Yesterday, I found out that my ex-girlfriend (we were together for over 4 years) and her new girlfriend are 3-months pregnant. We haven’t spoken hardly at all in the two years it’s been since we split up, but she wanted me to know. Thank you.

When she told me, my stomach fell and my heart seized up. Tingly limbs and fuzzy vision. You know the feeling...

I was surprised to be overwhelmed with feelings of loss and confusion and betrayal and also RELIEF. Relief that I don't have to be that person for her... relieved that I have not been absorbed into her ultra-domestic vision of the future (it was always a point of contention between us.) And yet… it’s like my story... our story has been usurped or hijacked. A long, twisting, shared narrative with the last chapter residing somewhere else, separate from me... in anther book far away. Or as an addendum in some lifestyle magazine for which I am not a subscriber. We used to think/talk about kids... but for me it was so far away... a distant, vague musing. A fantastical concept that I would indulge and entertain occasionally. But for her, it was real. For her, it IS real.

So what are those feelings that arise when we realize that other people, i.e. people who have hurt us, people we were once very intimate with, have whole, complete, forward moving lives outside of us and our reality? Why is that such a jarring realization every time? When we broke up two years ago, I unconsciously put her into some kind of freeze frame and deposited the “static she” into my experiential archives. She was as close to “ceasing to exist” as my mind would rationally permit me to believe. Of course I missed her and mourned our separation, but she had become reduced to that version of herself; reduced to that moment in time. My life, my trajectory continued, while hers was fixed in some kind of holding pattern. To think of her as separate and dynamic… to think of her as moving on without me in the frame, was far too painful I suppose. Post break-up/divorce… my ex had become my own personal artifact, a relic from my past. A cardboard character in one of my cathartic recountings. But this news… this fretful “baby” news has reanimated my vision of her. She has bled outside the static lines I have drawn for her and I am surprised by how this new, very tangible, very corporeal reminder of her actual aliveness (and her offspring's aliveness!) is having such an emotional impact on me.

I don’t want to be with her – that was blatantly clear a long time ago. I barely even think about her anymore. And miss her even less -- (this may or may not be true, depending on the day you are asking me.) And I certainly don’t want to be having her baby… yikes! But still, some kind of untenable feeling of loss is here, engulfing me.

At this point, it's not even about the loss of her specifically or the residual feelings of abandonment instigated by our divorce… rather, I am acutely re-feeling the loss of "partner", the loss of a shared "future tense". I let myself go there, to those places with her and in my young naive mind, just being able to get to those precipices was enough to guarantee that everything would last... and come to some kind of predetermined fruition. (Sometimes I delude myself into thinking that if you work hard enough at something, then it is sure to succeed. "Success" of course, meaning that life takes the specific form you envision... a.ka. control.) It’s hard to invest in those ideas, in that kind of intimacy… to be willing to co-create those concepts with someone, only to watch them dissolve and then be realized with someone else. Its like I want a claim on her future tense because for so long it was intrinsic to my future tense. These are the things that are hard to let go of… even now… years later.

Yet, I truly am aspiring to sympathetic joy. Trying to take pleasure in knowing that she is potentially happy. I am.... But even now, there is still evidence of where our identities are entangled (in my head). It is so difficult, in and out of love, to see someone as something complete unto oneself. Something whole and separate. Something with autonomous agency outside of my own will or preference. I don’t want to be with her… but some base part in me doesn’t want her to be with anyone else -- it's the old cliche. I want the copyright on her. A patent. A contract. A will or a deed. Something. Something that names me sole proprietor of her life decisions, her future, my memories of her/us and my constructed version of her. And my version of her is NOT having a baby with someone else, only 2 years after being with me… the ultimate love of her life. No, she should still be devastated. Ahem, excuse me…. it is hard to be told that life does actually continue after me. It puts a dent in my ego's self-preserving delusions. Puts a damper on the idea that I am the center of the universe. Right? Am I totally crazy and juvenile?! Is any of this resonating with you? At all? Or is my relationship to relationship suspiciously stuck in junior high?

I could go on and on about this... the micro of it... the macro of it (what does it mean when queers decide to give birth to babies?) etc.... I could, but I won't. Mostly I just wanted to articulate the strange psychological paralysis that occurs when someone leaves our life. How static memory runs parallel to dynamic "reality"... and how reality then informs/inflects memory. How things can hurt, even when it doesn't really make any sense for them to.

Love,

cassmaster P

I did not say that I couldn't bear to do such a thing without Daddy there. In a month and a half it will be one year. One year since I collapsed on the floor in sobs like I was on some sort of soap opera or something. I had no control over my reaction. I remember thinking, "Not in front of the kids," but those thoughts were overtaken by the grief. One year since I heard, as if from a distance even though I know he was standing right next to me, my son saying, "Charlie already died? Did Charlie already die?" I couldn't speak. I could only cry. One year since my baby girl came and wiped tears from my cheek and said, "You're okay, Momma." One year.

Everyone tells us, "The first year is the hardest. You just have to make it through all of the firsts without him." The first Christmas, the first Father's Day, the first 4th of July. Is the second really going to be that much better?

One of our favorite stories about Dad is a 4th of July story. He was showing off his garden to a friend. While he was doing that, the friend's son shot a bottle rocket out of the end of a golf club which flew in a straight line and hit Dad way out at the end of the big yard in the garden. Dad fell immediately to the ground and disappeared into the corn stalks. Geoff, the boy who had done this, panicked and we all stood there thinking Dad was hurt - for about a minute - until Dad popped back up laughing. We couldn't hear him, but we could see that big smile on his face. When he and his friend made their way back to the house, my mom was horrified to see the burned hole in the sleeve of his shirt. He hadn't even noticed it in the midst of all his dramatics.

He loved fireworks. He loved most things that were fun and flashy. How was I to explain to my son that for the last three years, we had gone to Mom's house to set off fireworks, not for our own pleasure, but so that Dad could watch. When he couldn't stand just sitting there anymore, he would start lighting the firecrackers that he had discovered in the home of his younger brother who had died several years before. Firecrackers were his favorite. Apparently, that ran in the family.

It's been one year.

One year.

We have to have new traditions now.

Unlikely as it seems, Cher's take on friendship is my own: "I can trust my friends. These people force me to examine, encourage me to grow."   I don't want friends who are just willing to be there for me when it's easy.  I want friends who will take my by the scruff of the neck and say "what the hell are you thinking?"  I want friends who are willing to tell me I'm crazy, stupid, mixed up, lost and that they will carry me for a while, a very short while, until I get my feet under me.

I want friends who will be honest with me.  Even when it's hard.   I want to know when I've disappointed them by being less than who I am.  I want to know when I am wallowing in self-pity and need to just snap out of it.   I want to know when I've truly  made them forget their fears, their doubts, their pain and laugh outloud at the wonder of being alive.

My women friends are unbelievable.  They are smart, capable, funny, tender, hard, thoughtful.  They are cheerleaders and task masters.  They don't let me get away with half-truths and side-stepping issues.  And they demand I do the same for them.  They don't judge me, they  just hold up a big ol' mirror and quietly ask the question:  is this who you want to be?   Augh.  It makes my cranky some days but it always makes me a better person.  

My male friends do the same, but it's a different process.  They aren't so direct with me.  I don't think they could be.   But they demand just the same.    And they push and push and push and question and look me in the eye and they tell me what the world is thinking.  

I don't understand the world right now.   It's crazy and painful and I don't trust it.  But I trust my friends and I will let them carry me.

Did ya get that?  I barely did.  But, somewhere in my head, it makes sense.

All of our lives are moving forward daily, and though we see changes - some we can barely fathom - we know that nothing remains constant except...change.  Well, freakin' duh.  

On July 2, I called Lea for one of our many morning calls, and she was standing in front of Fantasia, the coffeehouse where we spent so many hours talking, drinking coffee, and waiting for Owen to show up.  He most often did.  She said, "Fantasia is closed."  I replied, "Well, what time do they open?"  She said, "No.  They're closed, as in out-of-business."  I was devastated.  We both started crying.  Neither of us could say the words immediately.

"We spent so much time there.  Owen's Bellingham memorial service was there."  I spoke those words (or something close) and our pauses were evidence that this thing that had changed was yet another visible reminder that we would never revisit our communal haunts in the same way.  She spoke in broken sentences, talking to passersby, while I remained on the phone, listening for some indication that what she'd told me wasn't what she'd told me.  But, she did.  She said, "Fantasia is closed."  

A reporter from the Bellingham Herald greeted her on the sidewalk, and I heard her talking about what the place meant to her.  Just the Sunday prior, Lea had hung her artwork on those walls, had arranged for a month of wall space - for interested folks to view her work.  She had 16 paintings hanging on those walls where so many of us had spent early afternoons, early evenings, talking about what's next.  And, so often, we'd met Nat and Owen there, so often, we'd congregated on the sidewalk out front to smoke a cigarette or two, and talk about just that...what's next? 

After Owen's memorial service here in California, I traveled north to spend an afternoon with his friends in Bellingham, to say our collective goodbyes - at Fantasia.  I'll never forget the feel of the place.  I'll never forget the days and nights when we drove by to see if he was there, gathered with his friends in search of caffeine and conversation.  And, I'll never forget that on July 2, 2008, 13 months after his body was found in the Petaluma River, Fantasia closed.

Everything changes.  Everything that is, but our memories.  Maybe someday our memories will change, too. I hope not.  I hope our memories of the old days will remain forever emblazoned on our brains, our hearts, and scorched into the long dissent of Northwestern summer sunsets, drenched with the smells of brewing coffee, the familiar sounds of shared laughter, the picks and strums of acoustic guitars, and the soft glow of candles lit for a lost friend, a brother, a godson, a son.

Song for the night:  Change, Tracy Chapman

http://youtube.com/watch?v=s448Vvx2J7w

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I now feel a burden to either teach as many as possible what I know.  I have to learn to do this appropriately, but the way I am I want to sound it from the rooftops.  I have half a mind to walk about the church and drop fliers and place books in the library.  I thought of taking the sermons in the library and putting post its inside with warnings.  I just don't want my people to go down in error like this.  It's so hard.

Then there' s the realization that this is so deep in the local metro area.  Oh my, with the camps and the other churches we partner with, and the church plants, and the conferences, and the local seminaries involved, this runs deep. If it's not Rick Warren materials it's Dallas Willard or Brian McLaren.  So many people are following this without realizing it.

I am struggling with the idea of doing things somewhat differently.  I have to now wonder if "small groups" are a bad thing.  We've always been involved in Bible study groups, but these small groups the last few years have not been about the Bible but about books and DVD driven lessons with skits, and service projects, and signing a group covenant and the like.  I wonder if I'll ever be able to trust the "small group" model again. 

I have learned how immature I am.  I let this all slip by me.  I feel terrible about that.  I have been knocked down, the wind knocked out of me.  I love these people, my kids love these people.  They cannot all be lost, right?  I mean, we are still Christians, aren't we all?  I know in whom I have believed, but who have all these others been believing in?  I was talking with a friend, and she just cannot imagine certain staff being involved, but I say they are the most likely involved.  The kindest, most wonderful people, and I realize now they are the ones who have fallen the hardest for Dallas Willard, and probably contemplative.  Our pastors spend a great many hours reading books, going to conferences, and all the missions projects.  When are they reading the Bible?  I am sure they are reading, but when? 

We had over 100 kids "come up" at our summer VBS type event this summer.  What is going to happen to them?  What kind of food will they be fed?  What's going to happen to my children if and when we decide to get out of this church?

I share the following because I believe that if I share what follows below, someone else will feel less alone in their grief.  Part of the purpose of this site is to share what I know about literature, history or science.  This site exists also to help people with research projects by providing links that I find interesting and useful for "getting the job done."  However, what follows below is not related to books or resource links.  It's related to everyday life.  And to loss.  To grief.  I've discovered that there's a lot about grief that no one ever talks about.  If you are in the grieving process, sitting wherever you are going  "what the  . . .! " you are not alone.

Caveat: What follows below is based solely on my experience with the passing of my father and some of the issues I face and some of my personal reactions to people reacting to me.  It is in no way meant to be definitive, professional, or anything of that ilk.

Life: Someone very dear to you has recently passed away, your boss is a monster, and your body's falling apart (or so it feels.)  You are stuck at the work pit because you need the health insurance to fix your body (that's supposedly falling apart.) You've just been informed from boss monster that your quality of work has slid so far down that it's currently living on the bottom of your shoe (and hanging on for dear life.)  You begin sending pathetic emails to friends. And to your mother. You know it's pathetic, but you can't help it.

One day, sitting at your desk, working for health insurance benefits and cat food, you realize with stunning clarity that you are tired.  Emotionally, physically, and mentally.  You're also tired of:  People telling you that the some other higher power dishes out only what you can handle. Right. Uh huh. Let's not go there. People telling you that they are dealing with "big issues too." Hidden meaning: Get over it.  You are not the center of the universe. Really? I had no idea! (that's suppose to be sarcastic.)

But here's The Big One: You're tired of people nodding sagely trying to make your grief "all better" by saying: He or she is in a better place. You get pissed off because it seems like these people are trivializing your pain, brushing it off.  You think about that philosophy.  You really do.  But the fact remains: You are here.  And said loved one is: Who knows where?  And if they are in a "better place" then where does that leave you?  In the "shitty place?" That lost loved one made this place the better place.

You realize that the only thing you do know is this: That you will never be able to ask them for their help, their guidance.  You will never be able to talk about your favorite tv shows and argue back and forth about why you think it's good and your loved one thinks it's the most ridiculous premise for a show ever created.  And you will never be able to just pick up the phone and call them to say hello.  Or to whine.  Or to share something great.  Or to just shoot the shit. You will never be able to go over to your loved one's house and watch a football, hockey or baseball game on tv as the two of you sit in the cool of the basement, nodding off for an afternoon nap - you on the sofa under an afghan, loved one snoozing in the recliner.  These realizations (just to name a few) are so painful, it can become physical.

And one day, the sudden realization of all that he or she ever did for you comes crashing down on your head.  Why?  Because their death causes you to stop.  To think.  And worst of all: To feel.  Because their death causes not just a hole in your life, but also a silence.  A deafening, permanent, reverberating silence.  It's its own presence.  And you look at all that you have and you think about how you got started on your way.  And you realize what a great big debt you owe.  Even though you don't really owe it.  It's not that you wasted what time you had left: you feel that you did what you could to help them.  You feel that you have made amends where they needed to be made and that feeling was mutual.  You know it was.  It's just that some things by their nature can only be realized in "isolation."  In "pain." In "sadness."  In "grief."

And you find yourself alone in your apartment crying and screaming for that lost loved one like Marlon Brando in A Street Car Named Desire when he stood outside the window screaming for all he was worth: "Stella!"

You find yourself becoming obsessive-compulsive when you inevitably run across letters, notes, news articles, old credit card statements, old report cards, or watch re-runs of Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone all of which are dated before the actual date of death.  You think: So and so was alive then.  And so was so and so and so and so.  And now they are all gone. And the silence grows.

You think:  Why didn't anyone tell me it would be like this?  Why didn't anyone tell me that I would re-experience that terrible moment in almost flash-back precision?  Why didn't anyone tell me that I would dream about this person in some way every single night since his or her passing?  You wonder.  Why?

Do you have a place to go?

A sanctuary?

If not, it may be a big part as to why you're stressed and resentful.

Caregiving invades your space, your head, your time--you don't always get to say when you're needed.

I pulled many a "late night shift" with my mom.

My mother had Alzheimer's and Parkinson's and not only did she have Sundowning, a condition in which people with Alzheimer's get more aggitated and have more energy as the sun goes down--and on into the night, but she simply didn't need much sleep--or her body wouldn't let her sleep. (Here's a post I wrote about my experience with sundowning).

It's not like we could make it up during the day.

I was dragging. That made me miserable, fussy, and I tended to overeat. Why? Because studies have now shown that obesity is linked with lack of sleep. We tend to munch all day because it gives us something to do, causes our brains to perk up, and since sugar is almost always involved, we're pumping ourselves up like we're climbing the highest point of a rollercoaster--and then plummeting to exhaustion.

Maybe what you need isn't to just lie down. 

It's a renewal of your spirit you're hungry and longing for.

You don't have to be religious to need a sanctuary.

I love that I happen to live in a bird sanctuary area--the Timucuan Preserve. I love the thought that animals are held as sacred and that an area is designated for them.

But shouldn't we humans create our own sanctuaries? What exactly is a sanctuary?

The word, "sanctuary" means:

Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913) --The spelling has changed since then.

Sanctuary\Sanc"tu*a*ry\, n.; pl. Sanctuaries. [OE. seintuarie, OF. saintuaire, F. sanctuaire, fr. L. sanctuarium, from sanctus sacred, holy. See Saint.]
   A sacred place; a consecrated spot; a holy and inviolable
   site.
Two of the definitions include:
c) A house consecrated to the worship of God; a place where
       divine service is performed; a church, temple, or other
       place of worship. A place to keep sacred objects.
   (d) A sacred and inviolable asylum; a place of refuge and
       protection; shelter; refuge; protection.
Operative words: Refuge. Sacred. Shelter. Protection.

How to Create a Sanctuary:

What is sacred or holy to you?

• Gather a few objects--a photo, seashells, stones, your mother's broach, your dad's pocket watch, your baby picture.
• Grab a basket or a box and walk around your home and hard. Gather anything that interests you. Your sacred objects will change over time. Just get it rolling for now.

Find a place:

• Where in your home or yard feels "safe?"
• Where can you have some privacy? Where can you relax?
• Place a table, a desk, a chair, a cover at this place. If it's outside then create a box of your sacred items that you can carry out with you.
• You might also want to include a journal and pen, micro-cassette recorder, a drawing pad, candles, a rosary--any object that helps you figure out life.
• Go frivolous~ don't think a sanctuary is all serious! Take your ipod along. Dance! Paint your toenails and read a magazine! Navel gaze. You may just need some extended down time--staring into space.
• There are no rules. Do what you feel like doing. We're taught not to trust our feelings. That if we got to do what we felt like, we'd all be drug addicts, cheaters who eat nothing but Oreos. Trust yourself. Do what feels right. Sleep. Stare. Rant. Cry. Sleep some more.
• Your sanctuary is off limits to everyone else. Make your boundaries. No interruptions. No phone calls. Unless there's blood and lots of it--you are not to be called away from your most important work--taking care of you.
• You'll be surprised, but your family and friends will respect your space--if you do. This is a great example for your children.
• Don't expect "results."
• This isn't a magic box. It's a place to rest or even to rejuvinate. Recenter. Calm down. Work things out. Place no expectations. This isn't like Weight Watchers for the soul. You don't have to weigh in and measure if you've gained or lost since last week. Just be.
• You may need to use your sanctuary to work out your anger, hurt, and resentment. One thing I do when I'm really upset is to write it all down on scraps of paper, say it outloud, and then burn it. It helps to watch your anger turn to ash.

Pick a Sanctuary Location:

• Some people like clearing out a closet and placing a chair, pillows, and a small table and light in their "prayer closet." Oprah recently featured a sanctuary closet that was really decked out. 
• Others like to go outside--they hide away in the nook of the yard and get the benefit of nature to heal them.
• One friend keeps her "special box" she calls it in the car. She literally walks out the door and goes and sits in her car. Her family is less likely to find her there and she feels safe and cocooned. She can scream, cry or laugh in her sound-proof sanctuary.
• For some, it's in the bathroom. They retreat eat night to the tub--they keep candles, soaps, and a journal on hand. They know that being naked will most likely keep people away! Hey! Whatever works!
• Be like my cat and change your sanctuary every once in a while.

Cats are great to observe. They seem to make their spots seem sacred. My cat picks a spot and goes there after breakfast each morning. He gives himself a luxurious bath, folds in his little paws and I swear, if cats could pray, I'd think he was praying. Then, he takes a nap.

This week, his spot is under my birth grandmother's rocking chair in my bedroom. He tends to pick a spot and goes there for 3-4 weeks before picking another spot. Recently, it's been in the back of my closet--that's when he doesn't want to be found. A few weeks ago, it was on a chair next to the dining room windows so he could enjoy the sun. I knew where he was, but he's also quiet and hidden away enough to not invite attention. Smart cat.

What Do I Do in My Sanctuary?

First, let's address what you DON'T do.

• You don't take care of anybody but you.
• You don't stay busy just to avoid what's bothering you.
• You don't have your thoughts constantly interrupted with the chatter of life.
• You don't allow yourself to be bombarded with the demands of every day life.

This is What You DO:

Rest. Think. Imagine. Work out hurts. Cry. Zone out. Learn (maybe take a book?) Find your joy.

If it feels odd at first because you've never done anything like this, then let it feel odd. Your sanctuary practice will be even more necessary at the end of your loved one's life--and especially during your time of grief. Create this space now so that you'll have a place to run to when you really need it.

Like my cat, I change my locale every once in a while.

Right now, it's on my back porch on my parent's glider (they had it since I was adopted in 1965). I have a stack of books on one arm, and I recently bought a big cushion--in case I get sleepy. About 9am you'll find me there with my 2nd cup of coffee, my journal, a few magazines, a no doubt, a couple of dogs by my feet.

I'm a Guy and This Sounds Lame:

Does it?

My daddy had a sanctuary. He called it a garage. He built it himself. He left for his garage every morning after breakfast (he was retired at this point) and after his game shows. He putzed, worked on a broken lamp, put in a small bathroom. He listened to talk radio. For the most part, he was alone--although a few friends would come and visit. Mama and I came down but never really stayed long. It felt like we were intruding.

He'd come back to the house with a smile. He'd had his time to himself. He smelled of sawdust and linseed oil--and peanuts and Coke he kept in a cooler to sustain him throughout the day. He came back relaxed because he allowed himself this break. He didn't have to listen to Mama nag or me talk incessantly. He came back ready to be a dad and husband. Smart man.

Caregiving stress is a real issue with real ramifications to your health and realtionships. Sometimes we unknowingly contribute to our own stress by always being on call. Sometimes it's a power thing we're unaware of, sometimes it's fear, sometimes it's just a plain ole' bad habit we can't figure out how to break.

You need a sanctuary--caregiving or not.

You need to know that the world won't fall apart because you take a half an hour and pull inward.

Like Daddy, you'll come back refreshed.

~Carol D. O'Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

Family Advisor at www.Caring.com

Syndicated blog at www.OpentoHope.com

Kunati Publishers, www.kunati.com/mothering

This site hit me like a ton of bricks. There are only 4 or 5 postings which are mostly pictures so it didn't take long to go through the blog start to finish. This site just emotionally overwhelmed me. It is to the point I have spent the past 2 hours or so just wandering around the house unable to really do anything but seemingly feel pain and grief, great sadness. It just sort of makes you want to cry, but hey, Howdle men don't cry.

I am not going to post the web site address as there is a comment stating it was set up for family and friends and I don't want to intrude on their privacy.

The site is there to keep family and friends posted on the medical progress of a young man named Jace. Jace was born prematurely at 24 weeks weighing only one pound. Site begins with a request for prayers and showing pictures of the young man in an incubator obviously in an intensive care unit of a hospital somewhere. Pictures of this wee tiny young man are both beautiful and heart breaking at the same time. You know he is fighting so hard for life.

Sadly, the wee lad lost his battle and I believe it was the very next post that showed pictures of him in his coffin. That just tore my heart to pieces. I just can't even begin to imagine the pain being felt by the parents and family. They are in my prayers and I hope in the prayers of any that may read this.

It is times such as this that it might be question, why would our loving God allow such a thing to happen to some one so young and helpless. I need to seek the solace of my meditation chair to regain some semblance of composure, as I do seem to be overwhelmed by this so sad event.

I know I have written before on how I believe when we enter this world we come both with lessons to learn and with a mission or maybe missions given to us by God. Who is to know what your individual mission(s) is. It is to in someway act as a teacher and in some way have a positive affect the lives of someone else as they learn their lessons in life. Once we have accomplished our mission the Good Lord calls us home. This is the only thing that makes any sense to me on the death of a young child.

It might be asked what sort of a mission could someone so young have accomplished? Whose life could he have affect in anyway other than by the pain and sense of loss being felt by the family? Who is to know? I offer myself as but one example. Jace, through your young and far to short life you have affected me, a total stranger. Sometimes there are things we know in our minds, but somehow allow that knowledge to get pushed into the background somewhere. It is not forgotten, more just taken for granted. How fragile and so short life can be and the importance of taking nothing and no one for granted. Take time to appreciate my life and all those in it. May God bless you.

To Jace's parents and family, I think it was an extremely courageous thing you have done by posting the pictures as you did. Sharing your grief, allowing others to grieve with you and creating an ever lasting memorial for this brave young man. My prayers are for you and with you.

A Tibetan master's son died suddenly from illness. Hearing him weep inconsolably, the master's disciples came and confronted him with their surprise. "You taught us that all is illusion and that we should not be attached," they admonished him." Why are you weeping and wailing?"

The master answered immediately, "Indeed, all is illusion. But the loss of a child is the most painful illusion." -- Mark Epstein, Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart

Service is the key.
Giving love in all my actions.
Dedication in all I do.
Being mindful of another
Will help me see it through.
Thanks for this talk dear Master.
I am blessed to hear your Voice.
I can laugh through the tears
I can run through the years
As long as I am listening to your Voice.
Let me always be listening
To the Sound of the Rain
Of Spirit as It washes over me
Making me whole again.
May I always be in the Spirit of the Fire.
May the Flames purify me.
May I serve with Desire.
May I give this day my Intention
To be all that I can be
Then I can put my Heart in It.
Then Soul can be truly free.

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye;

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh
The difference to me!

William Wordsworth

Memories evoke emotions. Today, I scanned a series of photos. All of them brought tears to my eyes. The emotions stirred deep as I viewed my Barbara as a bride, young mother, and grandmother. I actually screamed at her, "why?" It doesn't help, it won't bring her back. The scream merely let me vent an emotion that is long over due.

Her prayers and poems did the same. She saved every poem that she thought was beautiful, or conveyed her own thinking. Some of them were insights into her future. Others were directed at me and the kids expressing her love. I scanned a bunch of them. Her five year anniversary is nearing, and I want to give each of the children a "Legacy Book." The book will contain her favorite poems, prayers, and the journal she kept while going through chemo-therapy twenty-nine years ago. I will add the photos of her as a child with her parents, and as a young nurse. I'll include Barb's geneology in the form of a family tree. The information will be spotty since only Aunt Marie remains from her family. At ninety-three, Marie's memory is not what she would like it to be. 

Barb's children and grandchildren need to have this memento of her. The love she conveys to us in her clippings, and writings is real. She loved us in life, and she left us with many reminders of how much she loved each of us. I hope the book has the same effect on the kids as it does on me everytime I work on it.

This Thursday,  July 10, Barbara would have celebrated her seventieth birthday. Instead we will celebrate her fifth birthday into the kingdom of heaven. There is a special mass for her Thursday, and I will attend. It is one way to be near her again.

 I will present the Legacy Book to the kids a month from now on the anniversary of her death.

More specifically, I don't want to be around the people that know me really well. I don't want to talk to the people that are care and ... well, when I think about it, that doesn't make any sense. They do care. YOU care. I know you do. I just don't have it in me right now because I feel like a terrible friend, a terrible ate.

My heart is broken into a million pieces and everyday I wake up just praying that I'll it through the day without crying. The days are long and the nights are longer. Restless and broken, my sleep does not renew me... if I sleep at all. I'm too focused on myself right now and it feels selfish, but I don't know what else I can do because I'm not okay. I try to be okay. I go through the day to day routine, but it requires so much more effort than it used to take.

Work frustrates me more. Little things bother me more. I've spent the last week back in my apartment and I hardly talk to my roommates. I feel like I can't get by and that too much is required of me. I don't know how I'm going to accomplish all that I've set out to do. My hours are constantly being cut and my anxiety level is pushing the ceiling. I feel like I'm back in my senior year of college again, dealing with job hunts, stressing about money, worrying about friendships, hurting for myself and my family and *wanting* to hurt myself. I don't want to eat anymore. I don't want to be here half the time (here in this city, not like... in the world).

I train and things are better. I focus on the strokes and strides; the motion pushes me forward and requires my attention. Motion. Movement. Breathe. Continue. The pedal strokes propel me forward. The strides move me around the track and the sweat releases the tension. The water envelopes me within its calming spirit and I know no pain.

I don't know how to be content right now. I don't know how to *be* the friend I was or the friend I *am*... I don't know how to be as good to you and you've been to me because I'm just sad. All the time, I'm sad. I'm sorry.

<3

Ann gave me a haircut yesterday.  I've been getting my haircuts at home for about 10 or 12 years now.  It's easy to do with an electric clipper as I've been keeping my hair close cropped ever since it started getting thin on top.  Close cropping started with the 1/2" attachment, but now it's down to 1/4".  I suppose it's only a matter of time until I'll be shaving it "right to the wood".

The usual locale for haircuts in our house is the kitchen.  It has the best lighting as well as easy access to an outlet.

I remove my eyeglasses when I get my haircut so I'm pretty much blind during the process and reliant upon my other senses.  As I felt the cool touch of Ann's hands on my scalp and her increasingly surer movements of the clippers over the contours of my head, my mind wandered backwards to other haircuts.

It's a strange feeling to think that such a mundane activity could trigger such reveries.

The reveries in question, of course, were about all the times that Shelley had cut my hair.  How she wouldn't angle the trimmer (sans clipper length attachment) when cleaning up my neck line and it would invariably pinch me.  Or the time that she was trimming around my ear with the scissors and accidentally snipped a small cut in my ear.  And, of course, there was the more recent time that I had used the clippers to trim her hair.  Several months of alpha-Interferon chemotherapy had caused a lot of her hair to fall out.  She had resorted to wearing wigs and just wanted to dispense with the hassle of pinning up her own remaining locks when donning a wig.  So, for a short time, our hairstyles more or less matched.

I had planned to end the piece with a question: What I would be thinking about during my haircut if it weren't for these other memories and reveries?

But fate, or something, has interceded to send me a message.  In the form of a horoscope.

While eating supper with the child at the dining room table I perused today's edition of the Globe and Mail.  Leafing through the sections I happened upon today's Horoscopes.  I'm probably what you might call ambivalent or selective about horoscopes.  When a given horoscope reflects what's happening in my life, I might think that that is interesting; when it doesn't I generally ignore it.

Given that this is the time of year when Shelley's condition and health started to significantly deteriorate until she died on August 17th, I found it to be somewhat akin to a slap upside the head to read my Horoscope for today:

Why are you spending so much time and so much emotional energy thinking about the past?  You cannot go back and change things but you can go forward and make life better than it was before.  Life is full of infinite possibilities.  Embrace the future.

Now, isn't that interesting?

It has been a year and a half and it is a fresh wound and I cannot just let it be, I must turn it over and poke at it, abuse myself for having this pain because who am I to mourn so.  I am not a family member, not a close friend.  I was just a friend, one of so many people whose life he touched, who he made a difference to. 

I watch a lot of true crime or crime dramas and I never noticed before how many people are done away with by fire.  I watch and I wonder.  I cannot help myself.  I wonder if what is what he looked like.  I wonder about my friend and it is no longer his smiling face I see, it is no longer his laugh I hear.  What I think about, what I imagine is what the amount of meat left on his charred bones was. 

I was talking to a client here at work and at the end of the conversation, I edged into asking her about Jeff.  I asked her if she still had a copy of the commercial he did with them for their business.  She said she thought she had it in a file on her computer and she sent it to me. 

I just needed to see him alive again.  I needed to see him moving and interacting with people so that when I think of him, I can stop thinking of him as a charcoal briquette and remember him.  Remember him laughing as he told me how many takes it took and he still couldn’t make a break on the pool table. 

T called a few weeks ago to tell me he had applied for a job back here and that he would be here for an interview.  I told him that was great but I wouldn’t be seeing him.  The next time we spoke he said he was looking for a piece of his glasswork to bring me.  I asked him if this was by way of a bribe so that I would see him. 

He just didn’t understand that I really wouldn’t see him.  I would talk to him on the phone, I would text him, but I wouldn’t open the door.  He knows that I have done this to other people, most people, he just didn’t think he would ever been included in those I withdrew from. 

I am broken, I told him.  I am broken and I don’t know how to fix me yet and I just need time, time to figure it out and this is the only way I know how.  He pouted and I just wanted to scream at him,

“It is not about YOU!  It is about me, what I am thinking, what I am feeling and what I am going through – you have no part in it – none at all – you can’t fix me, seeing you will do nothing for me.  I don’t need to be cheered up, I am not a child with a scraped knee, I am broken, God damn it, broken, shattered and the pieces slide around and refuse to fit nice and neatly back together and I am not going lie to you to make it easier for you.  I am not going to apologize to you because you don’t understand!”

That all being said, I am watching Last Comic Standing and very much enjoying my loathe/hate relationship with that show.  See, I do have joy in my life, I do have things I laugh at and that make me feel something other than morbid and sad…I am just not going to pretend the other doesn’t not exist, that is so much more wearing on me than the grief.

There was just a dusting of snow, but it was fiercely cold all over Europe, with frozen windscreens and icy roads.

Visiting Jenny meant a half hour drive in a cold car with the kids each way, twice a day. I had to pile them into layer upon layer of warm clothing, only to unpeel them at the hospital, and then repeat the process all over again on the way home. It was cold, dark, and miserable.

The hospital was full, so there was always an enormously long walk from our parking space to the ward, pushing the two frozen children inside the double buggy. And when we finally got there, Jenny was inevitably low, and often almost blank in spirit.

She seemed to be switched off then, saving her strength and just sitting blankly, watching television or dozing. Sometimes I wondered if Jenny really wanted us there, and if it was worth all that effort. But of course it was, and what else could we do?

On Jenny’s last evening at the hospital, Geoff arrived to stay, and for once I could make that trip alone. Jenny seemed much more cheerful this time, as she always was once the petrol had dripped into her.

Later, I went to the hospital chapel, lit a candle for her and for all of us, and left a note praying for Jenny Braid and her family. It was too late for miracles, I knew, but we’d need all the strength we could find over the next few weeks.

That night, back at home, I gently told Geoff what Cathy had said to me. And I could see straight away that although I’d been looking at those fears for over a year now, and even though he’d witnessed Jenny’s declining health at first hand, he still hadn’t thought she was going to die until that moment.

I could see the stuffing knocked out of him then, as I tried to stay strong for us both. But I felt terrible myself – on a downward slope and always descending faster and faster.

And yet, awful as it was, there wasn’t any time to mope. There was too much to do, caring for Jenny and the kids, and I simply had no choice then but to keep us all going, as best I could.

With the christening only a week away, Geoff and I agreed to keep planning for the 12th, but to be ready to cancel if Jenny wasn’t up to it. As we feared she might well not be.

: : : : : : : : : :

Today marks the first year since Rachel passed away and the world is a worse place for it.  Every time I see University of Memphis in the news (basketball last year), I think of her and the "might-have-beens".  There is rarely a day that goes by that I don't think of Rachel.

Mark, Jencie and Jamie - I love you and my grief cannot compare to yours but please know that you are in my thoughts.

My mum was terminally ill- she was on a ventilator with a collapsed lung, had a tracheostomy, curvature of the spine, and a muscle wasting disease called charcot marie tooth disease. She actually had the worst form of the disease you can get. She was told that she could never have children, and after trying and losing hope for a long time, she found completely by surprise that she was pregnant with me. She was crying her eyes out at the doctors. She really really wanted a baby.

So I was born, I became a toddler, and everything was really good. I knew my mum was ill, but to me, hospitals and tracheostomies where a part of everyday, normal life.

I was four and a half years old. One morning I woke up to the sound of my Dad calling my mum's name. He was trying to wake her up. To my four year old self, this wasn't anything strange, but I didn't dare get out of bed. My Dad was very strict with me, and for some reason, I thought he would tell me off for getting up and going into their bedroom.

Everything goes blank. Then, what must have been half an hour or so later, I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating frosties. My Dad's best friend was there, and Dad had called a Doctor.

I wanted more frosties. I went up to Dad's bedroom door to ask him If I could have some more. He looked at me and told me that my mum was dead. Even now, 13 years later, I can just about picture her lying there. Her eyes were shut, she was very pale, and it looked like she was in a very deep sleep. He got me to give her a kiss and say goodbye. I asked my Dad for some more frosties, and that was that.

I guess I didn't really understand. I remember afterwards, crying and telling my Dad that "I miss mummy". At night, I used to lie in bed, and I could hear Dad watching Star Trek down the hall (we lived in a bungalow). For some reason, the theme tune would make me cry ever since mum died. It still does.

Shortly after she passed away, and I don't remember this, but my Dad has told me this; he played "A Spaceman Came Travelling" by Chris De Burgh and again I started crying for no apparant reason. My Dad never played this song in the house since then, but when I was 15, my Auntie and I had bought some flowers to take to the crematorium, and we were just in Co-Op when the song started playing. This was the second time in my life that I had heard that song, and as soon as I heard it I couldn't stop crying. It was later when I told my Dad this that he told me about the first time I heard it.

I don't know why the affect me like that. It is quite strange. But I know it's something to do with my mum.

My fifth birthday was only 4 months after losing mum. I have it on videotape. One of my friends can be heard saying "It's sad that [my name here] 's mummy couldn't see her on her birthday". I guess we were all too young to understand.

Well I've written enough for now. To be continued.

I don't know.  It's an impossible situation.

I took Advanced yesterday as well as Regular class and it was great. Today I got up early for 5:30 class and felt awesome. Much less sore than usual after Advanced.

I think my lesson for the past two days is a simple one, something I hear all the time in class. Open your heart. I've been working through some emotional stuff lately. Yesterday in Advanced it kinda all came up for me. I have surrendered to the fact that the mat is the best place for me to leave this stuff. I don't always like it, but at least it's a safe place. I've been dealing with myself so much in the room. My reflection, my mind, my frustration. I'm just now learning to really surrender to it. Listen to my self, but be separate from it. Let it go, and open my heart. Let it be what it will be.

There's tremendous clarity to be found when we allow the things that must be allowed and let go of the things that we don't need. By opening my heart, I am beginning this allowing, this process of opening up completely. It hasn't been easy for me. There's tremendous vulnerability and exposure in opening yourself up like that. Admitting where you've hurt people you love, admitting your weaknesses, working harder, and pushing through. But ultimately never giving up. Sometimes surrender is seen as weakness. A wise friend of mine once said our vulnerabilities are our greatest asset. We must learn them, master them, and appreciate them.

I'm going back and forth a lot lately between feeling like I'm starting to understand this yoga at its core and feeling totally new to it all over again. Every day is different. But by opening up and allowing it to change me, I feel safe in my transitions.

Namaste.