Archives for category: Reflections

What is Grief? A Poem…

November 12, 2022 //

What is grief, they ask?

Grief is like breath.

It expands filling each crevice of the body.

It contracts

Leaving space for joy and peace.

It inhabits.

A guest that moves in without invitation

And becomes a companion.

Grief is jagged, messy, and cruel.

A tempestuous storm

Surging and crashing all around and within.

Grief softens

More malleable, even tranquil.

It does not stop reminding us

Of the loss we have endured.

Shades of gray can touch the most luminous of skies.

Tears fall and dampen the sweetest of smiles.

Grief retreats

Leaving space to cultivate laughter, love, and healing.

It reminds us

If we let it

To choose life, to live this precious gift.

Even as we are reminded

Or perhaps because of it

How precarious it might be.

We cannot outrun grief.

It will find every hiding place.

In its cunning, it sees our every attempt to outwit and outsmart.

But we can

Yes, we really can

Learn to be with it.

Grief is stunningly and achingly bereft of beauty

While somehow still imbued with color and life.

It is a dull landscape

Illuminated by the backdrop of a stunning sky.

It is the hush that settles over newly fallen snow.

It is that first hint of color

The emergence of a rainbow

After Mother Nature has released her fury.

It is life

It is death

It is unending, unbearable

And yet it becomes endurable, habitable, even tolerable.

What is grief? They ask…

It is all these things and more.

It is feelings that can’t be encapsulated into words.

It is connection that can’t be buried in any grave.

It is love.

In its most infinite, enduring and abiding form.

Tags Poetry

Categories healing, loss, Reflections

To My Father, On His 80th Birthday

November 3, 2022 //

The page sits blank before me.

The blinking line awaits my words.

What do I want to say to you on this milestone birthday?

There are the obvious things…

I love you, I miss you, and I wish you were still here.

Not things that go without saying, but those words do not encapsulate all that I feel today, as if there are words in the English language that can ever truly do that.

Still, I want to try.

I heard a quote the other day that resonated so deeply for me. The quiet part of the song is still the song. That is where you exist for me now, in those quiet spaces. A memory, a moment brought on by a smell, a sight, a melody. You exist as a still-life portrait and a mosaic in my mind. Pieces and fragments of the life that we shared, and reflections frozen in time, like pictures in an album. It is harder to touch upon the fluidity and movement that life infuses into the image when all the looking is backward.

I try to imagine who you might be if you had lived. I wonder if you had done the work, the grueling and painstaking task of climbing out of the darkness that had engulfed you; who might you be? But more than that, I think about you continuing on that arduous journey, beyond the darkness and into a place of truly knowing yourself, peeling back the layers of your life. Who would you be if you had tended to the wounds that you carried? If you had grappled with the trauma and loss that had altered your life as a young man? If you had found the salve of self-compassion and self-love? If you had nurtured the child within you with tenderness and care?

I like to think you would’ve grown into a softer and gentler version of yourself. That you would have found greater levity and ease. It is the essence of the best parts of you that I miss so very much. The tenderness, the joviality, the warmth. I’d like to believe there would’ve been more of that, that your edges, the sharp parts that could wound so deeply, the coldness that could create a rift without warning, all would’ve muted and dulled. I think back on so many of those final conversations we had. You stripped bare of your armor, reflective, and honest in your sharing. Oh, how I would’ve relished continuing those conversations with you. With each layer that you might’ve peeled back, I would’ve gotten to know you more deeply and fully. What a privilege that would’ve been. I might’ve gotten to watch you grow not only older, but also wiser.

Daddy, something is fading. The sound of your voice, and the feel of your embrace, all seem harder to grasp. The passage of time creates more and more distance between us. And yet, grief no longer has this talismanic power over my days. It has evolved from the broken pieces, filled with jagged edges and a heaviness that brought me to my knees, to something more malleable, an aura that surrounds but no longer envelopes me. I often referenced that childhood story about going on a bear hunt, when I talked about grief. You can’t go under it. You can’t go over it. You have to go through it. What I have learned is that for every passageway I enter and every door that I exit, there is another. The through doesn’t end, it simply evolves. The missing doesn’t end, and the sense of loss does not diminish, I am still haunted by the why and the missed signs, but what I cleave to most is love. Where I stand today is trying to figure out how to be in relationship with you, even though you aren’t here. I don’t want that to disappear. I suppose that is my next throughway.

I could go on and on. I imagine myself writing this all in a card that you would read, then place out on a mantle. You used to put such effort and time into those cards, concocting rhymes and poems, riddles, and jokes. And you always wanted them to be read aloud. You were so proud of your lyrical prowess. Some say I have a gift for wordsmithing and I am writing this very personal note, knowing that it will be read by those who know me well, and others who know me through this blog, this place where I have shared so much of our story.

Daddy, today you would’ve marked an incredible milestone, reaching the age of 80. And we would’ve celebrated you. I still want to do that, though admittedly it is not without tears and pain. And so tonight, there will be a dinner and a toast, joyful memories shared, and wistful acknowledgments of all that you should’ve been here to see. Such is the intermingling of love and loss, grief and gratitude.

On this day, eighty years ago you came into this world. Your story is forever a part of ours, and the legacy of your life continues on in your children and grandchildren. There is a Hebrew proverb that teaches, Say not in grief ‘he is no more’ but in thankfulness that he was. And so above all else on this day, for that gift, that you were, we will give thanks and honor you.

With all of my enduring love.

Your daughter.

Categories healing, loss, Reflections

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

Write From Where You Are

December 16, 2021 //

On December 2nd, I posted the following on my Facebook page:

I am 52 years old and experiencing panic attacks for the first time in my life. I am saying this out loud because I have to work hard not to fall into a shame cycle. I’m struggling with anxiety in a way I never have. Maybe you are too. Maybe we’re not alone.

The comments that I received on this post both publicly and privately served as a tangible and palpable reminder that I am not alone in what I am experiencing. Brene Brown says, We cultivate love, when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known. But damn that can be scary! I put that post out there for mostly selfish reasons. I thought, if I say it out loud, if I share it with honesty and grace, I am in some small way telling myself that it really is okay not to be okay. What I received in response to my openness, was not only a revelation, but in many ways it was a gift. So many of us are not okay in this moment, and it’s hard to talk about. It’s even harder when social media convinces us that everybody else seems happier, more together and quite honestly less fucked up than we feel. Intellectually we know this can’t be true, but when we are navigating low places the mind will often distort our perception of things. I put a few words of truth out on my Facebook page, they felt both vulnerable and powerful, like wielding a sword in my battle against shame. And what I got in response to sharing my authentic self was love. My brave honesty, cultivated love at a time when I really needed it.

Recently I had the chance to catch up with a relative of mine. It had been quite some time since we talked and I loved hearing about how she was doing, and having the chance to share a bit about my life. At some point the conversation turned to my writing. She told me what a beautiful and prolific writer I am and how she admired my ability to reflect honestly and deeply about my feelings. BUT, she added, it would be so nice to see me write so deeply about the good things, the happy things, the blessings in my life. I’ll admit that it caught me off guard, and I had to take a few breaths before I could answer. It is true that I have much to be thankful for and I count my blessings every day. My daughters have grown into amazing young women and I have much to be proud of and I feel that pride every day. After 27 years of marriage my husband remains my best friend and I am grateful that we are on this journey together. My circle of friends is comprised of authentic, compassionate, loving and kind women and men that I feel privileged to have in my life. All of this is true. And I see, know and feel it all. But the hard stuff, the messy stuff, the stuff that I am wading through right now and that I have been wading through for some time, that is also my truth. And part of my process of trying to heal those wounds is to write about them.

Ashley C. Ford says, Truth is beautiful. Truth requires courage. You have to be courageous to admit the truth and to find the truth and to hear the truth. And to accept the truth. It all requires courage beyond your body. I cultivate courage when I tell my truth. But I also know that there will always be those people who don’t want to see it, or read it unless it is brimming with roses and fairy dust. And that’s okay. Because what I have learned is that it says far more about them then it does about me. I don’t say that with judgement or malice. It is really hard to sit with someone in the hard spaces, to show up, to really listen and to just accompany them. It is hard to admit to having no easy answers. It is easier to ask the truth teller to write the happy ending, than it is to see the darker plot lines that are unfolding and simply let them narrate their life as they are experiencing it. It takes courage to hold the truth of ourselves and to hold the truth of another.

I sometimes find myself wondering how often my father was asked to look away from the darkness, and focus on all he had to be grateful for. I wonder if each time he heard that, he opted to share less of his truth out loud, rather than listen to another round of platitudes that did not speak to the quicksand he found himself trudging through, sinking deeper and deeper, while holding the full extent of his despair quietly in the pocket of his soul. Even after he died, the platitudes kept coming. But he had so much to live for. As if that should’ve been the obvious antidote to his pain and anguish.

Shame resides deep in my bones. It took hold from a very young age, and it grew with me, strengthening over time, cultivated by experiences and relationships that validated and empowered it. Self-love is something I have had to learn, and it’s still a work in progress. I have noticed that when I feel myself struggling, shame always seems to have the upper hand. It is Goliath, and this still fledgling concept of loving myself as I would love another, wholeheartedly, fully, without condition or judgement, well that is the David armed only with a slingshot and a prayer! It doesn’t really feel like a fair fight. So I arm the self-love with one more weapon, truth. It is raw, unvarnished, sometimes messy, it can be sharp or smooth, bright or dark, overflowing with tears or joy. But it is mine. And it is powerful. Telling my truth helps me to cultivate love for myself. Because when I can name what I am feeling, it holds less power over me. I can look it in the eye, find some understanding in it, learn from it and I hope, heal from it. That is love. Meeting my pain where it is, and tending to it in the messy garden where it resides.

I wear a ring every day, a birthday gift from my family and a reminder to myself. It is inscribed with these words (in Hebrew) There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. In the song, Anthem by Leonard Cohen, the line before this one reads, Ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering.

That is self-love. Let the light flow through every crack and fissure. Let go of the image and idea of perfection. Share your light by sharing your truth. Be the light that stands in the truth of another. Ring your bells with your most authentic offering, you! Answer the bells of another with your full presence. I’m still learning. But this much I know, I can hold my gifts and my sorrow in the same sacred place. My words are the mirror, a reflection of my journey both in good times and bad. They are no less sacred when they impart sorrow or fear, anxiety or panic, sadness or anger. Those expressions of truth do not dim all of the goodness and blessings in my life. My view of the world is not that myopic. I write from where I am in any given moment of time. Right now, I feel lost without a compass, trying to navigate my own mental health struggles and some very hard family truths. Shit is just downright difficult right now. That is the simple and undeniable truth. My life is not a work of fiction where I can change the plot line because I don’t like where it is going.

You know those signs that help you navigate a hiking path? They always indicate you are here with a bold arrow! Well, I am here. The path is steep and slippery. But I am putting one foot in front of the other. So I am going to write from where I am. Courageous truth telling it is! Self-love gets to win this time.

If you put shame in a petri dish, it needs three ingredients to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence and judgement. If you put the same amount of shame in the petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive. Brene Brown

Categories Coping with Suicide, healing, mental health, Nourishing hope, Reflections, Uncategorized

A Letter to my Father on the Six Year Anniversary of his Death…

April 20, 2021 //

Dear Dad,

It’s hard to believe that today marks 6 years since you died. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime has passed, and in other ways, it feels like it was just yesterday. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about you. How I remember you varies from day to day, sometimes from moment to moment. It has gotten easier to think about you in life, to hold some of the more joyful moments that we shared. It took so many years of wading through layers of trauma to reach that place. And if I am being honest, each day is still touched by the way in which you died. It can be a fleeting thought that comes on its own, or it can be a trigger that brings about a tsunami of remembrance and pain. I have learned that triggers about suicide loss lie in wait around every corner and navigating them can be exhausting. Some days when I am stronger they are like a painful jab, and when my wounds are open, they can take hold and bring me to my knees. The good news is, I have learned that I have the resilience to pick myself up again each time. But I have also done the very hard work through therapy and I know it is not resiliency alone that has carried me forward. There has been a lot of grit and determination involved on my part. Grief work is hard dad. It’s really fucking hard. Trauma work makes it even harder. But I have not given up, though there are times when I’ve really wanted to.

I’ve been thinking about how grateful I am that I got to visit you at the cemetery just weeks before this pandemic really took hold. There was so much I needed to say to you, so much I needed to release and forgive in those moments I spent at your grave. I cannot imagine carrying those burdens along with me this past year. I am not sure I could’ve held myself upright amidst the collective grief, trauma, loss, and anxiety that surrounded and at times enveloped me. I’m not mad at you anymore dad. I was so mad for so long. I was angry at the wreckage your suicide had left behind. I was angry that you left. I was angry that it was so hard for me to pick up the shattered remnants of the person I was before. I was angry at God and I was angry at myself for all that I did not see, and for not saving you from yourself. I let all of that go when I wept at your graveside last year. I released it. There was no more room for it in my heart. It took up the space I wanted for more fond and joyful remembrance. Remembering you as you lived, in all of your complexity, not just as you died. That’s been a gift I gave myself.

I miss you Dad. And you missed so much. You would be so proud of the girls. Yes, you would be proud of their achievements and aspirations. They are going to accomplish amazing things in the world. But more than that, you would be so proud of the very fine human beings they are. They are filled with compassion and empathy, they believe deeply in justice and working for change. They are a force for good in a world so often longing for that. They are brave and bold, not afraid of trying new things and stepping into new and uncomfortable spaces. I know you would have admired that kind of courage. I dare say you would’ve envied it as well.

It’s been hard not having a place to remember you here. If I lived in New York I could visit your grave. When I go to Florida, I stand on the beach and feel you in the sounds of the ocean. And of course, if we were still in Atlanta, I’d sit on the porch swing you loved so much and stare at the magnolia tree to feel your presence. But here in Colorado, I have struggled to create a place and space that I can go to and be with my memories. After all, you were never here. My life here is all firmly rooted in the chapter that came after your death. I think I finally figured it out though dad. This year, I’ve asked for a front porch swing and it is being built as I write this.

You see, the hardest part of your suicide is thinking about all of the pain and turmoil you carried into your last moments on this earth. It haunts me that at the end of your life, the voices in your head drowned out all of the beauty of the life and legacy that surrounded you. But when I think of you on that front porch swing at our home in Atlanta, I have a vision of you at peace, content, finding joy in the quietest and simplest of things. And that is what I want to cleave to. I want to sit on my swing, stare at the trees we are planting this spring, and think of you at peace. And won’t it be lovely when mom comes to visit and she can sit beside me? We’ll swing and reminisce together.

Dad, I’ll always be sad and sorry that you felt so alone at the end of your life. I will always regret not seeing how deep your wounds were. I saw only what you let me see. If you had revealed it all to me, I would’ve helped you. I loved you as you were. I love you still. I hold deep within me all of the good and happy times we shared. And I hold the harder truths of our relationship, the times of deep pain, conflict, and hurt. But I hold those parts with greater compassion and understanding for us both. And I am grateful that in the end, love gave us a few more years together and forgiveness brought us closer. We were stronger at the broken places Dad. And in the world I have navigated in the aftermath of your suicide, I have come to embody that as well. I am wounded. I have scars that will never heal. But a new hero of mine, Dr. Edith Eger says, “healing isn’t about recovery; it’s about discovery. Discovering hope in hopelessness, discovering an answer where there doesn’t seem to be one, discovering that it’s not what happens that matters-it’s what you do with it.” I have discovered that I can do more than survive your suicide, though I will always be a survivor of suicide loss. I have discovered that I can thrive. I have discovered that posttraumatic growth is real. As Victor Frankl put it, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” I couldn’t save you. But I could save myself from living in a sea of guilt, despair, and pain. And I have. You’d be proud of me dad. I’m proud of me.

I miss you and I love you always. I pray that you are at peace and that there is a porch swing in heaven from which you can look out and see us all. I hope that makes you smile dad. Your beautiful living legacy continues to grow and thrive and you will always be a part of us.

Love,

Deborah

Categories Coping with Suicide, healing, loss, Nourishing hope, Reflections, Uncategorized

Letting Go of Why

April 21, 2018 //

Dear Why,

You have traveled this journey with me as an ever-present companion. We have traversed through this terrain, so unfamiliar and unsteady.

But like a Dear John letter, I write to say that we have reached the fork in the road. I want to travel on without you.

The hardest and simplest truth is this:

For my father, living hurt too much. He chose to end his life.

I must live with that for the rest of my days. But the key words there are

Must

Live

I must live with the never knowing.

Live with the loss.

Live with no answers that will ever fully mend that which has been so irrevocably wounded.

But I must also live with purpose, intention, love, joy, and forgiveness. Your grip pulls me away from those things. You yank me back as if I were a child lurching into the street.

I forgive my father.

I forgive myself.

Perhaps one day, I will even forgive God. I believe you stand in the way of that. I still want accountability, an entity to blame. God has shouldered most of that, as I answer you with a finger pointed in the direction of The Divine.

If I continue to hold you, I am bound by the shackles of his suffering.

If I continue to hold you, I dwell in the darkness that consumed him.

If I continue to hold you, my compass will forever point me only backward.

Holding on to you holds me back.

You have nothing left to offer me. I have learned every lesson that you have to teach. I have shared those hard truths in the hopes of helping others whose lives may hang in the balance. You have given me at least that much. Looking back with you has helped me empower others to look ahead for the subtle signals that indicate Danger Ahead. For that I am grateful.

It was an illness of the mind that drove my father to suicide. It was a darkening of the soul, a final act that comes from a depth of suffering I hope never to know.

And it wasn’t my fault.

You must let me go, or perhaps I must let go first. I must surrender to the senselessness of it all. No clue, no warning, no greater understanding will ever give it the meaning I seek. I know that is why I have tightened my grip. I wanted more than that. Like that childhood game Red Rover, anytime that painful certainty threatened to penetrate, I grasped you with full force lest it break through.

I am deserving of this unburdening.

It has taken me a long time to believe those words.

I loved him. I choose to believe that he knew that. Because that was not enough to save him does not mean that I was not enough.

I will lay you down, knowing full well that at times, our paths will cross again. You will find my shadow and on the cloudiest of days, you’ll visit for a while. You’ll arrive unannounced, uninvited, as is your way.

But I will answer you with this, as it is the only truth that I know.

If he had asked for help, I would have given it.

If he had removed the mask, I might have seen more.

He lost any hope that life would get better.

I will not.

Yes, we’ve traveled hand in hand, you and I for far too long.

Finger by finger, with bare knuckles, I am prying you loose. I will free my grasp to reach toward remembrances of my father in life. That is how I will carry him forward on this voyage with me. Let those memories and reflections be my travel companion. Let them accompany me where once you did. You have asked enough of me. I have told you all that I will ever know. You take up too much space on this path. You cast a shadow that distorts my view.

Absolve me, as I absolve myself.

Exempt me, as I exempt myself.

Release me, as I release myself.

Liberate me, as I liberate myself.

Let go of me, as I let go of you.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering up its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
~ Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

deb dad company picnic

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, healing, loss, mental health, Nourishing hope, Reflections, suicide prevention & advocacy, Uncategorized

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

2018 A New Year’s Wish

January 1, 2018 //

I woke up this morning and sat in the quiet spaces of my home and my heart. And I started to weep. What do I want most in this New Year? What is my resolution?

I want to find a way to let go of the guilt and the anger I carry about my father’s death. I want to find a way to accept that I will never, ever get an answer to the question of “why” he left. I want my mind to stop searching for some way to have it all make sense. It never will. It will never amount to anything more than a senseless, terrible tragedy. If I can surrender to knowing only that it was an illness of the mind, perhaps my quest can end. Perhaps that will be the beginning of healing this rift I have with God and my faith. I still want to hold someone, some entity accountable. And so where do I go? I didn’t stop him. God did not stop him. He did not stop himself. To carry that everyday hurts. I am in pain every single day. I’ve learned to compartmentalize it. But it is palpable to me, even if I hide it from others. I know I’ll always hurt. I know I’m not the same person I was before his suicide. I will never be the same.

But I’ve had moments of healing. I’ve known measurable and tangible moments of joy, happiness and peace. And as time passes, and I do the continued work of therapy, I’ve found a better balance. I’ve laughed more than I’ve cried. The wounds are still there, some fragile scars have formed around them, they’re less raw than they were. It has taken great strength for me to reach this place. I don’t often give myself the credit for that. But I have walked, crawled, trudged and inched my way through the valley of shadows with every fiber of courage, resilience and strength that I possess. And so I have to believe that my wishes for the new year are possible.

I cannot simply make a resolution and have it be so. If only it were that easy. But I can keep putting in the effort, it is called grief “work” for a reason. And I can cleave to the vision of how far I have come, and let that fuel me for the road still ahead.

May this be the year I surrender to the unknowable and unanswerable and find a way to live in some peace with that. May this be the year I let go of the need to punish someone, some entity or thing, for my father’s suicide, especially myself. May this be the year my daily pain, becomes less palpable. May I find a way to give it a nod, acknowledge it and lovingly be able to put it aside. It will always reside within me. But perhaps it can occupy a smaller space and place in my heart, opening up more room for healing, hope, happiness and an exploration of this newer version of myself. May this be the year that I nurture those other parts of me, the goals, the desires, the strengths, the aspirations, The me that is defined not by trauma or loss, but by creativity, compassion & courage. The woman who deserves not to be punished, not to merely survive, but to thrive!

Healing does not mean going back to the way things were before, but rather allowing what is now to move us closer to God. (Ram Dass)

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

Eclipsing Hope

August 21, 2017 //

partial-solar-eclipse-clouds

Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do (lyrics One More Light by Linkin Park)

Eclipse fervor has hit. So many are traveling and planning so they might witness this historic event. The sun will be completely blocked by the moon. Darkness… and then it will pass, and once again the light will shine.

BUT WHAT IF IT DIDN’T? What if every day felt as if the sun were blotted out and darkness surrounded you? What if you no longer knew for certain that the light would surely shine again? That is the feeling so many who are struggling with despair feel. That is what the shroud of depression can feel like?

I can’t help but think about my father today. Oh how he loved the sun. On the coldest of winter days, if the sun was shining, he’d bundle himself up and sit outside. He would turn his face toward the sun and embrace all of the warmth that it had to offer. It fed his spirit, it sustained him and it carried him through darker and gloomier days.

His was a mood very much determined by his surroundings. And when the sun would hide itself away, he felt it deep within. Which is why it made sense that retirement and life in the sunshine state would be so very good for him.

It should have been. It was supposed to be.

But depression, much like the moon today, blotted out the light. It created a shroud of darkness from which he could not escape. And though the eclipsing of the sun will pass, my father came to believe that for him, it never would.

Today is a glorious celebration of Mother Nature for so many. A day to stand in awe of our blessed surroundings and be reminded that we are but a small part of the grandeur of the universe. We will momentarily celebrate the darkness, because we know the sun will shine once again.

Light is a gift. It is a powerful force. It can sustain and nurture us. It may flicker and fade but it always returns to us. We trust in that truth on the darkest of days.

But for my father, that trust was eroded. It was distorted by the clouds of depression and anxiety. And the light he once sought out, the warmth that sustained him, felt as if it had disappeared forever.

Perhaps that is why today’s eclipse is so very hard for me. It is the lens through which I see it that makes it harder to savor. The metaphor of my father’s life is deeply palpable for me today. I feel it coursing through me.

I am reminded that for so many like my dad, the darkness will remain long after the eclipse has passed.

Light lives at the end of that dark tunnel. I believe that. But for those who have lost that faith…

Today and every day, I strive to be a candle.

That is how I honor my father.

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars. Og Mandino

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

Walking Out of the Darkness

September 25, 2016 //

girls-team-tikvah-2016

Dear Dad,

Yesterday, the girls and I participated in our second Out of the Darkness Walk in Denver. It was a little bit easier than last year’s walk. We had a beautiful day, the air was crisp and the sun was shining. It was certainly better than the gray, cold and dismal weather that we encountered on our first walk. It seems only fair that a walk to prevent suicide, a walk to shed light on a topic so often cloaked in darkness, should be met with warm sunshine and the gentle touch of Mother Nature.

Team Tikvah (Hebrew for Hope) raised over $6,000.00 this year. And since we lost you, including last year’s walk, we have raised over $11,000.00 for The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Yes dad, we’ve taken our sorrow as well as our story, and tried to build for you a legacy of hope and of life.

I must admit that it is always the Memory Tree area that tears away at every scab I’ve managed to build up in these last 17 months. Trees are such an enduring symbol of life. They encapsulate the very things that root us, that strengthen us, that allow us to branch out & grow. They endure the harshest of winters, only to once again blossom in the springtime.

But this tree is different. The branches are filled with pictures of all of the precious lives lost to despair & hopelessness. The leaves hold beautiful smiling faces, comprised of all age groups, races and cultures. And on the back of each leaf there is a name, a story, a message of love, a remembrance. It feels both sad and sacred to stand there, to bear witness to the human cost of suicide. And each time that I place your smiling face on that tree, the sorrow that I have learned to live with, rises up like a tsunami and breaks my heart all over again.

But the beauty of the walk is that I cannot stand and remain in that place for too long. None of us can. Slowly, I step away with tear filled eyes and I join in this family of strangers, survivors of suicide loss or suicide attempts, and I am reminded that I am not alone on this journey. The tears that are shed, the stories that are told, resonate for all of us. And because ours is a loss that is often pushed to the periphery lest it make others uncomfortable, we garner strength in the chance to stand front and center with our pain & our purpose. I look around me at the Out of the Darkness Walk and I know that my own efforts to stop suicide are part of something much bigger and more powerful. And that gives me the strength and resolve to keep on fighting.

Margaret Mead once said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed it’s the only thing that ever has.” Standing on the podium yesterday and gazing out, I was reminded of that truth.

Yes, our stories and loved ones fill that memory tree and it is easy to simply get lost in the despair. But instead, we dig down to our very roots, and like the trunk of a tree we straighten our backs and strengthen our stance. And with every step we take on that walk, each lap around the stadium, we reach out our hands like branches, we take hold of one another, of our losses, and we carry them beyond ourselves. We carry them into our communities, our houses of worship, our government and our schools. And we imbue our memories and our mourning with a deeper mission. We, the survivors, are like the tree that has faced winter’s cruelest storm, but we will not simply wither away.

Dad, I hate to put your picture on that memory tree. That picture, my favorite one of you, draws such a stark contrast between your greatest moments of joy and the darkness that ultimately consumed you. The memory tree is full of those contrasts, beautiful smiling faces whose lives ended in pain & despair. And I suppose that same contrast is present for those of us there to walk in loving memory of each smiling face. We remember and we smile. We remember and we cry. We learn to live with unimaginable pain and we find a way to engage with life again. Tears stream down our face until a smile emerges once again. We feel alone in our loss, but we look around and we are reminded of the community that carries us forward. Our steps are sometimes heavy with the weight of what suicide has taken from us and they are strengthened with the determination to make it matter. That memory tree area symbolizes loss, love and life. And for me, so does the walk itself. I face your loss, I remember & reflect upon the love and with each step that I take, I try to build for you and for me, a legacy that blossoms with life and hope.

dad-memory-tree-2016 He who plants a tree, plants hope. (Lucy Larcom, Plant a Tree)

Categories activism, Coping with Suicide, healing, loss, mental health, Reflections