Thor. Kenzie is really hurting, I know you know this already. Keep close to her, she's so young to have dealt with so much.

We're on the downhill slide toward Christmas and are closing in on the anniversary of the worst day of my life. I just don't know how to hold all these feelings in each moment, but I'm trying. I've felt you around me so strongly, lately. I swear I can hear your voice talking to me at times, encouraging and helping me find my way through the devastation. Sometimes I know you are trying to tell me something and my broken heart gets in the way of hearing. That's when you seem to find other ways to send me a message. Thank you for those, they help me keep the faith that we will continue to have a relationship in this new form.

The glow of the Christmas tree gently holds space for all these feelings and thoughts to surface. In the middle of the night, it's just you and me. Glad we found some time to chat, Thor. I miss you more than I can say.

For Thor - 75 - Hide and Seek

Good morning, Thor, my darling, darling boy.

It's a cold December dawn that has me out of bed and writing to you while I sit in front of the wood stove sipping a cup of Irish Breakfast tea. Lady is curled up next to me; a warm, solid, little mass of furry love. She keeps me company in these early hours. The Christmas tree lights glow softly, reflecting off the ornaments we hung there last week. Many of them "yours" or your brothers'. Scooby Doo, Sponge Bob, Spider-Man and about a hundred Santas with tractors, trains and race cars bedeck the tree. This carefully curated collection, amassed over the years, tells a story of my three boys, what you loved, and what dad and I thought represented you each year of your precious boyhoods.

I'm glad the tree is up, but I didn't know if we'd even get that much of "Christmas" going this year, so I'm giving myself a pat on the back for getting this far. It's so hard for me to think about this annual celebration of family, and friends, and life and JOY when we are closing in on the first Christmas without you. And worst of all, we are closing in on the dreaded anniversary of the day you died, and my heart broke. It's the heartbreak that has me crippled, you know. It's always right here inside drawing me deep, like a drain plug in the bottom of a lake was pulled and no matter how much life tries to fill the lake it just keeps draining out. I feel like I've plateaued in the progression of processing your death, Thor. And maybe that's because I must focus on the business of living again. Work and the daily tasks of running a home call me away from the intense soul-work I was doing so steadily.

My whole life my personality leans toward the introverted side. I have a rich inner life that I find comforting and fulfilling, insightful and energizing. So, I like to have quiet, and I enjoy time alone when my thoughts and feelings can surface like colorful fish in a still pond. I retreat inside myself to recharge, reboot, find inspiration, and ask my inner knowing to show me what's next. Even so, I've always also had not just an ability, but a desire to engage with the world. I wanted to interact with others, work on projects, dream big dreams and make plans. I sought out conversation, collaboration, and camaraderie. Extroversion suited at times and balanced my life.

Dad and I had a good talk last night. He made an observation that I think is spot-on; he sees that since the trauma of your death, I've retreated inside myself totally, now. I am introverted completely. He sees that I've lost that enthusiastic willingness to engage outside myself, preferring and choosing, the relative safety, calm and breathless depths that exist in my personal retreat.

I have to say he's right on some levels. I'm going through all the motions, emulating how I used to live, but my heart's not in it. There are meetings to keep and lunch-time strategy sessions, and the daily banter with my team at work and every day I am there, doing it; getting it done and I even have a smile on my face. I really do like what I'm doing! But the truth is, I am only partially there. Most of me is still down here in the well of grief, hurt, sad, and utterly bewildered by the violent loss of my beloved son. Most of me is unwilling to allow the noisy world to run roughshod into this sacred space inside myself; where my broken heart still bleeds freely, and I can mourn your death without reservation or censure. I am the walking wounded, and on some days when the grief is particularly heavy, I feel like I'm the walking dead. No one can really know how much I hurt, how sorrowful I feel. It's sorrow that sets me apart from everyone else because it is so pervasive, influencing every thought, word, and deed.

It's like I'm looking through a glass, living from the other side of a barrier. I can see everything, and I can interact enough to keep up appearances and obligations. The gaping wound in my heart is a vast expanse which I am trying to reach across. My hope is that there will be time enough for it to heal. That I'll feel whole enough to step fully into the world, again and engage with joyful enthusiasm, the way I used to do.

Unless they know me really well, most people don’t even know this is what's happening. But your dad does. He feels my retreat most keenly because he cannot follow me there and therefore can't help me there, either. I think that if couples don't survive the death of a child, that this is why. There is no way for them to find each other when grief drives them to places where the other one cannot go. The saving grace is empathy and maybe a lot of patience.

One night this week I came home teary-eyed and downtrodden. I had cried almost the whole way home from work and my heart hurt so badly. We ate dinner, and I had a restorative glass of wine and settled in comfy clothes on the sofa. I still felt raw and disconnected by grief. Dad came into the living room carrying two shotguns; one was mine - which used to be his, but he gave it to me even though it's one of his favorites - and one was yours, Thor. So, dad asked if I wanted to trade my/his gun for yours. I lovingly held the gun and worked the action with a satisfying "schunk". It's a beautiful shotgun, all the more beautiful because it was yours. I made that trade as tears of appreciation welled up in my eyes. Then dad disappeared again and reemerged, handing me your deer gun - this time both of us had tears in our eyes. This is the gun we gave you for Christmas and that you used to put a heck of a lot of venison in the freezer. They now rest in my gun rack along with my pink plinkster which you were known to like to borrow. It was a sweet gesture that meant a lot to me, to have dad give me your guns. Of course, he said that now I'll have to get my tukus out there and shoot! Well, that's an easy thing to do. I love shooting. More importantly, he found a way to reach me where I am, here in the depths of sorrow. 

Being in the depths of sorrow has a purpose. I'm playing Hide and Seek inside myself. I'm in here, deep and seeking something. I want answers, I want to know where you are, Thor. I want to feel your presence and listen to the wind for a whisper that tells me you're around. I hide deep inside myself to protect this fragile broken heart, while I seek solace here in the same place. I rest the bottom of the well where I can reach out and touch the source of the stars and seek their timeless knowledge of who we are and why we're here. Is there any sense, purpose or reason to all of this? What is the point, exactly, of living a life on this planet? Why do we go through the motions of all this activity? What matters, in the end? What's the bottom-line calculation which, when analyzed at the end, means anything?

I dive deep and hide out, listening with all my senses to understand.

I seek, with an earnest query to What Is, I trust that the truth will be revealed. It might be time to earnestly seek a way back to living in joy, too.

One day, the seeker shall find.

Until then, I will try to live beyond the utter agony of heartache and step into life. One breath at a time. One step at a time. One interaction at a time.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 74 - Thanksgiving

There isn't enough room in my skin for everything I feel today. It's Thanksgiving Day, and I'm home alone, by choice. It wasn't easy to decide to stay here while Dad and Xanny are in Pennsylvania. But as this day drew close, I knew that I didn't have feasting and celebration in my heart. Myriad emotions and states of being tug and pull at each other in a constant battle. One moment my heart overflows with gratefulness and the next, grief smashes in to steal all the air and energy. Then I manically run from the pain; busy being busy, filling the moments with anything that keeps me from focusing on the one dreaded fact I cannot outrun, ever. No matter how many projects, people, plans, or holiday feasts come and go, you, my beloved boy, are dead. And I live on, rooted in the bottom of the well of grief.

My mind is at once my tormentor and my friend today. It takes me on a poignant journey through the memories I have from your nineteen years with us. I recall your sweet face, beautiful blue eyes, bright smile and the total love you showed to your family. You adored Thanksgiving; it's as if this feast day was made for you. Autumn, hunting, friends, family, food, laughter, joy, and appreciation of the bounty showered upon us, appreciating what is; enjoying what is in each moment. Then my mind turns darkly and pulls up the starkness of the empty chair where you should be. That glaring empty hole is not just in my imagination; it is in my heart. I visualized going through the motions of our traditional observance and it feels so hollow to me. I mentally walked through the preparation of a Thanksgiving meal, making the dressing, the gravy (your favorite!), setting out all the plates and silver and all the effort…without you. Every time my heart broke all over again. I ended up in sobbing tears, wracked with pain. It's too soon for me to set a feasting table, a celebration of bounty and plenty.

It's not that I'm not thankful. I practice gratitude every day as part of my way of living, again. Every day I write or recall the reasons for being grateful, and I touch on some of the millions of beautiful gifts for which I'm thankful. To be honest, this is the single most important thing I do to keep going day to day. When it comes to you, I am thankful, so deeply, utterly grateful for each precious moment we had together. I am working to forgive myself for not being "present" enough for many of them, living as I was in a state of complacent disbelief that anything bad could ever happen to us. I took too many of those moments for granted. I assumed I'd always have you, it never crossed my mind that life would throw such an ugly twist into the story. And now here we are. I'm mourning you with hot tears streaming down my face and my heart broken into a million pieces. There isn't anything of myself that I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms again, to hear your voice and kiss your cheek.

Dad and Xan headed to PA, I stayed home (with Chaz). I don't have it in me to pretend to be okay-ish, nor to be around everyone and cry all day, either. I want to hibernate deep in the bottom of the well and feel what I feel without distraction. I want to commune with you, Thor, for a while and remember the beautiful gift of your life with us. I want to be here, where I can look at the family pictures and say your name out loud and cry and wish and lament and just be sad, broken-hearted mom. Because this is what is, this is what I am every day, but more so today.

Yeah, there is too much to feel for my skin to contain. Stretched paper-thin any little thing pricks that surface and taps the grief that waits there, barely contained. The silliest, simplest, random things set me crying. Yesterday it was a stupid news story that made me angry, and I burst into tears. The day before that arguing about politics with friends on Facebook was a distraction that felt better than how I feel inside. This morning the day dawned into a family-based holiday, and I can't stop crying. My heartbreak is leaking out of my eyes. There's nowhere to hide or run. I have to endure the day. And I will somehow, I have options available for any moment. Opting out of the "todo" of traveling and preparing a feast makes it more bearable. I only have to worry about myself today and not how the rapid-fire emotional changes affect others. They say that it might be good to create new traditions in the wake of death in the family. Maybe it's time for that to happen.

Chaz stayed home, too. He was worried about leaving the Metro side of the family without any Stishes on this first Thanksgiving, and he wanted to be close to me, too. He's coping, too, with the company of his cousins and friends. What a sweetheart. He's been ready with a hug more than once already and held my hand for a while in silence. Lady is on high-alert, too. She is such a sweet little being. She cuddles her little furry self right next to me. And I can feel you, my beautiful angel, hovering nearby and wrapping me in your wing.

Oh, Thor! I can hardly write as I can't see the screen or keys for crying. I want you to come through that fucking door! I want you to here in our home, eating dinner with us and kicked back watching football. I want to hear you and Dad and Pap play guitars together again. I wish so badly that I could be irritated with you for wanting to spend most of the holiday hunting and then would be proud of you for getting a deer, too. I want to chide you for putting too much whipped cream on your pie and laugh as you goad me by adding even more. I want to snuggle down after the Thanksgiving revelry is all over to watch A Christmas Story and Christmas Vacation with the family; a tradition I can't imagine keeping this year without crying the whole way through and laughing ruefully at all the jokes you loved so much. The glaring hole of your absence is too much for me. It swallows me whole and delivers me to that dark, breathless place where grief is thick and cumbersome.

The weather is supposed to be pleasant today; it may beckon me to take a long walk. Or we may decide to see a movie. Or we may just stay here and chill. Chaz and I are playing it by ear, minute by minute and he's cool with whatever the moment needs. I'm not sure what the day will hold, Thor, but you can be sure you are indelibly on our minds and in our hearts no matter what we're "doing."

Today I give thanks for all that is. Even if it's impossible to understand. Even if it hurts because I miss you so terribly. I offer thanks in the form of tears and remembered the joy and with an eye to life yet-to-be-lived, in each moment.

It is with a GREAT, FULL heart… that I offer thanks to Life for letting me be your mom, a happening that transformed me completely. For bringing you here to be my son, a relationship that continues, still. For the nineteen years of life and love, we shared here, together. For the eternal love that connects us, beyond the realm of the living and into the unmanifest realm of peace and divine love from which we all spring. I give thanks for my broken-heart that shines love through the cracks even as it weeps bitter tears. I offer undying gratitude for every single moment with you. I am so breathlessly grateful for the sweetness of life with your brothers and with your dad - our family. I am thankful for faith and grace that shower me with inspiration and strength in the moments when I'm unsure I can walk ahead.

I am thankful for the sun that shines through the front-door glass, a ray of hope that cuts through the gray clouds like a golden sword. 

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 73 - Starlight

I'm supposed to be working. Instead, I'm here writing to you. My new job started a little over two weeks ago, and while it's amazing to be a part of something so cool, in all the hectic activity I've missed you more keenly, more deeply. There is no place for my tears in my new day. And when I get home there is the rush of activity that naturally follows an intense full-time job; get supper on the table, debrief from the day and plan for the next, collapse and try to get some rest before doing it all again. I have two hours each day in the car, and on many days this is the time for tears to fall and for us to pick up our conversation. A conversation that is all too one sided for me, Bubby. But today, I have to set aside work for a spell and write. The whirl of emotions has reached a crescendo and is spilling out beyond tears and gut-wrenching agony to take the form of words on a screen. My to-do list will have to rest unattended for a bit.

The leaves on the trees glow with sunlight filtering through them in hues of amber, gold, and ruby. They dance and spin through the air in an autumn breeze. I watch out the window as nature once again shows me the total impermanence of anything in this world. A leaf that lay on the ground today, riddled with holes and crisp with frost was once the harbinger of a new season, unfurling to greet the spring. Our lives so very like these leaves celebrated in each expressive phase. Your leaf was a whole, healthy, bright green beauty, torn from life's branch by a terrible wind of fate. I long for you to have lived a long, full life greeting so many more sunrises before falling to the earth, my boy. My heart overflows with love, but also anger and regret. How is it that such a fine, strong son is struck down before he even gets going? Where is the sense or justice or fairness or reason or anything that tells me how to find my footing when you are gone? How do I reconcile a broken heart and a joyful life?

Thanksgiving is on the horizon, and I'm a wreck inside. I don't want to think about family gatherings. Our collective presence shines a stark light on the edges of the hole, the empty place, left by your death. Every day it's there, but on these holidays it looms larger and more painful, pointed up like long shadows cast by a bright light. Christmas ads, carols, invitations to parties, hints at the celebration that typically bring a smile and spark anticipation are like a million terrible knives cutting me all at once. I want to run away to somewhere where these holidays aren't in the culture. I checked airfare to Fiji and Bali, I don't have a passport, so it's a rhetorical exercise. The horrible thing is that no matter how far I run, I'll never outrun the fact that we are closing in on the worst time of the year and there is nothing to be done. I have to endure it, somehow. That's what has me short tempered, uncertain, quick-to-cry and lacking resilience.

Each day dawns with new promise, and I try to find footing to walk ahead into that possibility. I sit in meditation and visualize peace washing over and through me, I pray for Grace and vision to see the way. I long to see your face and hear your voice in my heart. Then I get in the car and drive into another flurry of activity, putting my heartbreak aside for a few hours. I've gotten away with it for a couple of weeks now, but today meditation brought tears that rose out of the depths of love and sorrow. The drive to town took longer because I had to stop along the way when I couldn't see the road for sobbing.

We had a work party putting the barn on the roof last weekend. The trusses went up, and the sheeting went on. Dad is thrilled to have his things under cover. We missed you greatly, darling. Chaz discovered that he could wear your Red Wing boots. My heart was in my throat as he laced them up and strode out with determined, proud steps. All day long, we could have used another pair of hands, and it went unsaid, but clearly understood that those hands should have been yours. You would have eaten that shit up! These are the things that twist my heart in new agony. It was a gorgeous day with friends and family working together, and yet, there is an undercurrent of sadness that just won't fade.

I went to the "launching pad" the other day and hung a new wreath on the tree. I straightened the myriad offerings of flowers, candles and little trinkets collected near the base. I still sit on that little patch of earth where you left us, where your heart stopped, and you breathed your last. I sit there because it is the last place you touched on the actual earth. I have a handful of this earth in a little jar at home. People wonder how I can stand to be there. To me, it's sacred, holy and eternally ours. Maybe I'm crazy, but I do what feels right at the moment.

One morning I went into the bedroom to wake Xanny. His face nestled under the blankets in just the right way to reveal only his hair, brow, and nose. He looks so much like you, Thor! At that moment I couldn't breathe. I just stood there looking, reveling in the gift of seeing "you" in the flesh, seeing how you live on in your brother. And you do live on in your brothers, in many ways. In memories, and music, hobbies and movies and most of all in the love we have for you.

I don't know what I'm going to do to survive the upcoming holiday season, Thor. I don't want to celebrate. And I don't want to let it all go, either. Maybe we need to change things up and do something different. Traditions seem to fly in the face of my grief this year. Gifts and candy and cookies and lights and decorations and parties. God, it all sounds so contrived. My heart isn't in it.

Maybe it's just going to suck, and that's all there is to it. I pray for the strength to walk ahead when all I want to do is fall on the floor and sob.  Maybe the joy will infiltrate the sorrow like stars on a night sky; it seems hopelessly dark, but if I give it time, those stars can show the way.

I renamed the constellation Orion to Thor and it rises high in the sky this time of year. Lead the way, boyo. I'll follow as best I can. 

I love you, Mom