From grief to memoir: My writing journey (part 1)
I knew I’d write a book as soon as my son died. It didn’t come to me, an idea in the night. It was something I just knew. And I knew it would be a book of hope. In the years prior to his death, I had discovered hope in the way a drowning person discovers a life raft, and I wasn’t prepared to leg go of it now. For the first two years of writing, I had no idea how I’d make the book hopeful, but I always knew I would. I was committed to writing my way, word by word, from tragedy to hope so I could share that with others.
There were times I almost gave up, and I did pack it in a few times, twice with some sincerity. I had absolutely no understanding of what a long, difficult, heart-rending, frustrating, humility-building, fulfilling, life-changing, love-filled process it would be…
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Wishing you a hope-filled new year
“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they said.
That first year, and second, I heard those heartfelt wishes from my family and friends, knowing they had the best of intentions. I’d smile and say, “Thanks, you too.” That’s all I could manage. I couldn’t even say the words “merry” or “happy” without choking on them.
As a newly grieving mom, those best wishes didn’t make me feel merry or happy. They made me feel unsupported and misunderstood. Invisible, even…
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When gnocchi carries the power to hurt and to heal
It took me almost five years to be able to eat gnocchi again; as much as I loved it, it made my heart sad to even see it on a menu. Sometimes, I avoided looking at the whole page that held the word “gnocchi” because I just couldn’t bear it. Other times, I was composed enough to quickly skip past the offending word, nestled as it was between pappardelle and radiatore. It wasn’t a huge loss, really. I rarely ordered gnocchi from a restaurant anyway. I never understood who would want a peasant’s potato pasta when there were duck or seafood options.
Of course, that was part of the appeal for my son, Tristan…
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When "not enough" is good enough
I’m a busy person. I do a lot of things. I even do a lot of things for other people, including a few for causes that are important to me, my community, and the world. And I always have. So why have I felt so damned lazy? Why have I told myself, it’s never enough?
At first, I thought it was because I was replaying an old soundtrack that I told myself years ago, when I was in an entirely different situation…
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And yet I find joy
The sun shines through a frenzy of cherry blossoms and long-naked trees are decked out in chartreuse leaf buds. I feel like I can breathe again. And I do, deeply. I breathe in the sunshine and it fills my heart with joy. I breathe out the long dark winter and create room for more sunshine and joy.
And yet I grieve.
This spring, I have a new kitten and a year-old goldendoodle pup. They’re hilarious!…
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Ten non-positive affirmations to ease the pain of grief
About eighteen months after my son died, I decided to try a yoga class. A chose a nice restorative stretch class; nothing energetic or taxing, just something to nurture my soul. Wrapped in the warmth of the room, surrounded by women each on their own path to wellness, feeling my breath and my body in a way I hadn’t for ages—it was exactly what I needed. Until I was resting in savasana at the end of class and the instructor (a bubbly young thing in her twenties) invited us to reach to sky and repeat after her, in a loud and confident voice, “I love my life!”
I almost gagged…
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My living grief
My grief is like a living purple heart tucked safely inside a treasure chest. The heart itself is made of the beautiful love I have for my son; my own fragile and shattered heart, torn by self-doubt and sorrow; and the pulsating power that is grief.
I keep it in a special hand-crafted treasure chest, custom-made to honour my grief, lined with the softest cream velvet. I don’t leave it unattended, but take it out frequently. Sometimes, we sit together peacefully without words, and sometimes we reminisce about happier times or have deep philosophical conversations in a futile effort to find meaning…
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Why my feel-good belief in the afterlife is grounded in science
I’ve always been open-minded. The continuation of Spirit; the connection of all things through a Universal energy; the afterlife—seems perfectly probable to me. But I grew up in a family that worshipped science and scorned anything “other worldly”, so it’s not a viewpoint I’ve shared much. Until now.
I choose to believe in life after death in part because of the overwhelming and often inexplicable anecdotal evidence, the personal experiences I’ve had since my son died (of which I’ve had plenty), and also because of a very sound, scientifically-proven reason: it’s good for me…
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How spiritual principles helped guide me in grief
I first heard about the “spiritual principles” when my son, Tristan, was active in Narcotics Anonymous (NA), learning to live in a way that granted him some peace in his daily life. We were both inspired by people who put these principles into practice and how—day after day, year after year, decade after decade—they became the foundation for a life very much worth celebrating. Despite the many challenges that some of these people faced.
Those spiritual principles are…
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