Archives for category: family

The Space Between The Notes

April 20, 2022 //

I’ve been looking for words, for feelings that shouldn’t get spoken. It’s something that’s true, I’m starting to learn that silences shouldn’t be broken; just listened to. I get this moment with you forever now. It all hits me at once forever now. (Forever Now from This is Us)

Today marks seven years since I lost my father to suicide. As I sit here in the quiet, crying and reflecting, what I feel most is the missing. I miss my dad and it makes me sad to think that the space between the notes, the time he was here, and the time he’s been gone, will only grow longer. There will be no more words written in the story of us, no new melodies or lyrics to be sung. There is only what was and what will never be.

But there has been a shift, a palpable change in this day. I am not focused on how my father died. I am not caught in an endless loop of trauma and unanswerable questions. I have done the grueling work of processing traumatic loss. I have waded into the waters of despair, been brought to my knees in pain, I have howled and wailed in anger, and I have picked up the pieces bit by bit to reach this place of healing.

At our Passover seder this year, we introduced a new tradition. We had a Passover Box of Questions that we had never used before. This year, we each picked a question that resonated for us, and at different points in our seder, we shared that question along with our answer, and we opened it up to reflections from anyone who might like to say something. The question that I chose was, What is one of the most important things you’ve done for someone else, and what is one of the most important things someone else has done for you?

It took me seven years to be able to say the words that came out of my mouth that evening. They came organically, with no forethought or planning. They came from a place that had suffered in silence, fraught with guilt and a misguided notion of responsibility for my father’s death. But on that night, I gave them breath and freed myself in the process.

My answer, one of the most important things I’ve ever done for someone else was to listen. In those last months of my father’s life, I listened. I allowed him to feel seen and understood, a sentiment my mother often shares with me. Only this time I said it without the familiar caveat, but it wasn’t enough to save him. I didn’t diminish the fact that when he hung up the phone with me, for a brief time he felt better. I didn’t focus on what I didn’t see or what was kept out of my sight. I saw him, in all of his brokenness, and I reflected back to him acceptance, unconditional love, and empathy. Who knows if he held on for just one more day because of that? Who knows if hope found a little crack, a fissure, a brief way inside of the darkness that had taken hold of him because of our talks? I choose to believe that it did. Seven years later, I feel ready to lay the caveats down by the wayside and continue my journey without them.

My father was a complex human being and our relationship had moments of beauty and pain, love and loss, hurt and healing. I wish that I could’ve come to know him more, to continue those deep talks we had in the last months of his life. It’s easy to simply say that our parents are shaped by the way they were raised and the lives they led before we came into being. But at his most vulnerable, my father was only beginning to reveal his story to me. I would’ve liked to have more of those talks with my father, to learn from him and about him. I am sad that I won’t get that chance, not just because it would have brought us even closer, but because there is a salve that such understanding brings to old wounds, there is a grace that comes with that kind of cognizance, meeting our parents as people and gaining a deeper insight into their autobiography. It may not undo the pain we carry, but if we are lucky, it might allow for some mending. I felt that just as I was reaching that place with my own father, the story came to an abrupt and cruel ending. The pages are blank, and words are frozen in time.

My therapist gave me an image today that resonated so deeply. My father and I are walking on a trail, and he is slowly falling behind. With each year that passes, I move further ahead, and the distance between us grows. The sound of his voice, the feel of his hugs, are fading from view and I worry that I will lose them. But I have to journey onward and he can only be found in the looking back now. That is not about the way that his life ended. That is what it means to grieve.

Music is the space between the notes. Claude Debussy

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, healing, loss, Nourishing hope, Reflections

Honoring the Herd Mentality. A Lived Experience…

March 13, 2020 //

We are living through chaotic and frightening times right now. Each of us is trying to navigate through fact vs. fear and make choices rooted in science. The experts all concur that social distancing is a key factor in slowing the spread of COVID-19. Schools are closing, people are working from home and we are altering our daily lives and rituals. For some, these changes are rooted in the shared values of self-care and caring for others. We may be healthy and young enough to weather the virus, but we must consider how our actions may impact the most vulnerable among us. Who might we put at risk, if we choose to disregard the experts? And still, it isn’t always easy to put the stranger in our midst before ourselves. So, I’d like to share a story with you that might make that easier.

When our youngest daughter Noa was born, she was diagnosed with three congenital heart defects. Within the first week of her life, she was already on a diuretic to help her kidneys function with less strain on her heart. She was also on blood pressure medication, and doctors were monitoring her closely, as we tried to fatten her up and strengthen her frail little body ahead of the open heart surgery she would need to have. We learned the symptoms to watch for that would indicate she was going into congestive heart failure, and we attempted to wake her every two hours to try and cajole her into eating. At 3.5 weeks old, weighing only 4lbs. 11 ounces, she underwent a 7.5-hour surgery to save her life.

As a December baby, our daughter was especially susceptible to RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus), a virus that could surely kill her should she contract it. She was put on a series of monthly shots called Palivizumab to help protect her from the virus. And, we were told to follow very similar protocols to the ones being asked of us today. We stayed at home in the weeks before her surgery, as it was safer than the hospital. We went out only to doctor’s visits. We washed our hands constantly. We strictly limited visitors, and nobody could hold our little girl or enter our home if they had any indicators of illness or cold. We cleaned constantly, disinfecting every surface in the house. When your child’s life is on the line, there isn’t a direction you won’t follow to keep them safe.

We also had two other young children at home, one 3 the other 4. They attended separate preschools and were especially susceptible to illness exposure as a result. We could have pulled them out of school, but one of our daughters was newly diagnosed on the autism spectrum and relied on the services, routine, structure and social-skill building that her preschool provided. We had to weigh her needs very thoughtfully into our decisions. And we had to figure out how to balance the need for normalcy in the lives of both girls, against this frightening scenario that was our new reality.

So, I contacted the nurse and director at each school and explained our situation. I asked that they send a note out to the wider community and share our story, imploring families to help us keep some routine and normalcy in the lives of our young daughters while taking communal responsibility to help prevent them from bringing home an illness to their sister. The schools rose to the occasion without hesitation. They asked that nobody send their children to school sick, or under the weather. They strengthened protocols for regular hand washing and sanitizing at school. They did not hesitate to send a sick child home. Each of the schools, and the families that were part of those communities, did their part to help us keep our daughter alive. It may have cost someone a day’s salary at work. It may have disrupted an important meeting or travel plans. But the strangers in our midst took our situation to heart and responded with humanity and compassion.

We spent an entire winter this way, both prior to and after our Noa’s open-heart surgery. She and we only emerged out into the world in the spring, when she was stronger and safe. It was a long and difficult winter. People cooked for us and left meals. Others helped with carpooling and schlepping our girls around. They too adapted, learning the routine of washing their hands immediately upon coming into the house, changing out of their school clothes and only being allowed to kiss the (covered) feet of their baby sister.

I share all of this to say, that we are a family that had to rely on the herd mentality to save the life of our child. While anyone of us would likely have weathered illness that winter, Noa would not have been so lucky. She may not have survived it. The communal response, the care of others for this child they did not know, was a gift. The meals left on the doorstep, the love of friends and family, allowed us to focus our attention where it needed to be. And when her first cold came, a few months after her surgery, Noa was able to endure it with the same level of fuss and discomfort any healthy baby would experience.

So, yes, this is a hard adjustment for all of us. We have to adjust our mindsets and learn to live out the ideal and value of loving our neighbor as we love ourselves. That is what it means to live in a community, in connection with our fellow man and woman. Our destinies are tied together more often than we think, but it is during trying times that we find the most visceral reminders of that truth.

We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men. Herman Melville

Categories A Slice of Life, family, healing, Health and Wellness, Love Thy Neighbor, Nourishing hope

A Letter to My Father ~ Three Years Later

April 8, 2018 //

Belly to belly, my dad and I just before his first granddaughter was born.

Dear Dad,
April 20th is coming. I hear it, like a soft drumbeat in the distance, inching ever closer. Soon it will be three years since you died. I blink, and it feels as if time has just flown by. I draw a deep breath and it feels like only yesterday. How can it be that the passage of time exists with such duality?
This year, the blanket of trauma that once enveloped me, has slipped from my shoulders. I still carry it, but it does not bear the same weight it once did. It did not happen magically, rather I have done the hard work of grief, peeling it off inch by inch, layer by layer, stitch by stitch. They do not call it grief work for nothing, this unscripted test of endurance, courage, resilience, strength and fortitude. I have discovered that I carry within me an abundance of these traits, a wellspring so deep and seemingly without end.
Yes, time and process have been like a salve on my many wounds. Some have begun to heal, others are now covered by a thin scab, yet even three years later, some remain open.
Grieving your death has been far from simple. I pass from stage to stage, and back again. It’s as if I exist in a play, a story I never could have imagined. Each act reflects my journey through the valley of the shadow.
Act One
The ground beneath me shifted, and there I stood amid a psychological autopsy, searching for the reasons why you ended your life. My days were spent in hindsight, searching for the missed signs, the things I did not see, the questions without answer. Was there a prelude to your tragic end? Foreshadowing? Guilt and regret consumed me, as the questions played on a never-ending loop in my head. The rearview mirror was like an appendage, a prop that accompanied me every moment of the day.
Act Two
Swept under by the tsunami of trauma, I tried desperately to reach the surface. Wave after wave of anger and abandonment swept over me, and there was a pain so deep I could feel it pulse through my veins. I spent my days fighting the undertow, flailing about, feeling vulnerable all the time. It was a victory if I could simply tread water and stay afloat.
Act Three
On my knees, I began to pick up the pieces of my shattered self. Gently I gathered them together and held them to me, cleaving to the remnants of what was, mourning for what would never be again. Laying them all out, I sifted through each piece one by one, searching for what still fit, what was now unrecognizable, unsalvageable and what might be different but still had a place in this new mosaic of self. It felt awkward, uncomfortable, unfamiliar to carry those fragments, taped together, separated by every fissure and crack that was now a part of me. I wondered if it was even possible to feel whole. Would I always be a stranger to myself?

Act Four
This is where I stand today. Having navigated through layer after layer of trauma, a long, arduous and painful excavation, I have finally revealed the grief. What I feel most now is the sorrow of missing you, not because of how you left, but simply because you are gone. The never of it all breaks my heart.
Never will I …
Hear your voice
Dance with you
Tell you that I love you
Feel the comfort of your embrace
Never will you…
Call me by my nickname
Tell me you love me
Bear witness to the life that I have built
Celebrate the milestones of my daughters
Laugh with me
Cry with me
Reveal your stories to me
Allow me to better know you
Grow into my friend
Answer the question of why you left
The list of nevers goes on.
Three years have gone by. So much between us was left unsaid. Like a silent interlude, there was no goodbye. The conversations we shared ended abruptly, never to be resumed, revisited; there will be no picking up where we left off.
The acts will go on, and time will not stand still. It is unfathomable to me that your story will never have another chapter.
I miss having a father in this world. I miss the certainty of your presence. I miss the belief that we would always have tomorrow. I long to pick up the phone and hear your voice. I still want another chance to save you from yourself. I miss all that was before your final, tragic bow.
My grief has no intermission.
April 20th is coming. The drumbeat grows louder with each passing day. I am healing. The journey is getting a bit easier.
The eternal truth is this Dad, I miss you very much. We were both flawed characters. I loved you the best that I could, and I know you did the same. I forgive you for the way that you left me. I will carry the sorrow of your loss every day. But I am learning to carry the joy and sweetness as well. Thank you for being my father and for the complex, imperfect, at times tempestuous, wounded, but ultimately resilient, enduring, deeply held love that we shared. That is the truth that remains, the encore that follows every act, the final curtain call of our story.
I miss you so very much Dad.
I love you always.
D

Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom. (Rumi)

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, healing, loss, mental health, Nourishing hope

Bruchim Habaim~A Passover Welcome

March 31, 2018 //

Last night, we hosted our first seder in three years. These are the words that I shared at the start of our gathering. This morning, I feel proud of myself. I have put my whole heart into the task of grief work, so aptly named for the effort it requires. And though I know that journey is not over, I have marked a powerful milestone in the healing process. And today, my heart is full.

Bruchim Habaim (Welcome Guests)

This is the first Seder that we have hosted in three years. When we lived in Atlanta, our home had become the gathering place for fun, festive and lively Seders. We squeezed friends into every corner of our tiny dining room as we told the story of Pesach, sang songs, shared traditions and created beautiful and lasting memories.
But on April 20, 2015, my father took his own life and my world was forever altered.
This time of year is hard for me. When we moved to Colorado just two months after my dad’s suicide, I could barely get through any of the holidays, but Passover was one of the most difficult for me.
The symbolism & the story were riddled with triggers. I felt as if my father had died in his own personal Egypt. I was left wandering the desert of trauma, grief, guilt and a heartbreak that made it hard to breathe. If my father’s final moments on this earth left him feeling shackled, trapped in a pain that he feared would never end, a pain that left him feeling as if death were his only escape, then how could I simply leave him behind? How could I seek a promised land without abandoning him?
These were some of the questions that I grappled with. That first Passover we opened the Haggadah, and within minutes I asked that we close it. I couldn’t do it. We had a Passover dinner, but there was no Seder. The second year, I managed to get through the Haggadah, but it held no real meaning for me. I was just trying to reclaim some part of my connection to God, faith, and tradition.
These past few weeks have been full of preparations for the holiday. It is the spring cleaning of our people, the clearing out of chametz (leavened foods) from every corner of the kitchen & pantry. There is a beautiful symbolism to the process, even for those of us who hate to clean. That symbolism felt somehow more tangible for me this year, particularly as I reflected on my own journey & the grief work that has been so much a part of my life.
As I delved into the work of readying the house for Passover, the metaphors held a far greater meaning for me. I have had to dig deep, emptying off the shelves of pain, sorrow, loss, regret, and questions that will never find answers. I have sorted through the emotions, trying to figure out what I can let go of and what I can hold on to. I have stared at the empty spaces contemplating how I can fill them up, knowing that some far corners will remain forever empty. I have de-cluttered every broken piece of myself, laying them out, discovering what still fits, what never will again, and what is forever altered but still a part of me. And I have found some healing.
I have discovered that moving forward in my life, and seeking out a place of promise, is not abandoning my father. Just as Moses carried Joseph’s bones out of Egypt, I carry my father with me. I look at the salt water and the bitter herbs on the Seder plate, and I know that I will always carry sorrow, but I don’t have to carry his. I savor the sweet taste of charoset, and I remember that my father’s story, and the story that we shared together, had moments of great joy, love, and celebration as well. And I am finally able to reflect on those moments. I think of Miriam dancing when the Israelites had finally crossed the Red Sea. And I close my eyes and see my father dancing with abandon, the way he did in life and it makes me smile to remember that.
I know my journey through the valley of the shadow is not over. I know that in just a few weeks there is another painful milestone that I must get through. And I know the path is far from linear. There is no finish line, but I do not travel alone, and I have not stood still. I am not wandering without direction. One foot in front of the other, like the Israelites, I am walking toward my own Promised Land.
And so, I finally feel ready to rediscover the joy of this holiday. I feel ready to gather with friends old and new, to create memories and celebrate all that this holiday teaches us. I am grateful to all of you not only for sharing in this Seder with our family but for marking this milestone of healing with me.
Finally, I know that we all find ourselves dwelling in Egypt from time to time. We feel imprisoned by our own demons, held captive to the challenges in life that we must endure. It is easy to feel trapped, shackled, immersed in the darker moments; we lose sight of our own strength, resilience and, the wellspring of courage & fortitude that lies within. I pray that going forward we can each hold on to the hope of better days, believing even in the worst of times that, gam zeh ya’avor, this too shall pass. And with that belief in our hearts, may we each journey forward toward hope, wholeness, healing, and happiness.
Bruchim Haba’im welcome friends, we feel blessed & grateful to have you here.

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, healing, loss, Nourishing hope, Nourishing Self, Reflections

Celebrating Passover

March 28, 2018 //

On Friday we are hosting our first Seder since my father’s suicide. Sometimes there are tangible milestones that allow me to know I am healing.

Year one I could not bear to even read the Haggadah, we simply ate a Passover dinner. Year two I managed the telling of the story, but gone was the joy I once found in the holiday. Those years it was simply the five of us, as I did not want witnesses to my pain & struggle.

But I finally feel ready to open our home and fill that space with friends, music and a lively, boisterous & celebratory Seder. I know that I will never be healed from the trauma & loss of my father’s suicide. There will always be a hole in my heart, and a wound in my soul. But I am healing. I have lived in my own personal Egypt for almost three years now. I have wandered the desert of the valley of the shadow, picking up the pieces and learning to live a new normal. There is no Promised Land that will ever allow me to go back to the person I was before my father took his own life. And grief has no Promised Land that marks a finish line. It’s a lifelong process, this much I know.

The waters of pain & sorrow, guilt & trauma did not magically part. I have had to wade through them, trusting that I would not be pulled under, trusting the lifeboats of love that surrounded me, trusting my own endurance & strength. But in doing so, I have found a different kind of promise … the promise of renewed joy, the promise of letting go, the promise of hope, the promise of forgiveness & the promise of resilience. That is the sweetness that I will celebrate this year. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, healing, loss, Nourishing hope

On My Parent’s 52nd Wedding Anniversary

June 13, 2017 //

hands heart

“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow–this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”
– Elizabeth Gilbert

Today would’ve been my parents 52nd wedding anniversary. Just a couple of months before their 50th anniversary my father took his own life. My mother went to bed not knowing that in the morning, she would wake up a widow.

They met as teenagers in Brooklyn. Theirs was not a perfect love story, those exist only in fairytales. Instead, it was one of substance, friendship, mutual respect and admiration. They loved one another through the best of times and the worst of times. They accepted one another’s flaws, shortcomings and imperfections. They nurtured one another’s strengths, dreams and spirits. They laughed and they cried. They celebrated and they fought. They let each other down, then picked each other up. Life is messy, so is love, but through it all they held fast to one another.

This much I always knew growing up in my house, my parents loved one another. Not everybody gets that in this life.

They built a family on the foundation of their love. Their children and grandchildren are their enduring legacy. And today, as I think about my parents, my heart aches that love was not enough to save my father. But death cannot diminish the love that they shared and the life that they fostered. That is where my father’s spirit lives on. That is the flame that can never be extinguished.

And on a day where my mother is missing her husband & best friend, I pray that flame will warm her soul and help to heal her broken heart. We all miss you Dad. You were surrounded by the deepest of love. It is my fervent wish that you knew that, even when the darkness consumed you. And though you are now gone… your love story is without end.

My father and my mother at her Sweet 16. His enduring words to her.

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, healing, loss

The Things You Missed

May 19, 2017 //

Dear Dad,

Yael is graduating High School today. I wish you were here to see it. You missed so much Dad. There were so many celebrations yet to be, so many milestones to mark.

She is wearing your bracelet along with her cap and gown. A piece of you will be with her.

I know your’re looking down with pride. But I wish you could have stayed.

She does too.

But today and every day, we carry you in our hearts.

dad and yael

Categories Coping with Suicide, family, healing, loss, Uncategorized

A Letter to Our Daughter on Graduation Day

May 19, 2017 //

Dearest Yael,

It is hard to find the words to express all that we are feeling today. Proud doesn’t seem quite enough, nor does grateful, although surely we are both of those things.

The journey you have been on these past 18 years hasn’t always been easy. And yet somehow, in a world that often overwhelmed you and placed numerous obstacles in your path, you dug down deep and found a fortitude and resilience that kept you moving forward. And as much as we would like to take credit for our part in getting you to where you are today, the truth is, it was that strength of spirit, that tenacity, that grit and that courage that played the greatest role in all that you have achieved.

Today marks the end of one chapter, but also the start of a new one. The pages are blank, the plot yours to create. We have no doubt you will fill it with the warmest of characters, the most beautiful of songs, stories of meaning, messages of hope and that each word will be imbued with love and faith. And even when the pages have moments of hardship, which is sure to happen, we know you will dig down deep and tap into those very same reserves that have helped you before and in the end, you will persevere and emerge even stronger for the challenges.

We believe in you. We always have. We believe in your heart and your dreams. We believe in your hopes and desires. We believe in your abilities, your potential and all of the promise that resides within. And no matter how old you get, we will always be your greatest cheerleaders and most devoted fans. We will always be here for whatever you need, even as we let go and give you the space to begin carving out a life on your own. Know that your safety net remains strong, ready and ever-present if ever you need it.

Perhaps the words proud and grateful aren’t quite enough to encompass the emotions of the day. But we will use them anyway. We are so very proud not only of your achievements, but of the fine human being that you have become. Your soul is pure, beautiful, generous and kind. It illuminates so much goodness into a world often tinged by darkness. What a gift that is sweet Yael. And we are grateful. We are grateful that God blessed us with the opportunity to raise you, to accompany and love you on this journey. We are proud to be your parents Yael Greene.

May you go forward from strength to strength. May you gain a deeper sense of self and purpose. May you continue to bring joy to all of those blessed to know you. May you never lose your enthusiasm for life, music and your Jewish faith. May you hold fast to your dreams.

The Midrash, in Kohelet Rabba, teaches us that

A person has three names:

one that she is called by her father and mother;

one that people know her by,

and one that she acquires for herself.

From this day forward, you will imbue your name with an even deeper meaning. You will continue to ascend with grace and mercy. And you will show the world that the very best of who you are is yet to be.

Mazal tov Yael Channah Greene

We love you always.

Mom & Dad

Our beautiful girl. Diagnosed with autism at age 3. How far she has come and how very proud we are.

Categories Changes, Faith, family, Parenting, The Autism Journey

The Things We Keep…

March 16, 2017 //

When we lived in Atlanta, I kept a giant calendar on the side of our refrigerator. Having three kids in three schools, plus after school activities and my husband’s busy rabbi schedule to juggle, that calendar helped me to organize life for myself & my family. Yes, in these days of smart phones and technology, I preferred to have life laid out in black and white, on paper. I still do.

My father died on April 20, 2015. And while so much of life felt like a blur in the aftermath of his suicide, the details of that day are etched into my mind with painful & perfect clarity.

When the end of that month came, I took the April calendar down, but I couldn’t throw it away. That was the last month that my father was alive. It was the last month that I would hear his voice, or tell him that I loved him and hear him say it in return.

And that piece of paper so starkly reflected the truth of my life. Every day leading up to April 20, 2015 was my before. And every day that followed, my after.

That is what it is to lose someone to suicide. You mark your very existence as a survivor in before & after. Because to survive a suicide loss is to be forever altered in ways that at times simply defy words.

The other day I was cleaning out some papers and I came across the calendar once again. My response, almost two years later, was still the same. I can’t throw it away. Some part of me simply can’t give up this piece of paper, filled as it is with the mundane routine of our daily lives as a family.

On the day my father died, my middle daughter was scheduled to have her braces taken off. My friend Karen so graciously picked her up at school and took her to the orthodontist, feigning a story about why I couldn’t get her myself. I recall vividly the picture Karen sent of Leora’s beautiful brace free smile at the end of that appointment. And I remember the pain I felt at knowing that the news of my father’s suicide, would wipe that smile away in an instant. And yet, there it is in black & white, what was supposed to be a far more ordinary afternoon, with an appointment scheduled at 2:00. And written underneath it are notes about carpool and a final class at Religious School. It was supposed to be an ordinary day, that became anything but.

I look at all of the things written on that April calendar that fell after the 20th, and I can’t even remember who took care of what. Who cancelled the appointments before we went to New York for the funeral? The house was due for the final inspection. Who made sure it was tidied up before we left? Who drove carpool? It is all a blur.

There was life before my father’s suicide. And there is life after. And why I can’t throw out that one piece of paper, I don’t know. Except maybe that it is the most concrete reflection of the day my life changed forever.

Time has passed. There has been much heartache, but also a great deal of healing. I try not to dwell in memories of the before. But I hold fast to one torn page from the calendar that reminds me of time I still shared with my father. He lived for 19 days in April 2015. And a single piece of paper is the evidence I cleave to. How could I possibly throw that away?

Time is the longest distance between two places. (Tennessee Williams)

Categories Coping with Suicide, family, healing, loss

Dancing With My Father

March 11, 2017 //

Dancing with my dad at my Bat Mitzvah party

“Tell me something about your dad”, my heart whispered this morning. “Tell me something about his life, a sweet memory, and let it not be tainted by his suicide.”

And my mind answered,”But those moments are hard to find. It seems whenever I try to revisit those memories, his suicide, the way his life ended, inevitably comes crashing in.”

“Try anyway”, my heart answered back. “Do not let his death be all that defines him.”

Eyes closed

A deep breath.

Clearing away the pain.

Making room for something sweeter.

He loved to dance!

I mean, my father LOVED to dance. When I was younger, he and my mom would get dressed up in their disco gear and hit the dance floor on Saturday nights. I remember thinking that I had such cool parents. My mom in her spandex top & leather pants and my dad, looking so suave with his shirt unbuttoned, heading out to Uncle Sam’s disco. Date night was dance night for them.

My parents ready to hit the dance floor

But my dad didn’t have to wait for a club or an event to get his groove on. Our living room had a full wall of mirrors. And as part of my dad’s exercise routine, he would pop in an 8 track tape, put on his castanets and shirtless, with just his shorts on, he would dance. I can remember Peaches & Herb blaring through the stereo speakers singing, “Shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing yeah yeah. Show ’em how we do it y’all.” And without a partner, but with total & complete abandon, my father would just dance until he was dripping in sweat.

This is how I remember my dad dancing around the living room.

I don’t know if my father was ever more free, than when he was dancing. He didn’t hold back. The music enveloped him and he just radiated joy. For him, it was clear that dancing was a celebration of life, and on the dance floor, he gave it everything he had.

And he was happy. I can remember him happy. I can remember him free.

And my mind whispered to me, “Hold that memory today. Grasp it tight and don’t let go.”

And my heart whispered to me, “There is room for both the sorrow & the joy. Cleave to the joy today.”

My father loved to dance.

He knew joy. He knew celebration. He could and he did dance like no one was watching.

Today, with everything I’ve got, I hold fast to that memory of my dad.

My father loved to dance. And remembering that, makes me smile.

Let show the world we can dance
Bad enough to strut our stuff
The music gives us a chance
We do more out on the floor

Groovin’ loose or heart to heart
We put in motion every single part
Funky sounds wall to wall
We’re bumpin’ booties, havin’ us a ball, y’all

(Peaches & Herb Shake Your Groove Thing)