Tag: grieving

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Unknown Stories

“Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story. Because hers is where yours begin.” 

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

I’ve thought about my mom a lot today.

Sixty-six years ago she was in labor, waiting for me to be born. I was her first baby and I was not waiting for my due date. This individualized perception of time is a pattern she’d battle and one I’d follow my entire life.

It’s only been the last year or so I’ve given myself time to think about my mom from an adult point of view. It’s been eye opening and heart breaking to look back with the knowledge I have from my own life experiences which intermingle with my childhood memories.

I miss her.

I love you, Mom.

“I didn’t get to grow up and pull away from her and bitch about her with my friends and confront her about the things I’d wished she’d done differently and then get older and understand that she had done the best she could and realize that what she had done was pretty damn good and take her fully back into my arms again. Her death had obliterated that. It had obliterated me. It had cut me short at the very height of my youthful arrogance. It had forced me to instantly grow up and forgive her every motherly fault at the same time that it kept me forever a child, my life both ended and begun in that premature place where we’d left off. She was my mother, but I was motherless. I was trapped by her, but utterly alone. She would always be the empty bowl that no one could full. I’d have to fill it myself again and again and again.” 

― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

I am…

B…simply being. 

~Peace~  

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Little Moments

“It probably wouldn’t last. It never does. But it would come back around again. That’s how life works. And that’s why it’s important to treasure the peaceful times-so you can persevere through the other kind.” 

― Jean Ferris, Thrice Upon a Marigold

The past few months have been difficult.

Yesterday I found myself stuck in some tearful moments.

July 1, 2019, marked two months since I said good bye to my precious Ruby and three months since I said good bye to my little man, Duffy.

I was sad.

As the tears flowed,  I missed them both even more because that would have been the time when they’d worm their way close to me and find some goofy way to cheer me up. Just simply leaning against my leg or pulling at my shoe string would make me smile.

I miss them.

Every single day, I miss them.

Today, I sat and watched and laughed at the outlandish spirit of our Abby and thanked God for the strength of our twelve year old, Bud.

What I’m discovering is the empty place in my heart is pulling in all the little things I never would have noticed. I would have been too busy to sit and watch Abby race around the yard and Bud patiently waiting for her to “do her business.” Watching a puppy push their limits, learning how to climb and jump and trust you to always be there for them.

Retirement has given me the gift of time. My awareness of the magnitude of this blessing grows stronger daily.

Dear God, 

I thank you for the growth in the awareness of my many blessings.

I am grateful for the expanding gift of patience which allows me to take time to actually see the many layers my gifts often contain. 

God, thank you for the many loving souls surrounding me and the sweet memories of those who are with you now.  

I ask you to send your angels to comfort those who have also lost loved ones.  May they find solace in your love and continue to heal knowing they are never alone.  Amen.

Barbara Jo Burton Hibdon

I am…

B…simply being. 

~Peace be with you, my friends.~

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Resting

“He died that day because his body had served its purpose. His soul had done what it came to do, learned what it came to learn, and then was free to leave.” 

― Garth Stein, The Art of Racing in the Rain

It’s been especially quiet in Hibdonville today–the three of us are hanging close and resting.

Parts of yesterday are a blur but this orchid remains a powerful reminder of an important part of the day.

We’d been watching this flower start its blooming process for weeks. For days, this flower looked like it would explode. Early yesterday morning it did exactly that!

While I was marveling at the vibrant colors, my heart skipped a little beat. I knew at that moment Duffy, in typical Prince of Royal Court fashion, sent that burst of energy to us.

Duffy was telling Michael and I he was waiting for Ruby. It was time for us to get ready for a very different walk.

Duffy and Ruby had always waited for each other during our walks.  As we leashed everyone up, Duffy would be nipping at Ruby’s legs, trying to speed her up and Ruby would be waiting for Duffy at each and every corner because Duffy had only one walking speed–slow.

It was such warm and comforting memory on this dark and gloomy day. Sometimes God works in very subtle ways.

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” 

― Anne Lamott

I am…

B…simply being.

~Peace~

 

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Paw Prints

“People leave imprints on our lives, shaping who we become in much the same way that a symbol is pressed into the page of a book to tell you who it comes from. Dogs, however, leave paw prints on our lives and our souls, which are as unique as fingerprints in every way.” 

― Ashly Lorenzana   

It’s been a long week filled with moments of sadness intermixed with hours of numbness.

I’ve definitely been taking my little world for granted. The unexpected loss of our Duffy caught me off guard.

The house remains unnaturally quiet. I had not recognized what an instigator Duffy was or how much his whole spirit filled up a room. The void he left is immeasurable.

I have been surrounded by those who love me. I’ve been showered with kind words and deeds. I am humbled and grateful.

I have been reminded how important it is to be kind. I see there is no right or wrong when it comes to being kind and expressing sympathy. I know the most important thing is to just show up–in whatever way you can find to do so.

Our little house on the hill has lost its Prince. Across the land, smiles and tails are at half mast.

We are a hardy lot.

The remaining little pack is tight and exceptionally tolerant of each other right now. I think we feel the need to stay close–so we are doing just that.

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.” 

― Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

I am…

B…simply being.

~May God bless us all with peace.~

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Hugs

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” 

― Anne Lamott

What a beautiful time to be in Texas.

God was indeed generous when He created this state. Our heavy rainfall over the fall and winter months set the scene for some of the most amazing wildflowers.

Michael and I have been working very hard in our yard. I have to tell you, it is very hard for us to know what’s a weed and what’s a flower. I’m beginning to see that it really is a matter of taste. What I call a weed I discovered today Michael thought  was a great looking flower. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he probably wouldn’t be seeing many more of that particular type of flowers.

Another great thing about this time of year is it is the perfect temperature to have a fire in the evenings. Michael built a fire a couple of nights ago which gave us a chance to sit and watch for satellites while being hypnotized by the fire itself.

It was still light enough for a few pesky bugs when I noticed a small little butterfly skirt across the fire and land upon my lower chest. She rested there and extended her wings as if she were giving me a hug. Both of us saw her and commented on how we hoped she was okay and had not burned her wings in her flight over the open flame. She remained on my chest for a minute or two before she flew off and landed between the two of us. To us she looked like she was doing her own little self assessment. We watched her–and watched her–and watched a few minutes more. We were starting to wonder if she was okay when in one quick little bit of movement, she simply flew away.

I’m not positive  who came to give me that hug. The memory of it is so powerful I start to cry every time I see those little wings spread widely over my chest. Whoever it was, my gut tells me it was someone very very special.

A Prayer for Living Up to the Best in Our Souls

You have blessed me with many gifts, God, but I know it is my task to realize them. May I never underestimate my potential; may I never lose hope. May I find the strength to strive for better, the courage to be different, the energy to give all that I have to offer. Help me, God, to live up to all the goodness that resides within me. Fill me with the humility to learn from others and with the confidence to trust my own instincts. Thank You, God, for the power to grow. Amen.

Levy, Naomi. Talking to God: Personal Prayers for Times of Joy, Sadness, Struggle, and Celebration. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition. 

I am…

B…simply being.

~Peace~

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Coincidences

Oh, chere,” said Moma softly. “Dying isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s just the only thing I won’t live through.” 

― J.T. Geissinger, Burn for You

Sundays have always been family day.

When I was living in Iowa, it was the day my sisters came over to just be together. We’d play cards, drink beer, and wait for Sunday dinner.

After moving to Denver, Sundays became family phone call days. That was in the 80’s and long before cell phones. Our calls started after whatever the peak call time was so we could talk longer for less money. Because of that, there was not a lot of long conversations or sharing of memories.

Yesterday was Sunday and it remains my family call day. What a blessing to have cell phones. Thanks to that technology I can call anyone anytime and talk for any length of time.

For me–the saddest part of family call day is the fact there are very few names on my call list. So far I’ve yet to find a cell phone provider with a cell tower in Heaven.

Yesterday my conversation with my sister, Sue, took a very interesting turn. Sue began taking about some of her childhood memories–something she rarely shares.

One of the things she talked about was getting in trouble for eating the creamy filling out of the sandwich cookies. She went into great detail–mentioning how we had the kind with both chocolate and vanilla cookies in the same package. Neither one of us remembered who but one but one of us snatched the crinkly package out of the bread drawer and carried it out to the front porch to share.

We both had a very clear image of that bread drawer–probably because we were in and out of it often. This drawer had multiple purposes–it was the only way any of us could reach the counter which would put us in the position for exploring all the mysterious kitchen cabinets. Not hard to imagine how the repeated bouncing weight of three little sets of feet stressed the construction of those old wooden drawers. No wonder it never worked very well.

After devouring the filling each of us would match up our cookies and carefully place them back into the package. I can only imagine those crooked rows visible through the plastic package which is now covered with little oily fingerprints. We thought we were so smooth and in reality our craftiness was lacking on so many levels.

After sneaking the package back into place it did not take long before a very stern voice commanded us to the kitchen. I’d known for a long time that it was never a good sign when we were summoned by our full names!

It was one of the few occasions when Mom lost her temper. My sister said it was the only memory she had of Mom “patting” her bottom–a memory that surprised her.

I thought of our conversation a lot after we ended our call.

As I thought, I remembered we had the big bag of cookies because Grandma and Grandpa were coming to visit. Those cookies were what Mom planned to have with coffee that afternoon. I also remembered the later conversation I had with my Grandma when she asked if I understood why we were all punished for destroying the cookies. I hung my head and told her no. Honestly, I seriously thought that we had not done such a bad thing–the cookies were just fine in my little kid eyes. Without the creamy centers, they were perfect for dunking in their coffee! She listened to my kid logic but then shared with me a very important lesson. She told me it wasn’t the fact we’d ruined the cookies. What made our deed serious was the fact we’d lied.

Family stories like these have been playing back for both Sue and me for awhile now. Hearing them from Sue has given me a lot of comfort and has been the gentle push I’ve needed to finally open and begin to read Hope Edelman’s book, Motherless Daughters. I’ve attempted this so many times. Just thinking about it is tough.

I’m 65 years old and I’ve side stepped grieving for my Mother for 55 years. Ms. Edelman says you grieve when you feel secure enough to do so. Hearing my sister begin to share her stories was just the signal I needed.

Sometimes God does not work in such mysterious ways.

“Coincidences mean you’re on the right path.” 

― Simon Van Booy, Love Begins in Winter: Five Stories

I am…

B…simply being…

~Peace~

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Words

“Magic Words“

“Silly words cause trills 

because they’re ludicrous and funny.

Happy words paint endless smiles

and swallow troubles whole.

Thoughtful words are thus

because they make the day feel sunny.

But hurtful words are such

that pierce the heart and weigh the soul.” 

― Richelle E. Goodrich, Smile Anyway

There are times when I am haunted by the memory of words–simple, sarcastic, flippant combinations of words said without thought. Some were comments made when I was just a kid–others when I was older–when I thought I was an “adult.”

Some comments were in jest–a nonchalant observation that became a label I absorbed for the rest of my life because it comes from a person of power. One of those tapes replays like this:

Running to the door to greet my Dad as he comes home from work.

Me: “Dad, how was your work today? Do you want to see the picture I colored?”

Dad: “Oh. (Seconds pass as he turns the page this way and that way.) It looks like you color just like me–I never could stay in the lines.”

From that day on, I no longer liked to color. I tried to do adult coloring books–from the moment I picked up the colored pencil I feared not staying in the lines. My Dad’s approval was every thing to me. With one short comment, I believed I was not good enough. That feeling of unworthiness slowly oozed into other areas of my life.

Other comments were made by relatives trying to help me through the difficulties I was going through after my Mom died. I’d pulled back into myself. I did not understand how this could have really happened–moms do not die. Even though I was only ten years old–I was reminded I was the oldest. I needed to be strong for my sisters. I needed to set a good example. No one asked me how I was doing. My great-aunt who came to take care of Mom stayed to take care of us after Mom died. She told me she was worried about me. After awhile, I didn’t want to come home from school. The minute I walked through the door she’d ask me about my day. I’d shrug my shoulders and tell her it was okay. What else could I say? I didn’t think I could tell her what was really going on–I had to be strong. Eventually she tired of asking and I withdrew more. She began to just watch me–which felt like she didn’t trust me. We were both frustrated. An example of our conversations:

Aunt: ” I heard you talking with Ellen. Is everything okay?”

Me: “Ya. I’m okay.”

Aunt: “I heard you laughing. You sure you’re okay because it didn’t sound like your laugh. Were you forcing yourself to laugh?”

I took a minute to answer because she’d caught me off guard. Had she been eavesdropping on my conversations? Wow. She’d listened to me laugh? Had I forced my laugh? Did I remember how to laugh?

Me: “I think I need to take my hay fever medicine because my nose is all stuffy. That’s probably why my laugh sounds funny.”

Even today, unless I am surprised by something incredibly funny, I listen to  myself and wonder if whether my laugh is genuine or forced.

One of the most significant things said to me happened during the course of a very traumatic breakup. It had been a long and difficult time in our lives. We were young. We were both tired–tired of a lot of things. We’d both been hurt. There wasn’t much good about any of what was left. Our exchange of words remains a part of the baggage I carry today.

Me: “I am sorry. This is never going to work. It is time we both go our own way.”

Silence.

We are standing in the kitchen I loved in the house on the corner that was so special to me. I was losing it–literally and figuratively. Eventually he walked closer to me, leaned in, and said:

Him: “Well, I guess you’re right. It’s over. I gotta tell you, though, just so you know. I never thought you were good enough for me anyway.”

Words–like arrows to the heart.

Words can’t be weighed on a scale but they burden the soul. Words can be forgiven but forgetting them is difficult if not impossible. The stain left behind from that wound bleeds through during times of stress and self-doubt.

Words are wicked weapons. Use them carefully.

“Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” This is a lie. What we say matters. The unkind things we communicate can soil the best of relationships; even with the deepest of regrets…what lingers is a stain of hurt that may fade but will never truly go away. The wounding words we say are like feathers released in a harsh wind, once said; we will never get them back. ~Jason Versey” 

― Jason Versey, A Walk with Prudence

I am…

B…simply being…

God bless you.

~Peace~

Thank you, Thinking Art, for allowing me to share the image from your post on your Facebook page. 

 

 

 

 

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Marie and Mom

 

I love September. It is the beginning of Fall and a month filled with family birthdays.

September 3 was my Aunt Marie’s birthday–at least that is the day we all believe to be her birthday.

Happy birthday, Marie. As usual, I am a few days late–which would be no surprise to Marie. This is the only picture I have of her. Marie is on the left. Her sister, Eve, on the right. My sister, Susan, and her two kids, Matt and Ashley are in the foreground. Of all the pictures I have saved through the different moves, this is one of my most treasured.

Marie was my Mom’s aunt and a nurse who took care of everyone in the McDonald family. At that time, the McDonald family was huge and scattered all over the country. Marie told me that her brothers and sisters never saw each other unless someone was sick or dying. Until Mom got sick, I never knew Marie or any of the extended McDonald family existed.

Mom’s illness started out innocently. Well, at least in my kid’s memory, that’s what I thought. It began about a month after the birth and death of my brother, Richard. I remember the details of those few days so well–I wonder if I subconsciously knew something was wrong.

Things were quiet as Mom recovered from the C-section she had with my brother. It was late summer and school was getting ready to start. I was looking forward to fifth grade, wondering who would be my teacher and what kids would be in my class. I heard Mom call me into the living room. She asked me to come look at the back of her neck. Could I see and feel a lump? Even my nine-year old self could see and feel that large lump. As I told her, the look in her eyes was my first experience of seeing fear. The question she asked next caught me off guard. She asked if I would go with her to the doctor’s office instead of going to the pool. I said sure. Not that I was giving up my favorite thing.  My motivation was I knew the waiting room had good things to read. I’d skip the pool if I could read adult-like stories and the jokes I knew were in Reader’s Digest!

Looking back, my adult eyes see things so differently. She must have been so afraid of what was coming next. She had just gone through a very difficult pregnancy and lost her son. She was still grieving this loss. What will happen to her three young daughters?

Looking back, I wonder why she asked me to go to the doctor with her and not my Dad? Looking back…I question many things.

We went to see the good doctor that afternoon. The little room was warm and stuffy as we waited with several other people, many sharing their stories about why they were there. HIPPA was far in the future and people shared more than even a kid really wanted to know. I was immersed in the Reader’s Digest joke section as my Mom waited. Silently. I sat close to her and she would hold my hand. Being there with her made me feel important. When she held my hand, I knew it was going to be okay.

She went back alone when Florence, the office nurse, called her name. As we left the office, the look I had seen earlier was back even as she forced a smile. She and Dr. Dalby had made plans and they were starting immediately.

This was the early 60’s and there was not a lot of hope when the word cancer was used. Mom went to the hospital and the biopsy came back as cancer. At the request of Aunt Marie and the McDonald family, Dad took her to Mayo for a second opinion. Mayo doctors confirmed and their prognosis was poor. All doctors suggested radiation so she had her series of treatments. In one of my life’s many twists and turns, I would find myself years later in that same room. I  would be a student in a radiologic technology program, doing a radiation therapy rotation at the same place she had her treatments. I don’t remember a lot about that rotation except the sound of the lock on the door when the Cobalt 60 treatment started. That heavy clunk sound still haunts me. That must have made her feel very alone.

Around Christmas, she began having severe headaches. I, too, started having migraine headaches at the same time. Mine would eventually pass. Mom’s headaches got worse. The first part of January, she and Dad went to Mayo for a follow-up visit. The news from Mayo was not good. Her cancer had spread to her brain. Because this was so serious, Mom asked Marie to come be with her. Marie arrived as soon as she could get there so Dad could come home to the three of us. Her stay seemed like forever. Because Marie would be coming home with Mom, they discharged her early. On February 14th, the anniversary date of her marriage to Dad, she came home. In my romantic young girl mind, that was perfect.

Looking back, I think it was just more irony for my parents to bear.

Mom began radiation treatments to her brain. Radiation is brutal. Her previous treatments and her recent surgery and hospital stay had taken a huge toll on her. After a few sessions, the radiologists determined that it was too much for not enough benefit. The same group of radiologists I would later work for sent a letter stating that–a letter Dad shared with me one late winter afternoon. We had gone to the post office box to get the mail. He handed it to me after he read it. I am not sure why I reacted with the intensity I did. I don’t think I really believed that the doctors couldn’t/wouldn’t fix her. I could not believe that God would take my Mom. I screamed. I cried. I swung my fists out at him. This had to be a mistake. Slowly, I started asking questions and settling down. Only then, after I was calm, did he tell me I could not tell Mom I knew. He had shared this with me against the advice of everyone in the family. I had to act normal.

It was a secret. It was a very heavy one and one I am sure I did not pull off well.

Mom recovered some after stopping radiation. Marie had gone back to Omaha and Dad and I were trying to take care of things.  I was feeling very adult and trying hard but it was obvious we were in an impossible situation. We needed help. Once again, Marie came to the rescue. She arrived just before Mom’s birthday, April 22. Mom passed away August 30. Marie and Mom waged a very hard-fought battle.

Marie cared for mom and stayed on to help our family for nearly two years. I cannot begin to imagine what would have happened to my sisters and me if she had not stayed. Not that I made her life easy–I made it an absolute hell on earth. She was there through all my pre-teen rants and rages. Marie was the only one who understood a young girl grieves the loss of her mother in some strange ways. It must have been the love she had for my Mom that gave her the patience to always try to find some way to break through the shell I had constructed around myself. I was still trying to act and be normal. Through it all, she never gave up on me.

I never thanked her enough. Oh, I went through the motions and said the appropriate words. In my usual very immature adult fashion, I was so busy being busy, I could not and did not take the time to appreciate her. On my list of regrets, this is one of the biggest ones. Now, as an older and hopefully more mature adult, I do realize and understand all the sacrifices she made for all of us.

Thank you, Marie, for giving me the guidance and care that allowed me to be the person I am today. It took decades for me to grow enough to fully appreciate all you gave me. In all the time Marie spent with me, I never told her I loved her. I signed my hastily written cards and notes to her with love–but never said those words to her.

I now know that time stops for no one or for any reason. You can be angry and sad and hurt. Put yourself away long enough to tell those you love that you love them. Just do it.

I am…

B…simply being…

I love you.

Peace

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You Are Important

It’s Friday.

Even being part of the retired work force, it is still good to be looking into the beginning of the weekend.

Friday has become book review day. I have two books to talk about today–one very old, one new.

The first, the old one, is a little paperback that has been in my stack of very important things since I was young. You are Important, by Roy L. Smith, copyright, 1952. This book sat on my Mom’s bedside table while she battled her cancer–I suspect it had been part of her reading material for some time before that.

This is one of the few things I have of my Mom’s. The fact that I still have it is another miracle to me. It survived a lot of things over the years–long distance moves being the least of them.

Every now and then, I’d wonder why she had this book?

Did she not feel important?

I’ve tried to read it many times. It is not an easy assignment. The phrasing is wordy and cumbersome. The prayers are filled with words like thee, thou, didst,  and hadst.

Now, because I search for answers to questions I have about my life, what the author says is secondary to me. What has become important–what makes each dive into this book so intriguing and almost mysterious–are the passages highlighted by Mom.

One of the first highlighted passages is this one from Lessons on You, Lesson 6, titled, You are Not Peculiar:

The grief of a young mother is always very touching. Any grief is, for that matter. And we always do all in our power to soften the blows. But there are some disasters in this life which cannot be avoided, and there are some blows which cannot be softened. They come sooner or later to each of us. 

I have no way of knowing when she read and noted these words. My heart tells me she was searching for comfort after losing her newborn son and was grieving.

Each chapter ends with a short prayer. I’ve read the prayer at the end of this chapter several times over the years. I have yet to find much comfort in the words.

I wasn’t going to share it because it really bothered me. Then, I thought, if I was reading this I would want to see what I’d judged so critically. Here is that prayer:

Here is that prayer:

Lord Jesus, I am ashamed of the way I have rebelled against thee in the hour of my distress, thinking that thou hadst singled me out for unjust treatment. As I catch a glimpse of thee upon thy cross, which thou didst not deserve, I confess that many of the blows which have fallen upon me have been no more than my just deserts. Forgive me this day for whining.

The next book is one I just started and it seems to be almost the counterbalance for the very old book I just discussed.

Option B, written by Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant. This book is the work Sheryl and Adam did together after the sudden death of Sheryl’s husband, Dave.

What is makes this book stand out for me is the fact it addresses death and grieving by someone who just went through the experience. It addresses something we will all go through over the course of our lives–we will all lose someone we love. Regardless of who we are or what we do, there is no avoiding that.

It was comforting to me to know others struggle with grief as much as I.  It was helpful to read that Sheryl also struggled with the everyday stuff after her loss. To read how people avoided her because they did not know what to say to her or if they did say something, how unhelpful their words were to her. It’s another book that is taking me a long time to read. I am learning so much from all experiences and stories she shares.

I am..

B…simply being…

My wishes to you all for a very happy and safe weekend.

Stay aware and kind.

Love and peace, Y’all.

 

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Stories

Stories–we’ve all got ’em.

I find it interesting so many are writing about their lives–the list of memoirs grows daily. My guess is they’ve always been there–I’ve just never noticed–I wasn’t ready.

The spark igniting my “getting ready” came unexpectedly. I was watching the Today Show one morning–actually paying attention instead of attempting to do something I am not good at–multi-tasking. One of the segments this particular morning was about Prince Harry and his support of Lady Gaga. They’re teaming up to help battle mental illness–Lady Gaga had recently gone public with her mental health issues as Harry opened up about the challenges he’s faced due to the tragic death of his mother, Diana.

I was quickly pulled into his story. If someone like Harry had such difficulty with the depth of resources he had, I suddenly had a very big ally and mentor. If he could openly discuss his mistakes and challenges, I began to believe I could, also.

Everyone knows the story of Diana’s death. As I watched and listened, I began to think about my life. I questioned if even I knew my story. This was the moment I began to write my story. It has not easy nor will it won’t be fast. It’s a tale that’s been buried for very long time.

As if to spur me on, I heard this morning that Prince Harry and his brother, Prince Charles, have done a documentary about the life of the Mom. This is the first time they have both talked openly about her. Yes. My mentors continue to cheer me on.

Katey Sagal talked about loss and grieving in her book, Grace Notes. She lost a baby very late in pregnancy. A baby she’d named, Ruby. Katey eventually found solace by way of a Buddhist teaching about young loss. Her words soothed me, comforted me, and gave me so much insight into many of my own struggles. I’ll share:

“Her purpose had been fulfilled in the short time she was here. 

Which meant I’d have to believe she was here for a “Purpose”. 

That we all are. 

I believe that. 

I don’t know that we always know what that purpose is, but I do believe we all have a destiny to be fulfilled. 

…it was explained to me that powerful souls come in and out of this life quickly, because their work here is done. They have passed on the lesson they were meant to pass on. Nothing left for them to do. With that concept in mind, I asked different questions. I had a shift in perception. 

Ruby was fierce. She did so much in her short stay.

She taught me I could hold more than I’d ever imagined I could. Her loss had let me revisit all that I had lost before her. My mom, my dad, my young self…They all showed up, unfinished, undone. 

I grieved. 

All of them.

All the sudden passings that I’d stuffed away.

She let me feel my strength. 

She confirmed my faith in something greater than myself. That God of mine got redefined, and my partnership renewed.”

Oh the teachers show up in the damnedest places sometimes!

I am…

B…simply being…

Love y’all.

Peace

 

 

 

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