The Magnolia

May 12, 2015 //

Every flower is a soul blossoming in nature. ~Gerard de Nerval

Today is 3 weeks since my father’s suicide. The shock is wearing off, and beneath it lies a profound sense of loss, sadness and a grief so complex that words could truly never encapsulate it. That is the aftermath of suicide. But there is also the heartbreaking sense of permanence that is slowly seeping in. Never again to see him, hug him, hear his voice. The thought of that is like a brick in my heart. My dad’s last days were so full of anguish and pain. I want so much to know he is ok, at peace. I want to know, to sense that his spirit is with me. That he is near… And there it was today, one single magnolia flower on our tree had opened up & blossomed. Just one… Just today. Just when I needed it. My dad loved to watch the flowers bloom. Maybe, just maybe, that was his way of telling me, “I’m here.” At least that’s what I’d like to believe.

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” (Truvey Jones)”
― Robert Harling, Steel Magnolias

Categories Uncategorized

Silk Flowers

May 8, 2015 //

A flower’s appeal is in its contradictions — so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect. ~Terri Guillemets

My father loved spring. The world would come to life. Sitting outside, basking in the returning warmth of the sun, he would take in the blossoming of the trees, the budding of the flowers.

When the world looked cold & barren, on those winter days in New York, he discovered a way to add color to the backdrop of such bleakness.

In a wealth of clay pots, he planted silk flowers. Placing them along the walkway, sitting them out on the deck. He could lift the shades, as he did first thing every morning, and there they would be. No matter the season, they were full of color, if not full of life.

Silk flowers never die. The elements can not uproot them. When life’s passing storms hit, their color remains vibrant. They do not need the warmth of sun to nurture them, the buzzing of the bees to help the garden grow. Mother Nature can shower them with harsh rains, it will not hurt them. She can unleash wintry snows, their beauty stands bold against the winter white. She can coat them in a blanket of darkness, they will not wither. And when the earth is parched, longing for rain, they will not starve.

But they are not real. No, the most beautiful of flowers is a precious symbol of life. When darkness falls upon them, robbing them of light, they wither. When they sit in the center of the storm, they bend, they break. When their roots search in vain for sustenance, they are parched, weakened, so very fragile.

We are like precious flowers. And we are subject to the seasons & storms of life. When we feel immersed in the darkness, unable to bend toward the light, we wither. When it feels as if our roots are unsteady, no longer grounded, we lose our strength. When each day seems to bring a new storm, our colors become dim, less vibrant. And when it feels as if the storms will never pass, bit by bit, it is as if a piece of us feels it is dying. Even if it is not.

How I wish my father was a silk flower. But he was not. His life was a precious one. He had weathered many storms, and he had basked in the sunlight. He put down roots, and planted a garden & he tended it. At times it was full of life, and other seasons saw it struggle. But it was his garden. He was not a perfect flower, flawed as we all are. The petals told a story, his story, our story.

Life gave him too many dark days these last months. He couldn’t find the sunlight. He couldn’t feel the strength of his roots. He could not trust that though he might bend in the storm, he need not break. He couldn’t trust that the garden he had nurtured, would not let him wither, that he was not casting a shadow over our own bright rays of sun.

But we who loved him know, he could have once again blossomed. Like a flower in the spring, he could once again stand tall. His roots that much stronger because of all he had endured. The sun would shine again, and soon the storms of winter would have been in the past. He could have once again felt joy, as he looked at the garden that surrounded him. There would be a return of the vibrant hues that had filled his life before. Beauty would replace pain…

My father loved silk flowers. But silk flowers are not real. And they can only endure life’s storms, because they can not feel them.

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun’s love
In the spring becomes the rose (The Rose by Bette Midler)

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, loss

Living Loss Out Loud: A Compilation of Facebook Posts On Losing My Father

May 8, 2015 //

I’ve written many Facebook Posts since Losing my father, Lowell Jay Herman, on April 20, 2015.

Here I share them once again, reflecting on each one as I live our loss out loud.

My Father’s Death (written 4/20/15)
Early this morning, my father lost his battle with mental illness. My heart is broken. May his memory be for an eternal & abiding blessing… and may he know how grateful I was for the gifts of reconciliation & healing–I got these last few years with my father, and that is a gift I will forever be grateful for. I will miss him more than words can say… I only wish I could tell him how much he meant to me, one last time. To hear his voice, to say I love you–and if only I had another chance to remind him-that it would get better, to hang on to hope even if only by his fingertips–but instead, I travel with my family to New York, to say goodbye to a beloved father, father-in-law, grandfather, friend, brother and husband–and to return his soul to God. I love you daddy!

He is Gone (4/20/15)
My beloved father Lowell Jay Herman. I want just one more moment–one more hug-one more I love you–I want to wake up from this horrific nightmare and know that you are still here–that the despair you were feeling, the depression–did not truly take you from us–but I will not get that. My heart and soul ache with a sadness I can not even put into words–Depression robbed our family of so many years–so many joyous moments yet to be, so many more opportunities to say I love you–and I feel as if I am stuck in quicksand–barely able to breathe, to think, to process. My father, my friend–how can it be that you are gone? I will cherish and miss this smile for the rest of my days. I only wish your last moments on this earth were not filled with so much pain–I love you daddy–always! I hope your soul is finally at peace..

The Funeral (4/23/15)
Today I lay my father to rest. My heart is broken. Beloved husband, father, grandfather, family man and friend. And as we grapple to come to terms with how he died, today we honor how he lived, what he meant to us and the legacy he leaves behind. I don’t know how to travel through this grief, but today, surrounded by family, supported by friends and enveloped in prayer, I will say goodbye to my dad one final time. And then I face a world without him.

Shiva (4/24/15)
Each morning I wake, there are those few moments when it doesn’t seem real. I sit in the house I grew up in, the house where my mother and father lived, but my father isn’t here. Yes, he is here in spirit, still very much a presence, but his physical being is no longer going to walk through those doors, sit at this table or bask in the sun out on the front porch. I keep thinking I missed something, a sign that perhaps, had I seen it, could’ve helped to save him. We who are left behind, grapple with the questions, trying desperately to understand this tragic loss. How do you explain the unexplainable? The answers we seek will never come, but perhaps it is simply in the talking, the sharing of our truth, that we can help to lift the shroud of shame and secrecy that surround mental illness and encourage a dialogue that might one day, save the life of another person struggling with depression. The Talmud says, “whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.” I couldn’t save my father, but in his memory, and in his honor and in sharing his story, perhaps I can, in some small way, help to save another.

Leaving New York (4/26/15)
So very hard to leave my family in NY. Who else knew and loved my father in the same way and carries the same grief. Grateful for the time we had to hold one another and simply be together. And, despite the void we feel, to laugh and smile as we reminisced of happier times. And as the resilient spirits of our children lifted our spirits, basking in their laughter. And now, I return home to sit shiva amongst our community in Atlanta, and then to slowly make the journey back to life once again. I am profoundly grateful to the friends of old who gave of their presence while we were here, those who remember my dad as a young man full of life and spirit, and who share memories with me no one else ever will. And it comforts me to know my mother, my brother and his family are surrounded by so much love and support. Now it is to our community we return, secure in the knowledge that loving arms and hearts full of compassion and sympathy await.

Suicide & Mental Health-Sharing Painful Lessons (4/27)
One week ago, I received the devastating and heartbreaking phone call from my brother. My father had taken his own life. And as we stumble through this enormous and overwhelming pain, we will not hide from that truth. Suicide is not an act of cowardice, it is an act of pain. But to save a life, we must be open and honest about mental illness. We must not let shame relegate those who suffer, and their loved ones, to the shadows. Today, I learned that in 2013, someone died every 12.8 seconds by suicide. My precious father was not and is not a statistic, but sadly in some way, I must include him among these numbers. But it will not end there, through my tears, and my anguish, I will share his loss, and his life, openly and honestly. I will share his joy and his pain, his hope and his fears and the battle with the disease, yes, the illness, that took him from us far too soon. Because that is the only way I know to make sense of the senseless, and to honor my beloved father. One week ago, I received the devastating phone call. Perhaps if we are honest and open, another family might be spared that pain.

Shiva Ends (4/29/15)
Tonight, the torn black ribbon comes off, no longer to serve as a daily reminder of loss & mourning. The period of shiva ends, and slowly we must all begin to find our way back to life, to joy & to fond remembrance. But we do so with a void, and we do so continuing to grapple with the aftermath of the way in which my father’s life ended. The questions do not adhere to a timeline, the search for missed signs, or the things we would’ve, could’ve or should’ve done, must play themselves out. I think it’s only natural, at least that is what I’ve come to understand as I read about suicide, a topic I never thought I’d need or have to become knowledgeable about. I pray in time, with healing, and with understanding, and with a gentle loving of ourselves, those questions will no longer be the soundtrack that plays when we think of my dad, that the smiles and happy memories will find their way to the forefront, though in truth, they will always be accompanied in some way by his loss. In time, the tears won’t flow so freely, and the pain of picking up the phone to say hello to my dad, only to realize that I can’t, that I never will again, won’t hurt quite as much. Today, shiva ends, the ribbon comes off, my heart is still broken, so perhaps simply putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in the promise of each new day and being kind to myself & allowing myself to feel what I need to feel-is all I can really ask right now…

Sitting on the Front Porch Swing (5/3/15)
As I sit out here, on our front porch swing, my fathers favorite place to sit when he came to visit, I’m looking at the sign that sits on our front lawn. “Sale Pending” it says. The day we went under contract I called my parents to share the good news. It was the last time I would speak to my father, and the last piece of good news I will ever get to share with him. My dad sent me a text on Sunday morning. It read, “Great to hear it all went so well. Love you.” That was Sunday, and on Monday he was gone. So as I sit out here swinging, smiling as I think of him, tears fill my eyes. Time is so very precious and it is fleeting. For 6 years my family and I were estranged. When I wrote to my parents, to try and heal the rift, I told Fred Greene, I simply could not bear the thought of my parents leaving this earth without knowing, I loved them, I forgave them, I was sorry for the ways that I had hurt them and that should they be open to it, I stood ready and willing to heal, to love and to bring wholeness back into our lives. My father said that when they received that first letter, on Rosh Hashanah, he told my mother that “it was truly a blessed day.” Reconciliation is a gift. My father did not leave this earth without knowing I loved him. And my family and I shared 3 more precious years together. We loved each other for the flawed and imperfect beings we are. That is the most authentic love there is. And so, swinging on this porch, gazing at this sign, tears rolling gently down my face, smiling through the tears, my message is simple, love honestly, forgive, heal where you can, and shed the burden of anger and hurt. I got to share one final piece of good news with my dad, a final I love you… Time is fleeting and oh so precious and forgiveness is a gift.

Grief (5/4/15)
Grief is a process, a journey. We cannot rush through it, nor can we flip a switch and simply turn it off. Two weeks ago I lost my father to suicide. Yes, I know there will come a day when I can more readily think about the life he lived, rather than the way he died. There will come a day when the pain of his death does not feel like a weight upon my heart, but rather a dull ache that lives alongside of his memory. A day when I will smile, more than I cry when I think of him. But to grieve is to feel, to grapple and to hurt. Tomorrow I am going to a support group for Survivors of Suicide. Yes we, the loved ones left behind, have a name, an identity, membership in a club no one would ever choose to belong to. And yet, the loss we grieve has initiated us. Grief is a process, we all travel through it in our own way, but I believe that to travel it openly and honestly, honoring our emotions, our struggles and our feelings, is how we ultimately return ourselves to a place of healing and wholeness. Two weeks ago, just two, I lost my father to suicide, and I am profoundly sad, I grapple for answers that will never come, I struggle daily with how he died. I put one foot in front of the other, I breathe, I share & I talk. I busy myself with life, I seek strength and comfort in the company of family and friends. I eat the meals cooked and delivered so lovingly by others… and yes, I grieve, I hurt, I cry and I miss my dad.

Painful Realities (5/6/15)
A visit to the doctor today. We need to review your history the nurse says. Medicine list comes first, then medical history. On we move to family history. You have 3 children at home? Yes. Daughters? Yes. You have one brother? Yes. And you still have your mother and your father? The tears fill my eyes, before I can stop them. No, my father just passed away 2 weeks ago. What was the cause? With a heart full of pain, I take a deep breath, then answer…suicide. She offers heartfelt condolences & I can see she is sincere. And then she returns to the computer and the change is entered into my records. I watch her use the mouse and where once the box was checked yes next to father, it is no longer. Instead, the check finds a new permanent position filling up the box which says no. And a notation is made about cause of death. The records now reflect the painful truth, my father is no longer with me. He took his own life. A routine visit to the doctor, a review of medical & personal history. An already raw & open wound now fills with waves of pain. It was a routine visit to the doctor, but I left feeling as if I’d been punched in the gut. And wishing there was medicine for the ache in my soul.

Thank you (5/9/15)
What do you say to a man who loves you through such a tragic and horrific loss? Who honors your grief, your need to mourn, your profound sense of sadness and your pain at losing a father to suicide? Who gives your father one final gift and honors your mother, by eulogizing and burying your dad with such love, respect and dignity? Who shares from the pulpit our need to end the stigma and shame surrounding mental illness and suicide, even as he does so with a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes? Who silently holds your hand, wipes your tears and offers his presence not platitudes? And who seeks daily to lighten your burden of tasks and chores so you can focus on taking care of yourself? Thank you seems too small a word. It can’t possibly encompass your gratitude? Surely there must be something more grandiose to say, but I’ve not yet found it. My father would likely know, grabbing his scrabble dictionary and offering up some obscure word that I might use. And I know that from his place with God, he’d let me know if he could, because I know he too is grateful to have been laid to rest by such loving hands. So I’ll rely on these two little words for my husband Fred Greene thank you my love…. My kind, sweet and compassionate husband and friend. I don’t think I could navigate this dark and difficult path without you by my side. “I would thank you from the bottom of my heart, but my heart has no bottom” (author unknown)

Categories family, loss, mental health

How Are You?

May 7, 2015 //

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Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve. – Rabbi Earl Grollman

How are you? Three little words. Sometimes we ask them in passing, not even waiting for an answer. At other times we ask in a more perfunctory way. And then there are the times we ask in a way that says, “Tell me your truth. I really want to know.”

In recent months, each time I would speak to my dad, I would ask him, “How are you dad?” But I always followed those three words with this, “Dad, I’m asking because I really want to know, so answer me honestly. How are you?” My father would often sigh, take a deep breath and answer, “I’m not doing so good.” And then we would talk. Sometimes we talked for a very long time, other times the conversations were shorter. But each time, I would offer my dad my presence, I would listen, and I would share with him. I did not offer him platitudes, there was no purpose in them. He was in real pain, and he needed to have that pain acknowledged, to share his burden and to feel safe that his struggles would be met with care, with respect and with love. I’d like to believe that I was able to do that for him. That he carried with him the knowledge that I did not take lightly the darkness he felt surrounded him and the fears & worries that kept him up at night and clouded his days.

And now, here I am. It is just a little over two weeks since my father committed suicide. I am profoundly sad, and I am struggling with the very real & painful aftermath of how my father died.

People ask me, “How are you?” Some ask in passing, the obligatory words to the mourner. Some don’t bother asking at all. Their silence is deafening. Some ask & then, with the best of intentions, offer platitudes. “Don’t think about how your father died. Think only about the life he lived & the good times.” “You have to know that your father’s suicide had nothing at all to do with your family.” “You have to be strong for your mother, for your children.” And others ask, with hearts ready to receive my grief, my hurt and my sadness.

Here is the thing I’ve learned. So many people are uncomfortable with grief. They want to pretty it up, make you feel better and offer you a better and more hopeful way to look at your loss. It comes from a good place, at least most of the time. People who care about you, want to see you happy, smiling, embracing life. But, grief is a journey, it is a process. And the grief around suicide adds a painful, complex and heart-wrenching layer that, if you’ve not lived it (and I hope you never do) is truly beyond the realm of understanding.

I get up every day. I put one foot in front of the other. I busy myself with life, errands, things around the house. I take care of my children, go to appointments, prepare for our upcoming move. I eat, I go for a walk. And I grieve. And I grapple. And I miss my father. And I regret that I couldn’t do more to help him, that I didn’t see just how deep his pain went. I cry, I talk, I reflect. I reach out to support systems so that I can be around people who understand this particular kind of loss. And I simply allow myself to feel.

Grief isn’t easy. It isn’t pretty. It can’t be wished away. And no matter how hard we may try to bury it, it will find a way in. Grief is a journey, we simply must walk through it. The grief surrounding suicide does not come with a compass, there is no road map, and it can feel so very isolating and confusing. So each step forward feels more uncertain, unsure and at times, unsettling. But I walk, I breathe & I cry. I may stop and sit, perhaps to reflect, or perhaps because I feel so very tired. Sadness will leave you feeling that way.

But I believe in my heart that the only way to healing, is to journey through the grief. I do not do it on a timetable. I can’t. I won’t. I loved my father. I lost my father. My father committed suicide. And I am grieving.

So, if you ask me those three words, “How are you?” Ask with the intention of knowing, of listening, of simply being present. Ask knowing you have no answers, and that is okay. Ask with a willingness to simply sit in silence with me, or allow me to cry in your company. Ask in a way that honors my grief. And in that way, you help me to honor my father. Ask with the intention of truly knowing, or please… simply don’t ask at all.

How are you? Three little words. It is in the asking, that you can make all the difference to someone who is learning to live with such a deep & profound loss.

We can endure much more than we think we can; all human experience testifies to that. All we need to do is learn not to be afraid of pain. Grit your teeth and let it hurt. Don’t deny it, don’t be overwhelmed by it. It will not last forever. One day, the pain will be gone and you will still be there. – Rabbi Harold Kushner

Categories family, loss, Nourishing Self

Lighthouses & Loss

May 5, 2015 //

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“What does a lighthouse do? I ask myself. It never moves. It cannot hike up its rocky skirt and dash into the ocean to rescue the foundering ship. It cannot calm the waters or clear the shoals. It can only cast light into the darkness. It can only point the way. Yet, through one lighthouse, you guide many ships. Show this old lighthouse the way.”
― Lisa Wingate, The Prayer Box

My father had a love of lighthouses. For him, they symbolized stability & safety, a calming presence in the midst of the storm. In recent days, as my father battled with a deep depression & growing levels of anxiety, he described himself as a “ship without sails.” Unable, it seemed, to move himself forward, to reach a place where he felt grounded, safe and at peace.

It breaks my heart that my father felt so alone in his pain. So deeply immersed in darkness, he could not see the light & the love that surrounded him. We, his family, stood steadfast in the storm. We offered unconditional love, ongoing support and words of encouragement. We simply tried to hoist the sails, to conjure the winds and to help guide him lovingly to a place of wholeness.

My father took his own life. Six words that I never thought I would say. My- father- took- his- own- life. The enormity of that pain cannot be put into words. The grief is so complex. Yes, there is the suddenness of the loss, the knowledge that I didn’t get to say goodbye, to hold my father, to hug my father and to kiss him one last time. But there is a whole other layer, which leaves me feeling so very lost. Suicide does that. It leaves those of us left behind with so many questions, so much pain, and the desire to make sense of the senseless and to understand why a beloved husband, father & grandfather, with so much to live for, would choose to leave us. We are left to navigate through these murky waters, without a compass, searching for the light to guide us back to joy, to life and to a remembrance of happier times.

My father lost his battle with mental illness one week ago. But his is an illness we don’t often talk about. It is taboo, cloaked in shame & secrecy. Even my father felt it. He was ashamed at his own inability to pull himself up and out of the depths of darkness & despair.

But I cannot live in the shadows. Nor can I save my father, though I would give anything… anything to have another chance. So what can I do? I can tell his story. I can share his truth, our truth. Through my tears and my profound sense of loss, I can speak these words. My father was ill. Depression and anxiety plagued his mind, like a cancer. And when they took hold, they festered & they grew. They blinded my father to the light that surrounded him, to the glimmer of hope on the horizon, to the rays of sunshine that lay just beyond the clouds and to the candle in the lighthouse that sought to bring him home.

“There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world even though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for humankind.”
― Hannah Senesh

My father loved lighthouses. And though he is now gone from us, far too soon & before it was his time, perhaps in sharing his story, I can light the way for someone else, struggling at sea, feeling lost in life’s storms, floating along like a ship without sails. And if I can make even one person feel less alone & less ashamed, then the light my father carried within him, the divine spark, will continue to burn, guiding the way home for another lost soul.

Categories family, loss, mental health

Saying Goodbye To My Father

May 1, 2015 //

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I did not get to say goodbye to my father before he took his own life on Monday, April 20, 2015. The following are the words I shared at his funeral on Thursday, April 23, 2015. A daughter’s farewell to her dad, Lowell Jay Herman. May his memory be for an eternal & abiding blessing.

Many years ago my father used to love to do paint by numbers. He would look at that canvas, plain, white, devoid of color & life and slowly he would fill in those blank spaces. As he did more paintings, he grew comfortable adding his own personal touches, changing the hues, the shades envisioning in his own mind what he wanted to create.

In recent months, my father began to see things in darkened & muddled shades of gray. Searching for the clarity he would need to lift the clouds, to find the sun and to bask in the beauty, the color, the life & love that filled his world.

Today, we too stand in a shroud of darkness. We want answers, we want understanding, and we want one more moment, one more chance to say, “I love you.” To ask him to hold on just a little longer & to remind him that things would get better.

So many here know that my family & I were estranged for 6 years. It is a painful chapter in our history, but it was not the final footnote. We found our way to healing, to reconciliation and to wholeness. And we discovered that through all of the pain and sadness we endured, underneath it all was an abiding and unbroken love.

I never once took for granted the ability to pick up the phone and speak to my father. To share joyous news, or to seek comfort during darker days. To celebrate a simcha and to look ahead at all of the goodness we had in store.

In one of our final conversations, my father told me that though he would never have wished for what we endured, he did believe that in fact, it had somehow made us stronger. We loved each other with more openness, more understanding, more acceptance, and more compassion and with the knowledge that we were strongest in our broken places. My father told me in that conversation that in fact he saw me as more than a daughter, but truly as a friend.

And so today, my mother must say goodbye to her husband & soulmate, a man with whom she would have celebrated 50 years of marriage this June. My brother & I, alongside our spouses Jody & Fred, as much like children to him as his own, must say goodbye to our father & our friend. And our children, his 6 grandchildren, Yael, Leora & Noa, Justin, Casey & Carly, must say goodbye to the grandfather who loved them beyond measure and who felt such pride in the young women & the young man they had become. And our hearts ache with a sadness I cannot put words to.

Daddy-I promise you that we will not live in the darkness, though we must journey through it. We will reflect on the life you lived, the laughter you shared, the memories we made and the moments that make us smile. We will honor how you lived, as we grapple with how you died. And slowly, bit by bit and day by day—just as you did with the paint by numbers, we will fill in the colors. We will bask in the warm hues, the rich tones and the vibrant picture of the husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather, brother, family man & friend you were. And it is that picture we will carry with us for the rest of our days.

Goodbye daddy. I love you so very much and I will love you forever. I pray you are at peace now.

Categories family, loss

Autism Acceptance Because Awareness Isn’t Enough

April 2, 2015 //

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A reflection on this World Autism Acceptance Day–yes, you read it right. It is not Autism Awareness that we seek for our children, our friends, our loved ones living life on the autism spectrum. To be aware of someone’s existence, their gifts, their talents, their struggles, their needs, their strengths, their words or lack thereof is not enough. I am aware of many things–but to be aware does not mean that I act. It means that I see, that I know someone, some thing, some issue is in my presence–it’s passive–no, this autism mommy seeks acceptance–that which comes from actively trying to understand, engage & include. We have journeyed along this spectrum for 13 years now, knowingly at least, because of course the journey began long before we had a name or a diagnosis for what we were seeing. And in 13 years I’ve learned a lot-about autism, about advocacy, about tenacity, about courage and about the young woman who is my daughter. 13 years in and I know autism is fluid, some challenges lessen, others become less obvious, still others remain strong–but to be accepting of who my daughter is, I must be open to understanding her–fully, wholly & completely. I must continue to know how autism lives within her, so I can teach her to advocate for herself, find her way in this world, learn, grow and have every opportunity she deserves–but it isn’t enough–No, for that to happen you, her peers, her classmates, teachers, community members and those who will one day enter her life–need to know her for who she is, come to understand how autism impacts her, work to find ways to encourage & support her success, be a part of carving out a meaningful place for her in this society that centers around the “typical.” If you are simply “aware” of her, you are not engaged, committed, invested in all that she has been through, all that she is and all that she can one day become.
I want more than blue lights–I want more than awareness–I want to be a part of creating a society that can celebrate neurodiversity, that understands that an inability to speak, does not mean there are not words to share, that doesn’t think that the ultimate compliment I could receive as a parent is, “Wow, I’d never know she has autism.” Or, “Are you sure she has autism? She doesn’t seem autistic.” I’m not looking for her to “pass off” as anything other than who she is–and autism doesn’t look, act or think in any one specific way–no, it didn’t come in a one size fits all package–but you see, if we move beyond awareness to the true act of acceptance–we’d come to know that–and then, we can do so much more.

Categories Parenting, The Autism Journey

Mirror, Mirror…

February 21, 2015 //

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Dearest Daughter

When you look in the mirror, what is it that you see?

What image causes the quiet pain behind that radiant smile?

Growing up as a girl in this world isn’t easy is it?

The journey of self-acceptance & self-love seems riddled with pot holes & pitfalls, obstacles and road blocks.

How can a young woman like you grow to see herself as enough when the messages you are bombarded with seem to shout the polar opposite?

Not thin enough.

Not pretty enough.

Not fit enough.

Not popular enough.

I know your pain. You’ve shared it in moments of sadness. Entrusted me with the feelings masked behind the outgoing & effervescent persona that you show to the outside world. A persona that exudes the confidence, strong sense of self & security that you want so much to embody.

You’ve let me wipe your tears, hold you and tell you all that I see when I look at you. Perhaps I don’t say it often enough. I too can get fooled by that outer optimism and smile so, let me tell you again
what I see when I look at you, my darling daughter….

I see a smile that can light up a room. Even when a shroud of heaviness, sadness or despair lays itself over the shoulders of your friends, your family, or even the stranger-that smile, so simple, yet so powerful can lift away that shroud, even if only for a brief moment. It allows the light to seep in. What a gift that is.

I see your radiant blue eyes, and how they sparkle when you laugh. They are the windows into your soul. And yours is a soul so full of kindness, compassion and love. That is what draws people to you.

I see arms so strong that to be wrapped in their embrace is to know you are loved, cared for, supported. I have felt those hugs in my own moments of sadness, fear or worry. You my sweet girl, unable to see a hug exchanged in front of you, without wanting to be a part of it, have such power in those arms. You have arms that possess the strength to lift up another human being. You have arms that enable you to reach beyond yourself, stretching toward your dreams, unafraid to go beyond the familiar, the known, the safe.

Your legs, they root you in a life of meaning. They root you in your Jewish faith, in family, in community and in love. There is such strength in that. To be rooted is to know you belong, you have a place, you are loved and can love in return.

I see those long curly locks of yours, they flow and they bounce when you walk- and you know what my sweet girl, they are free—like your spirit. They dance in the wind, at times unable to be tamed to simply go in one single direction. Open, ready to be carried, to be lifted away toward a new adventure….

I see lips always ready to speak words of kindness, untainted by the bitterness of hate, envy and gossip. Ready to speak words that lift and nurture. You speak words of encouragement & support. Your words so often infused with optimism, with humor, with compassion and healing.

I look at you sweet daughter of mine, and I am in awe at the beautiful human being that you are. I pray one day, you will see her too, in all of her glory. She is flawed, she is imperfect, as are we all.

You carry the spark of the divine in you. You are B’tzelem Elohim (Bereshit 1:26), created in the image of God. In Jewish tradition we are taught, V’ahavta L’Reicha Kamocha (Leviticus 19:18) Love your neighbor as yourself. You who are so capable of loving the stranger, of finding their strengths in lieu of their flaws, their beauty in place of their imperfections, you who can gaze upon the stranger and seek out the best in them. It is my hope that you will learn to love yourself, as you love your neighbor.

And I want you to know, each and every day, that you are more than simply enough. You are, perhaps, one of the most beautiful human beings I will ever have the privilege of knowing. And I pray that one day, that is who you will see reflected back at you, when you gaze into the mirror.

“Love yourself unconditionally, just as you love those closest to you despite their faults.”
Les Brown

Categories family, Nourishing our Children, Parenting

Changing Places

February 18, 2015 //

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The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.
Alan Watts

Sometimes change is hard. In the coming and in the going, in the known and in the unknown. Sometimes change is just hard.

How is it that some days I awaken so full of excitement and anticipation and others I am overwhelmed, emotional and scared? How does my mind determine in which direction it will carry me that day? Some mornings seem filled with the promise, hope and joy of new adventure, yet others find the heaviness of leaving a little harder to bear. Where is the compass pointing today?

Life is full of hellos and goodbyes. It is full of beginnings and endings. We travel down the path immune to those things most days. The journey, the route so familiar and comfortable to us. But sometimes we arrive at a crossroads that remind us of their existence.

I find myself caught some days in the struggle between roots and wings. An emotional dance I do with myself. Who I am here. The people I love & who love me in return. The life I know, the community of which I am a part. And then I ask who will I be? Who will become a part of that family of friends? What will be my role in my new community, where will I fit and what will I ultimately choose to do with this new chapter of my life?

The minutia that comes with such change can be overwhelming. If it is true that life is indeed in the details, then we are immersed in them. Schools, doctors, housing all a part of the existence of a family. All once new, now so familiar, trusted perhaps and even if they are not, they are who & what we know. Each phone call, email and bit of research touched with the angst of starting over. Building a life there while still living here.

I have shared before one of my favorite quotes. All the art of living is a fine mingling of letting go and holding on (Havelock Ellis). In just a little over four months, we leave this place, our home in Roswell, Georgia. And we begin a new chapter in Boulder, Colorado. Change is hard, it simply is. I’ve come to accept that. It is hard to let go, and it is hard to hold on. So perhaps each day is a little bit of both. Prying a finger loose to reach forward while cherishing the roots from which I get to do that. Looking back at when this place was once the new & unknown. And trusting that the ebb and flow of human emotion can not always be named, understood or explained. Some days we are simply meant to feel what they bring.

So some days this move will fill me with excitement.
Some days it will be steeped in angst.
Some days I’ll cry for the friends I leave.
And others I’ll be joyful for the new relationships that will touch my life.
Some days I’ll get caught up in the details.
Some days I’ll simply relish the beautiful and broad landscape that lies ahead.
Some days I’ll count the days until we go & others I’ll ask the universe to slow down just a bit so I can relish the time we still have here.
Some days I’ll cry, just because I need to.
Some days I’ll smile, just because I want to.

And some days, when I grapple with holding on and letting go. I will simply take a deep breath, close my eyes and allow myself to experience it all and to feel every emotion that comes with this change. Because they are all a part of my story, they are all a part of me. And they all hold within them, on any given day, my truths. And I must always find a way to honor them.

Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard.
Dave Mustaine

Categories A Slice of Life, Change, family

The Pace of a Mended Heart

February 12, 2015 //

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…here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)”
― E.E. Cummings

Today marks two years since Noa received her pacemaker. And this week is Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Week. So, I thought to mark this day, and to honor the intentions of this week, I would share a post that I wrote on Facebook following our last visit to the pacemaker clinic.

Today I took our sweet (and sassy) baby girl (yes, she’s still my baby) Noa to visit the Pacemaker clinic. It remains surreal to me, a little over a year & a half after that grand mal seizure, that our daughter has this little device in her body at 11 & 1/2 years old–that little heart of hers, survived major open heart surgery as an infant–and then endured another trauma that alerted us to the fact that on it’s own–it simply can not function as it is supposed to. The doctor told me today that she is now 100 % dependent on the pacemaker–each time we have visited that number has gone up–until it can go no further–100% dependent. When they test the pacemaker, part of what they do is to stop it and watch her heart’s own rhythm–immediately Noa began missing beats. It is not an easy thing to have your child sit, fully present and aware, through conversations about how much she needs & depends on the pacemaker. How, without it, her heart does not work properly–those are moments that are hard for adults to process, let alone a child. My kid has a tough exterior, but when those moments come during the visit–the anxiety that raises her blood pressure, the tears that quietly stream down the side of her face–that exterior melts away and I see her fear. What more can I do than to reassure her, to hold her & to love her. The tests get completed, the conversations end, the wires come off–and slowly I help her shed the morning reminders of a broken heart–because hers is a heart so full of love, compassion, strength, joy, faith and so much resilience. Her heart bears scars-as does her body–but as we walk out the door of the hospital and return to the promise of the day that lies ahead–I tell her once again that we are strongest in the broken places-the places of healing…. and I know that we are profoundly grateful that, as hard as this journey has been at times, we live in a time where modern technology can save the life of our child–where doctors & nurses can fix & heal a broken heart. And so we journey forward–maybe with a little more sadness today for innocence lost–for what Noa has had to endure–but also with the knowledge that above all else–she has survived, she has thrived, she is here–and today, as every day with her is–today, is a gift!

God is closest to those with broken hearts.
– Jewish Proverb

Categories A Slice of Life, Congenital Heart Defects, Parenting

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