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Sunday, November 17, 2019

the only control you really have (and the bathtub that taught me a lesson)


poem by Rainer Maria Rilke



Friday was the 15th of the month.

November 2019. A date that leaves me stunned and breathless when I see it on my computer screen. 
As a mother, it’s a staggering mystery to me that I have been on this earth for 427 days without Patrick. Honestly my brain has no explanation for it. I do know there have been mystical changes inside my mother’s body that aren’t visible from the outside, and that the best cardiologist in the world can’t detect. But I know it. That my mother’s heart is no longer at home in my chest— and that it stopped beating normally once Patrick’s heartbeat could no longer be detected on this earth. 

It’s just a fact. I base it on the mysterious alchemy of a mother’s love. We feel it the instant we hold our infant to our chest. When we are flooded by a love as tender as the translucent wings of a butterfly and yet so powerful and steely, that it will smash through the boundaries of life and death.

These days I’ve made it my goal to understand the effects of trauma on our mind-body experience, mostly because I don’t think I was meant to survive the loss of my child and if I ever get through this, it seems important to figure out how I did it.



Now that the initial shock-trauma has been worn down by the starkness of Patrick’s absence, I do see that I’ve become that person Rilke described. 

I’m just trying to live my way into the answers of my unsolved questions.
Only my unsolved questions are not clouded in mystery like books written in a foreign tongue, because I am a mother who has lost a child and therefore my single question is as clear as the bluest sky.

How am I ever going to live the rest of my life without my son?
Without Patrick here? 

And why the f---  am I still here when he had so much more to offer the world?  Oh it’s not hyperbole. Believe me when I say that Patrick was so much more than Jim and I can ever hope to be. And we both feel the outrageousness of his loss on this world. 

Pema Chodron says that whether we realize it or not, we all live in a little bubble where we try to keep everything intact and predictable so things make sense to us. It makes us feel in control and god knows our ego loves that. 

She says that nothing can prepare you for that shocking moment when your “life-as-you-know-it, suddenly ends.”
And I know what she means.

I remember right after the accident, surviving seemed impossible.
It wasn’t exactly that I wanted to die, it was more like I couldn’t imagine waking up every day with this agonizing pain pulsating through my body like hot waves of anguish. It was a despair I had never experienced before. And I was stunned by it.
I think I mumbled out loud to whomever was near me at the time. 

Because this is another thing you do in the wake of devastating loss; you walk around blurting things out under your breath like, “I just can’t believe it.”

Only this time I said, “All those years I worked inside a session room.... And I never knew.” 

And what I was thinking about, was how I never realized when I heard someone tittering on the edge of suicide what they were actually feeling. I had empathy, oh yes. But not the shared kind, when you KNOW what someone’s going through because you’ve been inside that dark abyss yourself.

But now I get it.




Now I understand the magnitude of brokenness that obliterates you from the inside out; a pain so relentless that it can actually drive someone to consider death as an option. It’s not that someone wants to die. No. No. No. It’s not death they’re after. It’s that life can feel so unbearable that death actually appears in the distance as mirage of relief. Think about that for a moment. The next time you hear about someone taking their own life. It will instantly soften your heart.

I share these insights because they seem like little shifts of light on my grief journey. It’s a path that I’ve decided requires work if I’m going to survive it, so I journal and read books like THIS one and I’ve embraced the world of meditation and energetic healing which I believe is the path toward mind-body recovery.


And I notice it helps me to share some of my ah-ha moments here in the hopes that maybe you can relate a bit. 

Like the story about my plumber cracking my new bathtub.

If you’re kind enough to still be reading along. I’ll tell you the craziest story because it has a good ending. 




If you’re a regular here you know that I’m tackling my first home project after Patrick’s loss, a bathroom renovation that I’m leaving mostly to the professionals. 

Although I’ll do a few things like putting wood on the ceiling.
But really, I’m just coordinating it all.

I had ordered a soaker tub from Wayfair after a lot of deliberation, measurements and reading those reviews. The bummer was that this particular tub was going to take 2-3 weeks so I had to reschedule with my tile guy. And although I felt that old twinge of tenseness about letting go of my finish date, it’s getting easier since my life felt apart. 

So two weeks pass.

Finally, I receive the tub earlier than planned so I quickly juggled my installation date with the plumber who was about to go on vacation. Okay. I would wait until the Tub-Guru returned. 

Another week. 

Then my plumber returns from his vacation and comes to install the tub and discovers that the tub’s two holes aren’t lined up, a finding he says is “bizarre” but now he can’t guarantee his work and advises me to send it back. Which I did.

Fast forward through all the calls to Wayfair who ended up being great about trying to get the new tub on the freight truck before the typical 2-3 weeks. At this point my tile guy had to remove me indefinitely from his schedule because the tub had to be installed first.

Finally my second tub arrives! Wooohooo!
And when we examine it everything looks good. My over-booked plumber is at my house with his co-worker and everything seems to be going well (fingers crossed) when my plumber calls me to the bathroom.


He has something to show me, he says. Mind you, this is supposed to be the head plumber at a reputable company, the Tub Installation-Guru. Right?
When I kneel down at the side of the tub which is now inside my bathroom, in the right location (hallelujah) my plumber points to a crack at the edge of this tub that he accidently caused because he didn’t see a nail jutting out of the floor.



I admit. I was speechless. Tub #2 was unusable.

Of course, he apologized.

He would talk to his boss and arrange a new tub. But in my head, I was thinking about the 2-3 weeks delay again. The sheer headache of it all. And for the next 20 minutes I could feel the heavy silence as the plumbers removed the bathtub and all their tools. Up and down our stairs.

The entire time I could sense that this plumber felt really bad. 
At this point it was one of those moments when the question becomes, are my feelings of sheer frustration going to override this plumber’s feelings of guilt?
Suddenly, I took a deep breath and I stopped him at the front door and I told him a few things. I said that I knew he was good at his job and that I knew this was a rare fluke and that in the scheme of things it really wasn’t a big thing. I told him about Patrick and how it puts everything in perspective and I reassured him, 

“Hey, it will all work out. “

And he looked so relieved. 

In the next few days Kayla from his plumbing company found out they couldn’t get another Wayfair tub in less than 2 weeks. Bad news. But they found a new tub that could be rushed the next day. Good news. So, after more reviews and homework, I approved it, letting go of the Wayfair tub. Although I actually found out that the new tub was a better quality one, which felt like a little wink from the Universe. 

OK. Finally. After all the typical re-scheduling issues to get this plumber back we set a date for my tub #3 to be installed.

I called the tile guy back. My tile was rescheduled. Yayyy.
Drum-roll please.
Friday comes. And I stay home and work from my living room waiting for my plumber to arrive when I look down at my cell phone and see the plumbing company calling me. Gulp.
I pick up the call and I hear Kayla—the sweet office rep—on the other end. And the first thing I notice is that her voice is shaking and she immediately blurts out how sorry she was but the Tub-Guru had called in sick, something that apparently “never happens.”


I won’t go into the details of our conversation because my entire focus was on her voice.

In that split second I realized how much this young woman had dreaded calling me. I thought about her morning in the office when she realized my plumber had called in sick. And how uncomfortable she must have been calling me to deliver this latest bad news. I even remembered on a prior call, her joking that she knew my phone number by heart and how everyone at their small company felt so bad about my situation.



But all this happened inside my head in a flick of second and the next thing I heard was my voice interrupting her awkward apologies.

I said it louder than usual because she was still talking.

 “Kayla. Everyone is doing the best they can. It's ok. Let’s just re-schedule it for Monday.”

Right then I could hear a pin drop. And then her long exhale of relief.




Elizabeth Gilbert said on a podcast recently that there’s nothing more we hate than feeling powerlessness. But there’s THAT point when you have done all you can and you reach the end of your power. And at that instant, there’s something sacred and beautiful about surrendering. 

That’s when you realize that all you can be is Love. 

That’s what happened to me in this three-minute conversation with this young, nervous receptionist. Once again I was being taught a lesson about letting go of my attachments….in this case, to some vision in my head about time and scheduling and my version of what I wanted to happen.

Only I’m not a quick learner friends. Because my first reaction is to hold on tight to what I want. Insist on my way. And when I don’t get it, my ego can’t stop asking why.


Why? Why? Why?



Why am I still here when my big, beautiful, spirited son Patrick is not?


I don’t know. Maybe Rilke is correct and someday I’ll live my way into the answers I want. 

In the meantime, I’ve learned that when your life gets cracked wide open from traumatic loss, you begin to see things as they really are. And when things are falling apart around you, or when life isn’t unfolding as you plan, and you look at God from down on your knees and yell, 
“Really Lord? How much more can I give up and still survive?
You get your answers in the little stories that happen in your day.

It’s a silly incident with my bathtub. But there was life-lesson in it that felt oddly empowering. 

As a woman who has spent her life as a self-confessed control freak, a take-charger and a worrier. And as a mother who is suffering from the worst loss you can ever experience, this is what the shaky voice of a young receptionist reminded me:

The only control we ever really have, is how we choose to react in each situation.

And we all get the chance to choose Kindness.


Everything else is just an illusion.




P.S the tub finally got installed!

xoxo
Leslie

Friday, November 8, 2019

Well, it finally happened!




My dear amazing readers.
Because you've been with me from the beginning... 
Of course I would include you all. 



I also want to take a minute to tell you that I read each and every comment you leave here and some days I'm convinced I'm only standing because of all the prayers and love you have so kindly sent my way.


Thank you friends, from the bottom of my heart.




And I also want to express a special thank you to Chanel (pictured here with Patrick) who has been such an incredible help for Jim and me. 
Thank-goodness she took over the Live Like Patrick FB page and made sure it finally got published.




xoxo
Leslie










Thursday, November 7, 2019

Setting a Thanksgiving table with beauty and meaning


This past weekend Jim and I worked on the welcome message for Patrick's memorial Facebook page and I don't need to tell you how emotionally draining that was. I used to think that the most surreal and gut-wrenching thing I would ever do in my life was writing my child's obituary but it turns out when you're a grieving parent, that single pain-crazed obituary experience is only the beginning.

The thing is, even though I felt on the edge of tears that entire day I kept my feelings under tight control. Something that's not easy for me.

But we had dinner plans later in Long Beach with our dearest friends John and Kirsten and their son John, who went to kindergarten with Patrick. And I've figured out that if I can go three days without crying than my eyes look normal and I can dress up and at least feel sorta normal.

Which is actually what happened. It ended up being such a beautiful night and afterwards I felt replenished for a bit. Do you have people in your life that you've known for so long, that you can't remember a time when you didn't know them? Well that's how it is with them.

Ok. So you're probably wondering. Why am I telling you all this when you just stopped by to see a damn Thanksgiving table? 



Well. I wanted you to know that even though my heart is miles away from being able to host a Thanksgiving dinner anytime soon, I said "Yes" to Chloe when she asked me to join a group of bloggers showing Thanksgiving tablescapes, because if there's one thing you should do when you're going through a difficult time, it's find those moments that give you relief. And for me, that happens when I'm being creative. 


By the way, I'm showing you the world's easiest centerpiece. Mums stuck in-between pumpkins




This one took more time. First I filled this entire urn with green floral foam that I soaked. Then I started filling it up white roses, white hydrangeas, a few white chrysanthemums and pink berries. All courtesy of Trader Joes. 





After it was almost full, I clipped some ivy from the front yard and plugged the empty spaces with it. Added some cream and chocolate feathers into a few more gaps for some texture and tucked moss along the edge of the urn for a more finished look. 

I know this doesn't look like a typical Thanksgiving centerpiece, but I kept coming back to white, even when I tried to put those red Mums into it. 

I wish you could see this in person. It really is pretty. And when outside, the white roses have a buttery hue.




To be perfectly honest I've never-ever had a Thanksgiving dinner outside but since today was 74 degrees in Huntington Beach and since my dining room only gets natural light for short slivers of time during Fall, and since I didn't want to worry about taking photos in a dark dining room...well,

 welcome to my outdoor Thanksgiving dinner party.



These napkins are actually tan and white check but outdoors they look lighter. From Pottery Barn last season.



I have Thanksgiving dinnerware with the turkey on the plates but I prefer white plates these days. Maybe it's the memories that hurt and one day I'll feel different about bringing those dishes back out. Hard to know.

Instead of name cards which I've always enjoyed making, I thought I would try to do something different for this post and show you a sweet little gift for guests at each setting. 


thanksgiving a few years ago 

Rather than the typical "gratitude" or "gathering" word that is so often attached with Thanksgiving I decided to fill up jars with fresh thyme wrapped in parchment paper. And on each jar is the message I think we all need to remember: "Time is a gift" which is of course a play on the word thyme. 

I used both words to show you.


When you really think about it, isn't this the real meaning behind all the popular gathering signs and gratitude place cards? It's bringing awareness to this simple truth.





 Not only are these so sweet looking with that parchment paper but they smell delicious. 




I used vintage glasses with pretty etching for my votive candles, courtesy of a thrift store. But if I'd used something larger I would have added coffee beans at the bottom. Maybe a caramel flavored coffee bean would smell delish.

Here's my latest little addition to my tables. Miniature succulents...just spray the plastic containers metallic gold and place them around your cheese platter and they're guaranteed to make you smile.



Thank you for visiting today. Hopefully there's a few ideas you can use except the one about stuffing your feelings. 

I do want you to know this one truth. After trying to ignore my achy sadness that day, I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache, even after a wonderful dinner with friends. And this made total sense to me. 

Did you know Gestalt therapists believe headaches are actually pent-up tears? It's the idea that our bodies will always express what we're not saying. I've found this to be true for me, so please don't minimize your feelings. Whatever you're feeling, --especially if it's uncomfortable---it absolutely matters. And it's important for our entire health that we prioritize our inner life even more than all this external stuff. 




Good-bye for now friends. Be sure to check out my friends below for some more beautiful inspiration for your Thanksgiving table.

love to you all,
Leslie


Monday

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I'm also sharing this post with the friends at Imparting Grace.









Sunday, October 20, 2019

a Halloween tablescape with a mystery book theme




I couldn't resist tackling at least one Halloween post this year, especially when Liz Vice gave me a sweet shout-out on Facebook, about all my old Halloween parties of yesteryear. 
And it made me smile.  
Once upon a time I used to be a Halloween maniac during this season. And since I woke up one day recently-- with a rare feeling of normalness in my chest, I decided to let my creative juices get going. 

One little post that only took some simple grocery store flowers.


I hope you enjoy it.


A mystery-book themed dinner party with a library card invitation :


made here



With books being the center of attention at this table, I envision wonderful conversations about the latest books being read by fellow guests. And the best part of book conversations is how a simple topic about someone's favorite author or book can result in so many surprising facts about fellow readers.




One of my most sentimental buys I've ever gotten from a used bookstore was a big box filled with old Nancy Drew books for twenty bucks. I was so excited. As a little girl I loved these mysteries and I still remember that first book I carried to the librarian to check out: The Secret of the Old Clock.

oooooohh I couldn't wait!



Personally I love the idea of incorporating books into a table setting and especially for Halloween, mystery books are perfect choice. I've seen Joanna set tables with books opened and placed underneath each dinner plate for a creative touch, but I prefer opening them up on top the plate so the words can be seen.

One creative idea for a place card is to write each name on a bookmark and display it inside the open book.


Or since it's a mystery theme you might place a magnifying glass over each name card.



Over time I've collected brass candlesticks and vases from my thrift store visits and there's nothing better for a Halloween table than old, scruffy-looking brass contrasted with black candles.


I'm also a believer that you can never have too many candles when it comes to creating atmosphere. And whenever I buy the lemon curd from Trader Joes I save the jars to use for my votive candles. I recommend adding a layer of sand or water at the bottom of the jar if I plan on letting them burn for hours, so you don't end up with dried, thick wax on the glass




For this centerpiece I used a piece of green floral foam wedged inside and just filled it with red roses, carnations, fresh eucalyptus, and lime green hydrangeas.



Olive branches from my tree and fresh eucalyptus are down the middle of the table. For continuity I use the same hydrangeas from the garden to tuck into the arrangement in the vase and around the candles..




These mix and match napkins came from TJMaxx.


I really like this gold silverware set from Target.





Roses from an old arrangement I finally threw out found a perfect home.


Living in Southern California means you can still have dinners outside in October...which is nice.


Who knows?
Maybe one of these days I'll throw a big mystery book dinner party and when I do, you'll be on my guest list!







xo
Leslie




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Tuesday, October 15, 2019

How to take care of yourself from the inside out; 3 things



photo: unsplash

Author Megan Devine says that whenever she meets a bereaved person within the first two years of their loss, she considers their pain as fresh as if it just happened. 

Which felt so amazing to read because it's exactly how I feel. All around me the normal world seems to be hurling along but in my mother’s heart, I am only moments away from that shocking day. Researchers tell us that this is what traumatic loss does, it distorts ordinary Time. 

One moment I’m driving down a sunny, neighborhood street on my way to our office. And BAM. The next second I'm being flooded with loud, crushing emotions. And there's Patrick. Crystal-clear and smiling right in front of me, so close I can reach out and touch his dark, wavy hair. He’s so real. And then I hear his voice--deep and teasing -when he came through the front door yesterday calling, “Hey Mama, what’s up?” Only yesterday was really 13 months ago on the actual calendar and suddenly the past is happening right in front of me while I'm blinking in the white sunlight, and my confusion is blurring into shock while my entire future vanishes in one explosive second. 

If this sounds like some scene out of The Matrix when Neo gets yanked into some parallel world he never knew existed, well...that's how grieving feels. It's so f--king surreal.

Robert Stolorow, a psychoanalyst who himself woke up to find his young wife dead in their bed only four months after her cancer diagnosis, calls these moments that blur the past with the present--  "port-keys" a  term he borrowed from Harry Potter. 

And like Harry Potter, a grieving mother is never far away from her original traumatic loss. I was once standing in the men's department holding socks when I felt a wave of memories and feelings so powerful that I literally had to sit down inside a Target dressing room, I was so disoriented. 

Our Public Face



But here's my point. 

Whatever our emotional struggles are, we learn to carry our painful wounds through our busy lives because no matter how much we're hurting, we can't stop living. And this means that there's so much happening behind our public face that others just can't see.



This is why I can’t blame my neighbor for her insensitivity. Maybe that’s why that entire bizarre conversation happened, because I waved and smiled and looked perfectly fine on the outside, which is the whole point of putting on your public face.

It's helpful to know that there are some people who have no ability to see things unless it’s with their eyes. And since I didn't show my pain on my face, my neighbor didn't consider that my heart had been broken into a million jagged pieces only months ago and that anytime I think of Patrick I still feel a stab into my chest.

She didn’t know that my cardiologist told me there really is something called broken-hearted syndrome that can cause a heart attack and in rare cases, even death. “That’s why your doctor wanted these tests,” he had said on that Spring day when I cried in his office.

This is the paradox of being really good at masking your feelings. No one can be faulted for not ‘seeing’ your sadness or anger or whatever feelings you have tucked inside. 
And I realize this. 
That when you see me arranging white pumpkins around my front door or hear me laughing with the boy scouts in front of the grocery store, who are selling me coupons that I’ll never use, you would never suspect that it's been 13 agonizing months since we lost Patrick--- and I'm still trying to figure out how I'm ever going to survive.


how our public face helps and hurts us

I had just taken the garbage out and was walking to my front door when the sweet, soft-spoken woman pulled over on the side of the street to ask me how Patrick’s one-year "angel-versary" had gone. She knew that his friends had come into town and although she was being pleasant, I kept my reply simple, not wanting to dive into a heavy conversation on the edge of my lawn. 

Over the summer I had become aware of an inner tiredness that happens when I have to put on my public face too much. It takes enormous energy when you’re grieving and it’s important to recognize the triggers that deplete you. 

By late summer I began to notice myself pulling away from Instagram and blogging as a way of reserving my energy. Mostly because these first-time-without-Patrick birthdays, anniversaries and holidays have felt like I'm balancing in midair on a shaky wire, knowing a windstorm is coming.

Prior to losing Patrick, sharing was never an issue to me. I’ve always had nice, clear boundaries about knowing who and when to share my private life. But now the littlest things can take so much energy.

I think most of us have gut instincts about who we want to entrust with our most fragile feelings. 

I wanted to keep this conversation short. And it actually felt finished when the topic shifted and I was suddenly listening to a long, elaborate story about a woman I had never met. 

I won’t go into the details, but for you to understand my reaction I do need to mention that the entire story I was hearing had to do with another mother who also had two sons and who also lost her eldest son unexpectedly and suddenly, like me. The only difference was that her son had died as a result of “some rare complication from pneumonia.”

As you can imagine, I was feeling queasy about where this story was headed and I was confused about the bizarre detour our brief talk had taken.

I didn’t know this mother and it felt like gossip.

Yet there was no break in my neighbor's speech. She was so engrossed in her story-telling she couldn't pick-up on my discomfort.

And my friend. When she lost her son, she couldn’t even get out of bed. And we were all so worried about her! And then we heard she was taking pills because she couldn’t sleep and the next thing we heard she wasn’t getting up-at-all!! And then she was getting upset at her husband. Because her husband wasn’t… you know, expressing his grief like her, But he had to keep working. You know. He has a really stressful job. And they had another son who was a lot younger…



And the details kept coming about this poor devastated mother.

I know what you’re thinking.

 You’re wondering why I didn’t just end the conversation. But have you ever been listening politely and trying to find that ‘right’ moment to end a conversation that is going at full-blown speed?

As the words spilled out of her mouth, I caught myself thinking of my own struggle. Mornings are the hardest, especially in that blurry state between sleep and waking when I open my eyes, and instantly feel a fifty pound weight on my heart. Sometimes I’ll wake up because my chest is hurting so much and I know it’s time to meditate and regain control of my thoughts.

Jim tells me he sometimes hears me whisper in my sleep. “Oh my god. Oh my god...”  Or sometimes when I’m waking up, he hears me say, “Oh-my-heart, it hurts so much.” 

Occasionally, when I'm like this, I’ll feel Jim place his hand on my back and I know he’s trying to connect me with reality. Maybe he thinks I’m having a nightmare. But in those moments when I concentrate on his hand, it does help. At least it gives me a distraction to focus on. 

As I was standing on my driveway hearing about this other broken-hearted mother who needed medication for sleep and couldn’t get out of bed, I did wonder. Why is this neighbor—who I know as a sweet woman-- telling me this story?  

Not only that, but the longer I stood there the more this entire story was sounding like second-hand account from a second hand account. 

Seconds later, she delivered her crescendo ending:
“And then. One morning. She just never wakes up.”

Silence.

And because my neighbor must have seen my face, she explains,
“Yep. Her youngest son went to go see her in her room and she was dead. Died of a broken heart!”

Honestly, I was flabbergasted. I think I even said, 
This is the end of your story?!




Taking care of yourself from the inside out:
 3 things


1. Don't run away your hard feelings

That evening, on the way to our monthly grief group I cried for a bit when I told Jim about this conversation.
Maybe I'll die too. I had blurted out. And when he tried to comfort me with kindness and logic I answered back. Why not me? After all, I feel that same excruciating pain in my heart. I have the same longing to be with my son. How do you know one morning you won't find me dead?

And there it was. Maybe the most gut-wrenching part of losing a child is the way it shatters your view of the world. Your cozy belief that everything will work out. That you can rely on the odds. Feel relief in your heart because of all those prayers you said on your Rosary.

When something so shockingly unimaginable happens, all those guardrails vanish. There is Nothing that can’t happen. 

That's why this conversation stayed with me for so long and evoked all kinds of uncomfortable feelings. Fears and sorrow for this stranger, a woman--whom I felt oddly connected to--and for my own pain that I needed to examine and allow myself to feel. It doesn't happen instantly, but making sense of your emotions delivers an ocean of relief.

2. Have others you can be Real with

Years ago when I worked inside a session room, a beautiful young woman who happened to be seriously bulimic burst into the room in tears. I had never seen her so agitated. She explained that one of her co-workers had complimented her, asking if she had lost weight recently. Although her looks were an important source of her self-worth, her personal life at that time was in utter chaos, with her binging and purging dominating her life. But no one at her office would’ve suspected this high functioning law student was by night, in crisis.  It turns out it was the timing of this single compliment –  when her shame was torturing her, that felt like a fatal jab in her smiley façade. A pivotal moment in her recovery.

Why does this session stand out in my memory after all these years?

The answer is simple. Even back then I realized I was watching my patient discover a basic truth that I had struggled with in my own life. 




Living out the best version of ourselves means living a life that  expresses our truest self. This means knowing ourselves deeply---including all our messy, uncomfortable feelings.

It was luck that I had my monthly grief group after that conversation with my neighbor and though I didn’t plan it, this topic was part of a larger discussion about the dumb things others say to grieving people. And yes, I felt touched by the outrage being expressed. And later I had a session with my therapist which also made me feel good. 

Having your feelings acknowledged by a supportive person feels like a deep sigh of letting go. You stop clenching that anger almost immediately.

And you realize that this is how to take care of your inner self, the part of you that’s the source of all your joy and wisdom. 
I hope you see that this post isn’t about criticizing anyone. My neighbor is like the nice person in your life who occasionally says something insensitive, even rude without realizing it.  
It’s going to happen, friends.

The key is how we take care of ourselves.

3.  Beware of the smiley façade

Honestly. I encourage you to drop your “mask” as much as possible. In my private life I aspire to have as little gap as possible between what I show the world and what I’m really feeling because at my age I finally get it.

No one can make you feel anything without your consent. 

Think about this. Because once you start living out this truth, you stop being so focused on what other people are thinking of you. Whether you feel embarrassed or inferior is really your choice. 
I don’t know... friends. But maybe experiencing the worst devastation of my life has helped me see this.

And I’m not saying it’s easy, believe me. When I hit the ‘publish’ button for this post I’ll feel that surge of queasiness. It's SO uncomfortable. I know there are people wondering how I can share so many intimate details about my grieving. And maybe I’ll be whispered about. 

But I try to focus on the One Person who might feel less alone because I’m sharing. 

And that makes it all bearable




xo
Leslie





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