The Storm

California is finally getting the rain we need, and more. The storms have returned. And I am again in my season of storms. Three years ago today Jim and I walked into El Camino Hospital. He never came home. I am certainly not the same person who walked in. 

Grief, like a storm, is unpredictable. You think the storm has broken, the sun comes out for a respite, the puddles seep slowly into the saturated ground. a bird sings. A tree blossoms. And then the storm returns. Wind strips the blossoms from the tree. Rain pours from the sky. So it is with grief. After exhausting yourself with tears and sleepless nights filled with haunting memories, you wake and feel maybe there is hope. You have a good day, or even a great week. You notice birds singing and have hope that early blossoms signal Spring. Then the grief returns, memories flooding over the spillway that protects your heart. 

I woke this morning with memories of that day three years ago. I never dreamed I would be leaving the hospital alone. I replay the day in my mind.  I was at the bank when Jim called and said that Dr. K was admitting Jim to the hospital. I came home, thinking we were preparing for another round of what were becoming routine procedures. I had no idea it was just a calm before the biggest storm of my life.

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones...   

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”  ~ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on The Shore

As Murakami writes, this storm is inside me. I am certain it is not over. And it has changed me forever. It has make me stronger, more courageous and  more compassionate. I am more mindful and grateful. I cherish my relationships. I try to find joy in each day. And I dance in the rain.

It has GOT to get better than this.

New Year's Day brings mixed emotion, sadness about past loss, uncertainty of the unknown, hope for the future, and renewed resolutions. 32 years ago tomorrow, my friends +Marie Agosta and +Gary Stoy and I sat on a cliff where an artichoke field dropped off to the Pacific Ocean. We popped a bottle of champagne, and before the farmer chased us off, we toasted the new year with, "it's gotta be better than this" which became our mantra throughout the year.

  


Looking back, it did get better. Then worse. Then better, and so on. Life is always going to have its ups and downs, but it's what you make of these events that determine their impact on you.


Liz Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love wrote on her Facebook page today,

But see...here's the thing: They NEVER tell you what's coming. And even if you did see what was coming, you don't GET to dig a hole to hide in. Not while you're still lucky enough to be alive. 

What is coming shall come, and — as long as you live — you will have the enormous privilege and challenge of trying to figure out how to respond to destiny. 

Tomorrow, when you are gifted with a brand new year (and it IS a gift), nobody will sit you down and tell you what's going to happen in the next 12 months, and — as it unfolds — nobody will be able to tell you how to endure it, or how to enjoy it, or how to understand it.
That part will be up to you. 

Life will keep unfolding; you must keep manufacturing your own response. 

So yes, it will get better, and then it might get worse. I already know 2017 will come with its own special challenges, some personal, some global.  But I know, for me, I will not hashtag #fml but will use #17Blessings because it's all in how you manufacture your response. I choose to respond with gratitude, determination, compassion, resilience, hope and love. And love always wins.

Please speak his name

My friend +Peggy Wolf 's mother, Lorry Wolf, died at the age of 88, A few months later, Peggy shared with me something her sister had told her, She said that people die three deaths. The first is their physical death. The second is when they are "laid to rest" either lowered into the ground or, as in Jim's case, cremated. The third and final death is when no one speaks their name anymore. That was almost 9  years ago, but her words really stuck with me.

Recently I watched the movie Book of Life. It is a cute movie with a sweet message about facing your fears and being true to yourself. It also centers around of the celebration that is Dia de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. It is a time for remembering friends, family and ancestors. In the movie, in the afterlife the Day of the Dead is met with great joy, for they are being remembered. Victor Landa, who was raised in Mexico writes, 

In our tradition, people die three deaths. The first death is when our bodies cease to function; when our hearts no longer beat of their own accord, when our gaze no longer has depth or weight, when the space we occupy slowly loses its meaning.
The second death comes when the body is lowered into the ground, returned to mother earth, out of sight.
The third death, the most definitive death, is when there is no one left alive to remember us.

David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives, writes similarly, “There are three deaths. ... The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”

As Riley's imaginary friend Bing Bong tells Joy in Inside Out, "When Riley doesn't care about memories, they fade." The movie reminds us that when memories that are not accessed, they die. 

People sometime seem taken aback when I use Jim's name so casually and freely in conversation. What they don't know is that it is a comfort to me to say his name, and to hear other's speak it. I love hearing new stories about something Jim did or said, or how he is remembered by others. It makes me feel less alone, more connected.

So please, don't be afraid that by speaking Jim's name, you will remind me he's gone. For heaven's sake, I know that with every cell of my being and couldn't forget if I tried. When you speak of Jim, you keep him alive in your heart and mine.

Solstice

For as long as I have known about Winter Solstice, it has been my most favorite holiday. Yes, it is the shortest day, and longest night of the year. But in that darkness is held the promise of light and warmth. Summer is on it's way. The days are now getting longer. I imagine the first humans wondering why the days were getting shorter and shorter. Was time running out? Would their lives be plunged into eternal darkness? Think of the joy they had when the sun once again began to retake the day. Generations since have had simple faith that even in the darkest night, there was hope that the light would return. We now know the science behind the solstices. But for me that does not diminish the faith and hope that I feel in my darkest hours. The belief I must have...that joy and warmth and light will return.

The world keeps turning, and day always follows night.

After the cold, dark, winter, spring returns with cleansing rains and blossoms.

After fire appears to devastate the landscape, seeds released by the heat, burst forth with new, verdant life.

Yes, even after death, life begins again.

At first it might just be a smile, one day without tears. And then like a false spring, the darkness returns. But just as the days after winter solstice become longer, so do the periods where life without you seems possible.

Hope and energy slowly, sometimes falteringly return. The tiny hand of a child, reaching out to hold mine. The sunlight sparking like diamonds on the sea. The kind, knowing compassion of a stranger at the grocery store when I unexpectledly burst out crying. A long drive with the top down through the lush forest. 

I still miss you, Jim, and always will. The grief never leaves, but I learn to live with it. My grief has taught me compassion, patience, and I have a strength within me I never knew was there. The darkness in my heart fades, but still is there. But like the longest,darkest night, I know the light will return.

Perspective

Early this morning, before dawn, I laid down on the sand and faced the sky. The majesty and enormity of the heavens above, the millions of grains of sand beneath, the unrelenting, pounding surf, the immensity of love, all combined to remind me. They reminded me of my place in the universe. How can something so insignificant, one life, also be so incredibly important? Because we are all connected, man, woman, stars, sky, moon, waves, sand...we are all part of the same whole.

The grandeur of the wee hours reminded me of Jim, my loss, our love. Even though he is not part of this physical world, conservation of matter tells me he is still here, he is with me forever. He is part of the sand, the waves, the sky. I know he loved me more than this world. I am grateful that I loved him so much that I miss him this much. I believe our love is simply transformed. I like to think that I am growing, that I am taking the loss and love and somehow returning it, expanded, to the world around me. That the love we shared will shine though me, in compassion, empathy and yes, even joy.


As the moon shadows danced on the waves, the moon's shining face reminded me of hope. That even in the darkest night, we know dawn will come.