Remove the Cloak of Grief

Laughter Opens the Door

And Joy Returns

“Don’t be concerned about being disloyal to your pain

by being joyous.” ~ Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan

The first time it happened, I was confused—a stranger in an unknown land. I stepped off the plane of sorrow and into a foreign place, one where I didn’t know the language and was unfamiliar with the customs. But I knew that language at one time in my past. I had practiced that custom—often.

Where had I journeyed? Into the land of laughter, into the presence of joy.

Four weeks of soul-deadening grief had striped my defenses bare. My husband, my fourteen-year-old daughter, and I mourned with unceasing tears the death of our child, the death of her sister. It was fitting that even in South Florida, those November and December pre-solstice days were dark, not only in our psyches, but also in the days that had so little sunlight. That lack of light mirrored how we felt as we trudged through the short days and longer nights that signal the most profound grief.

Nowhere was laughter present. Nowhere did joy show its face . . . until one evening at the dinner table. My daughter Vee said or did something zany and laughter seized the three of us. It grabbed us by the collars and refused to let go until its joyous peals rang through the house and echoed from the walls that had been painted with sorrow.

Laughter erupted from deep within each of us, released from that which had bound it for weeks.

Tears of mirth trickled down our cheeks, our noses ran, and we shook with glee. When my laughter faded, it struck me that it was the first time I had experienced joy since Alexa died. I felt no guilt. Never before or since have I been so aware of laughter—so aware of joy.

I welcomed the joy as I might a new friend into my life. My grief wasn’t over; it never will be over, but that laughter opened the door and let joy return to my life.

Often, after profound loss, we take on the cloak of grief as if it’s our new responsibility to wear it for the rest of our lives. We fear that if our sorrow leaves, our love for the one we lost also will leave.

Joy cannot and will not diminish the love we have for those we now grieve. Our pain and loss are not nullified when we once again seek, find, and welcome joy into our lives.

The joy that returns is the same joy that our loved ones brought to us during their lives, or we wouldn’t grieve them. It is the same joy that leads us to live meaningful lives in site of loss—and sometimes even because of loss.

Laughter and joy bring light and even more love into our lives, and for that we should never grieve, but rather be grateful. Laughter and joy are the healing balms that mend our hearts.

In this holiday season and every season, remember to open yourself to joy, open yourself to laughter, and open yourself to love.

Ack What?

Ack What? Akrasia!

Americans often fritter away their time just like they use oil—as if we have an unlimited supply.

Akrasia is a fine “fritter-away” word. It’s the state of mind in which we act against our better judgment, through weakness of will. It’s also when we do something we want to do, all the while knowing we should be doing something else.

Akrasia stepped across the page I read earlier today. I wanted to read instead of tackle the “do-do” list. But more than that, I wanted to do the things I love that make me feel whole, healthy, alive: exercise, practice yoga, write, garden.

Like oil, my time is finite. Akrasia, step aside, I’m getting busy. How will you use your time today?

You can find the definition of akrasia here:

http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/akrasia

Just Desserts Leave a Bitter, Burning Taste

He Is Dead

Compassion:

Lost and Found Among the “Hurting”

I lost my compassion last week. I misplaced it at CNN.com, MSNBC.com, HuffingtonPost.com, Facebook.com, or Slate.com. My compassion disappeared as Ferguson was set afire in response to “Burn this bitch down.” The flames, looting, fists, and fury set my own psyche afire. Because I had watched the video of the store manager roughed up when he protested the theft of Cigarillos, I decided that the gunshots that rang out a short while later were just desserts. I pooh-poohed the “gentle giant” quote when I saw a man get shoved by someone who was for sure a giant, and for sure not “gentle.”

I was angry and I still am. I don’t know what happened the night in Ferguson when Michael Brown died. I don’t know what evidence the grand jury heard. I don’t think anyone knows for sure what took place, except two people: Michael Brown and Darren Wilson. Only one lives to tell his story.

I’m angry that Ferguson burned. I’m angry that racism continues. I’m angry that being a young black male is so dangerous. I’m angry that young black men are feared and accused far too often because of who they are: young black men. I’m angry that the societal pressures they endure reinforce and perpetuate so many negative stereotypes.

I was so angry last week. Of course, I was certain my anger was righteous. I felt the keen edge of crime and punishment and was judge and jury all on my own. I was disgusted by what I saw, what I read, what I heard.

In my anger, dismay, and disgust, I became someone “other” than my real self. Anger, righteous or not, indignation, righteous or not, does that. Being jury and judge and determining just desserts does that.

I maintained that anger, dismay, and disgust for several hours Monday and into Tuesday. Midday on Tuesday, at a tea shop in town, where I met some friends, I found what I had lost: my compassion. One woman teaches biology at a local college. Earlier that day, she deviated from her lesson plan and showed videos. She asked the students why she was showing videos (other than being the coolest teacher ever). She told them she knew they were hurting that Tuesday morning after the Ferguson decision, the Ferguson burning. They needed something to lighten their day. She didn’t specify for what reason they were hurting. She didn’t specify on which side of the decision any of them sat. She simply noted that they were hurting. She also wanted them to know that although the world can be quite dark at times, some really, nice, cool folks are doing creative, fun things, and they can, too.

She also shared with me that she knows a relative of someone who was murdered a few weeks ago in our area. Some have surmised that he was a drug dealer who was shot for owing money. The facts aren’t all in and the details of the crime aren’t known, but one thing is known: He is dead. Regardless of on what side the victim sat or on which side his relative sits, he’s dead and she’s hurting.

My missing compassion showed up when I heard “She’s hurting.” I realized I had forgotten something more important than Ferguson burning, the looting, the grand jury, or Officer Wilson’s claim that he acted in self-defense. I forgot about people hurting. I forgot that Michael Brown is dead. I forgot that his mother buried her son. I forgot that his father and stepfather buried their son. I forgot that parents, relatives, friends, teachers, neighbors were hurting. I forgot that they buried Michael Brown. I forgot that regardless of what happened on that night in Ferguson, it ended with a young black man bleeding and dead in the street.

Just desserts don’t mean a thing when that dessert leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth.

“They’re hurting.” “She’s hurting.”

Hearing those words erased the images of fires and broken glass, the words decrying the decision, the anger, and the despair.

A son, a relative, a friend, a student: He’s dead. And he is mourned because he was loved.

I have loved less-than-perfect people, and so have you. I have mourned less-than-perfect people, and so have you. When I lost my compassion for those few days, I also lost a bit of my humanity. I lost a bit of my heart.

I am grateful for the words that helped me find my compassion and my heart: “She’s hurting.” “They’re hurting.”

When people are hurting, rather than sit in judgment, rather than decry their actions, wouldn’t it be better for everyone if we could step up and do whatever we can to stop the pain, stop the hurting?

The following links are to some of the videos my friend showed post-Ferguson—to help ease the “hurting.”

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152253352393546&set=vb.225046513545&type=2&theater

http://www.ted.com/talks/theo_jansen_creates_new_creatures

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uT3SBzmDxGk

In Case of Attack, Don't Wrap It, Bag It

Baggies in the Bunk(er)

Post-Apocalyptic Hygiene—and Humor

“Don’t wrap it. Bag it . . . in Baggies.”

During the Cold War years, my classmates and I practiced duck-and-cover and evacuation drills in case of nuclear attack. Should one happen during school hours at our Jacksonville, Florida, elementary school, the plan was for us to walk to nearby railroad tracks and board trains for St. Augustine. There, we would shelter in Castillo de San Marco.

Each student had evacuation supplies to take with them on that walk. I remember only one item on the list: Baggies, which were a new product in the 1960s. The first plastic wrap bag on the market, Baggies meant brown-baggers were saved from the chore of peeling layers of wet wax paper from soggy sandwiches, pickles, fruit, and worse. All hail the baggie! We said goodbye to wilted, mushy lunches. Television commercials sang the praises of Baggies with the then-familiar jingle “Don’t wrap it. Bag it . . . in Baggies!” It became a stuck-in-your head sing-song like Frozen’s “Let It Go,” Alka-Seltzer’s “Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is,” or McDonald’s “You Deserve a Break Today.”

Mrs. Steffan, our no-nonsense teacher, stood at the front of the class and reviewed the disaster-preparedness supply list. One student raised his hand. “Why Baggies?” Glenn Gay asked.

She looked over her glasses at him, and steeled her eyes toward the class. “When you have to go to the bathroom, what do you think you’ll do if there aren’t any toilets?”

Glenn missed nary a beat: “Don’t wrap it. Bag it… in Baggies!”

Hilarity ensued. Joyous laughter filled the classroom. It was such a gift in the face of the fears we felt. Today, the memory continues to offer me a lighthearted memory of that time. Once safe from the threat, our supplies were sent home. I imagine many a child was relieved to use Baggies for their intended purpose.

* * * * *

If you are not worried about it getting “stuck in your head,” the original Baggies commercial can be viewed at the following YouTube link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IB3t9QzwZLU

Russian Missiles Would Have Annihilated Us

Cold War Wake-Up

It might be better to not know everything—to not be afraid

—be very afraid.

Demanding attention, distinctive, and daunting, the frightening blare echoed toward my room. This Baby Boomer’s dormant, yet ingrained, training made me leap into action. Air-raid sirens do that. I jumped out of bed, alert, but questioning, and ran into the living room. “What was that?”

I spied my son, who had slept on the sofa, waking and pressing a button on his phone. “Sorry. That was my alarm,” he said. Alarm, indeed. Shaken, but relieved, I walked away, practicing yet another skill from those Cold War years: trying to calm myself after the all-clear. In gratitude, I noted that I did not have to move away from the windows, crouch beneath furniture, huddle in the hallway, arms protecting my head. I did not have to “Duck and cover!”

Evacuating my family was not necessary. Eating food set aside for emergencies (hurricanes in my current life) would not be necessary. An air-raid shelter would not be our next destination.

Fears calming, I nonetheless continued thinking about those Cold War years of fear and instructions on how to avoid death and destruction. I also thought about the gullibility of adults to believe anything other than death and destruction would be certain should a nuclear attack occur. Concrete bunkers and fallout shelters in basements would have done little to nothing to keep anyone safe. Duck and cover, shield your eyes from the nuclear flash, food stored in cardboard boxes—nothing more than bunk!

Prevailing pundits of the day fed bunk to children and adults. Now-declassified photos, film, and information about the aftermath of the blasts at Hiroshima and Nagasaki (as well as other nuclear tests) have informed us that our civil defense preparations are as laughable as the final scene in Dr. Strangelove.

Not long ago, I watched Trinity and Beyond, a chilling documentary of the history of the atomic bomb, and was reminded of those years of fear, just as the early-morning air raid siren reminded me. As I discussed that era with a friend, I told him about the preparations we thought would help us survive an apocalypse. We considered the word bunker and its root: bunk. Bunk means nonsense. The bunkers we were advised to build and shelter within were bunk in the face of the total destruction of an atom bomb. Russian missiles poised in Cuba and aimed at military facilities in Jacksonville, Florida (where I lived), would have annihilated us.

These decades later, I know it’s all bunk, the shelters, the duck and cover drills, and shielding our eyes from flashes. Canned goods stored in car trunks would have fed no one: Those vehicles likely would have melted and become part of the asphalt roads on which they were parked.

As a child who was fearful about so many things, the threat of nuclear war was the worst fear tacked onto so many others. Already insecure, I felt some protection by participating in the drills and preparations for nuclear war. My family had a plan; our schools had a plan; we thought the government had a plan. That plan, like many others in society, allayed mass hysteria. Mass hysteria would have made any attack scenario unmanageable.

On reflection, perhaps it was better for us to not know the depth of the threat and its aftermath. When I view that knowledge with today’s perspective and with the certainty that we would have suffered complete destruction, I feel a sense of relief. It is probably best that I knew so little, that my parents and other adults knew so little. In some cases it’s best to not know everything, to not be afraid—to be very afraid. We were afraid enough.

* * * * *

Trinity and Beyond is a documentary containing declassified military documents and footage regarding the development and use of the atomic bomb. Warning: The footage and commentary are graphic and frightening at times. However, the educational value of the film is outstanding.

Cracked Grace: Compassion's Challenge

Cracked Grace

Compassion’s Challenge

Compassion is my challenge today.

I find it difficult to have compassion

For those who appear to have none

In their righteous indignation

And moral superiority.

Compassion means I look past

That indignation, moral ego, and judgment.

Instead, I see the heart that aches,

The wounds that aren’t healed.

Compassion brings me to the hearts of each of us

Broken, yearning, seeking.

With compassion,

I pave a path for all to walk with grace.

Got Swiss Cheese Holes in Your Heart?

Cracked Grace

Swiss Cheese Holes in My Heart

“Plants," they said.

"Fill your home with plants to clean the air.”

Searching for a cure for my child’s cancer,

We followed a strict diet regimen, changed our lifestyles,

And filled our home with plants.

No cure. Not with diets, plants, lifestyle changes

And surgery, radiation, and chemo.

I bought a Swiss Cheese Philodendron

At that time.

When I see it growing healthy and green,

I’m sometimes reminded of loss, of sorrow,

Of the Swiss Cheese Holes in my heart

Since the death of my child.

Other times, I’m reminded that throughout these years of loss,

I’ve begun to thrive in other ways I never imagined,

Sharing with others and holding them up when they, too,

Have Swiss Cheese Holes in their hearts.

I’m also reminded that I love Swiss Cheese

And that even in the worst of times,

I can make a sandwich from those

Swiss Cheese Holes in my heart.