The other day I picked up a book by Richard Rohr and opened it up to some random page about Jonah.
This is the way my life seems now. I stumble on real life moments and random words that somehow make me feel like I’m a character in some cryptic mystery. That’s odd, I’ll think later when I reflect on the synchronicities at work; the weird timing, my own openness, and the curious message that ends up in my head.
On this day I scanned the two pages that tell me that I’m living in the belly of beast.
And since I don’t know anything anymore, I keep reading.
According to spiritual teachers the story of Jonah who was swallowed by a whale and taken to places he never wanted to go — is a biblical metaphor. A way to understand those dark, traumatic periods in our lives and a way for me to make sense of this bottomless pit of motherly despair that I live with now.
The tale of Jonah surviving inside the black pit of a whale’s stomach is supposed to be a story of death and rebirth. A reminder to all of us, that Death sneaks into our lives in the many forms that include the disappointments and endings and letting go that we all experience. And that these terribly lonely, depressing, overwhelming times in our lives are actually our teachers in disguise, waving us down a pathway towards transformation.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that when your heart has been cracked wide open and you’re walking around under a fallen sky in a world that no longer makes any sense— anything seems possible.
Maybe someday I’ll be like Jonah. Spit out on to a new shore, spiritually awakened and no longer upset with the Blessed Mother, or wanting answers from the Holy Spirit about why my son—with his extraordinary Light and Goodness-- is not here and I still am.
Maybe someday I will be living a life without Patrick here, and the thought of not hearing the sound of his voice when he says, “Hey Mama,” or watching him throw his head back and laugh while he flashes his amazing smile, won’t make me crumble under the weight of my broken heart.
But truthfully? I can’t imagine that time. That’s how dark this part of my journey is right now.
Although in the words of my eighty-two-year-old Buddhist friend Gale, who lost her son to suicide forty years ago, this is the way it is right now and that’s OK.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing.
I’m like a blindfolded traveler at the edge of a harrowing cliff, sensing that there is something for me here. Something to record. Some precious learning to be found when there is nowhere else to go. When there’s no last-minute escape or way to avoid this horrific reality that I’m faced with each day:
I open my eyes and my son is gone.
I close my eyes and my son is still gone.
Recently I was listening to a beautiful story by Frank Ostaseski, an American Buddhist who has spent over 30 years working with hospice patients. He was helping a mother tend to the body of her seven-year-old son who had just died from cancer. She was bathing him tenderly as part of their goodbye ritual, counting his toes to him and talking to him lovingly and every so often she would look over at Frank with beseeching eyes as if to say, “Can I survive this?! Can any mother survive this?!”
“And my job,” Frank says, “was simply to hand her another washcloth. And direct her back to her son, because that’s where the healing is always found, in the heart of the suffering.”
Somewhere deep in my soul I know this is true.
But like this mother, I’m still grappling with shock. I’m still wrapped in that mystical connection I’ve felt with my son the moment he left my body. It is powerful and otherworldly, this bond with him. And my mind simply cannot comprehend the idea of a permanent separation from Patrick. His body, his face, the sound of his voice. It’s all so unfathomable.
When I heard Frank’s story I felt like those mother’s words were my words. Her anguish is my anguish. Because I too, know how it feels to suffer over your son’s lifeless body. I know how it feels to wake up each morning with a pain in my chest so unbearable, I wonder how I can still be alive.
Yet here I am, still breathing.
And looking pretty normal on the outside despite the changes I feel within.
Grief strips you down to your most unguarded self. It’s a wall of pain that washes over you and leaves you wrinkled and raw and gasping for air. And then it repeats itself. Grief from the loss of your child will leave you stunned and walking around feeling strangely unprotected, in a universe you no longer trust.
This is the person I was on that sunny, October afternoon--only weeks after Patrick’s tragic accident—when I told the lady at the cleaners about Patrick.
And this is what I learned about miracles.
I had gone there to pick up some clothes; it had been the next robotic errand that had emerged out of the thick soup that was now my mind. Clouded by shock and grief, my ability to think at that point consisted of piecing together questions in order to figure out what I needed to get done. And with the Memorial Services approaching, I heard myself asking.
Could Michael fit in Patrick’s jacket? Did I have anything red to wear? Was Jim’s suit in the cleaners?
So-to-the-cleaners I headed.
The woman who always waited on me was also the co-owner of this busy shop, along with her shy husband.
I liked her. With her ebony colored hair and powdery skin, she reminded me of a middle-aged geisha, dressed in sensible slacks and polyester blouses. Only instead of warm tea, she offered chatty, kind words to her customers.
“Tell him good luck on his job interview,” she had said one March day when I picked up Patrick’s black suit, and in that brief moment we had forged a bond. One mother seeing another mother’s hopes and blessing them with optimism.
The woman had barely walked up and greeted me when I knew I couldn’t pretend. After all, she had touched Patrick’s clothes; this act alone felt like a kinship. But I hesitated. It was the first time I’d be sharing my catastrophic loss with a stranger, and the delivery of these words out into the open air felt like another layer of trauma.
“My son. I wanted to tell you.” My voice was a whisper and she leaned forward to hear me. “He was in a terrible accident. I wanted you to know. He…he didn’t make it.”
I don’t remember how she came through that wall of counter. Or how her arms got around me so fast.
But she was holding me so tight I had to inhale. Was it seconds or minutes? That I stood there smelling the waft of white gardenia, and feeling the intimate scratch of hair on my face that wasn’t mine. This alone should have jolted me back into my role of polite customer, but I didn’t move.
The world had stopped, the other customers had vanished.
And then something happened inside our frozen hug because we both began to cry. I felt our bodies soften into muffled sobs. And afterwards—with quick precision, she scooped my clothes off the metal rack, took my hand and led me toward my car.
Out in the bright parking lot I could have been a ragged, lost child, squinting in the noonday sun and being led to a shelter, that’s how fragile I felt. Too broken to revert into my typical Miss Capable role, I watched with curious detachment as this soft-spoken woman took my keys, unlocked my door and hung my clothes carefully in the back.
Afterwards she took both my hands and asked me how to find the accident site, only minutes away. She seemed hesitant to let me go, promising me prayers and insisting that I keep my faith. “God will get you through this,” she assured me.
Then she was gone.
In the few months that have passed, I’ve had time to think about this powerful experience. And what I will never forget is how it felt to be out in the world so broken and vulnerable, and so unlike my usual Self. And how miraculous it felt to have a stranger—react without a second’s hesitation to my pain.
Only she didn’t simply observe my pain, she risked doing something. This shop owner –whose name I still don’t know—saw me the way that I truly felt, as a crumpled body on the floor with a shattered heart, barely getting by. And she literally held me, long enough to shine a light into my darkness and remind me that I was not alone.
Marianne Williamson calls this woman a “miracle-worker,” and says that at any moment we can choose to either judge someone or bless someone, it’s that simple.
We also can be this force of light in the world.
But it does require that we "see" outside our comfort zone.
It means being aware that the same roles that give us our sense of identity and help us feel safe-- whether it's a job title, our neighborhoods or our politics, are the same roles that create illusions of separateness. That help us erect an US and a THEM, that closes us off from the pain of others.
When the truth is, that we’re all a part of larger whole.
I think about that hug with the shop owner, and how it would never have happened if I had been operating from my stronger self. Or if the shop owner had been more logical and reserved about maintaining her profession boundaries.
And the farther I got away from this experience the more holy and miraculous it appeared.
It’s seems ironic. Here I am at the darkest time of my life, and it’s my grief that is opening my eyes to the way that grace and love suddenly appear out of nowhere, when I’m most in need.
It’s like Anne Lamott said about our really bad days. “There’s no magic cure and God is not a cosmic bellhop,” but if you’re spiritually awake and paying attention, you’ll see HIM in the eyes of some kind stranger, holding your hand in the middle of a sunny parking lot.
They’re always happening, these little miracles.
Today, I hope you see yours.
seen on the sidewalk
on my way from the beach when I was really sad
sharing this post with friends: Grace at Home
Home and Garden Thursday
Feathered Nest Friday
I'm so very sorry, Gwen. I have no words to give back, almost wouldn't presume to but I am glad you are writing.ReplyDelete
Thank you for sharing Leslie. A very powerful post, full of so much to think about and learn from.ReplyDelete
Continuing to pray for you and your family.
Another beautifully written piece on a moment that allows us to feel and speculate on your feelings at the particular moment,s you describe so vividly,Leslie. I remember a few similar experiences that truly feel like out of body, like you’re watching someone else go through these steps. Until you are jolted back to realize it is you, not someone else.ReplyDelete
Thank you as always for your honest and raw portrayal of your grief journey at this point in time.
Big hugs to you as always ♥️
Oh, what sacred dignity you bring to suffering, my friend. I mean it. This writing is alive and rich with beauty. How precious did that Grace appear! How true that a mother's bond with her child is otherworldly and therefore transcendent - is it not all the proof we need of realms within realms we cannot see? Moving through this pain and grief is surely refining you, and it's so honorable you are staying awake as you are. I posted this Rohr quote earlier this afternoon: "Jesus agreed to carry the mystery of universal suffering. He allowed it to change him (“Resurrection”) and us, too, so that we would be freed from the endless cycle of projecting our pain elsewhere or remaining trapped inside of it." Carrying the mystery demands so much from you, from me. Thank God we can seek the Grace to carry it. You've brought such blessing here, Leslie. Thank you for turning our thoughts toward transformation. xoxReplyDelete
Leslie, I've always admired your writings, your insight, your unique ability to know what needs to be spoken. I admire you even more because now you are writing from a broken heart. You continue to remain in my heart with postive energy sent your way each and every day. You will eventually come through on the other side, sweet friend because you are you! Love you!ReplyDelete
Wow, your words - I am in utter awe of you. I sense a lot of love in your life. Sending you strength and healing.ReplyDelete
Thoughts and prayers-no words!!ReplyDelete
The kindness of the woman at the cleaners was a miracle. The fact that at this moment in your life you continue to focus on love and grace feels like a miracle to me. Thank you for sharing your heart.ReplyDelete
We lost our son over 2 years ago and I physically feel your broken heart. I was compelled to write then and even now. So many questions and thoughts tumbling from my sorrowing soul. So brave of you to be honest. I still look for Joseph in places.. I may be a person who is easier to be around at this point but the sorrow is still raging strong underneath the surface. We have decided it is ok to not be ok and there are days where we relax in that space.ReplyDelete
Thank God for Richard Rohr and others whose insights and practices have given me hope, encouragement and ways to remember. Thank God for those sweet encounters with others that seem to happen just at the needed moment. We have angels here and it is important to stay open to the mystery.
So much love and compassion to you and your family
KEEP TALKING TO US YOUR READERS.................ReplyDelete
KEEP TELLING US HOW YOU FEEL............
YOU ARE DOING EVERY THING RIGHT!
Keep writing, Leslie. We can only trust that the "raw" it brings out in you is also bringing healing. You are brave (even in your fragile state) and gracious as you trust us with your pain and questions without answers. Thank you for paying attention, for innately knowing (even without understanding) that in some way your practice of coming here is important. The dear woman at the dry cleaners is a beautiful example of the unadulterated love each one of us can share with the hurting souls around us if we're willing to open our hearts and eyes and lay down our barriers. Prayers continue, my friend.ReplyDelete
I am a new reader of your blog. I was reading the Preppy Eempty Nester’s post that mentioned the haircut, The Shag. My daughter Dehlia was making the 7 hour ride back to college. I was, as I always am ,worried about the trip and was mindlessly reading comments to Katie’s post. You too had The Shag and I could tell from your comment we were close to the same age. Something made me click on your name and the connection began. I began to read your post about a very ugly woman in tight yoga pants and the beautiful way you turned that experience into lesson about grief and your conscious decision as to how you were going to handle this. It’s funny but as I was reading this I assumed you had lost your husband. As I began to read more and more about you , however, I began to tremble at the thought that you were living through my biggest fear. You had lost a son named Patrick. I have two girls who are 22 and 20 and almost as soon as they were born I feared losing them. This fear exponentially increased when they began to drive. It was as if my heart was outside of my body, completely vulnerable. Leslie my heart broke for you and I read as many of your posts as I could almost as a way to connect. It may sound crazy but I have never felt such profound empathy for someone I did not know. I wanted to reach out and hug you. I wanted to tell you , you are not alone. I have a devotion to the Blessed Mother ,like many Catholic School girls from the 70s , and I want you to know that you have someone on the other side of the country from Long Island praying for you and pulling for you. God bless you my girl.
Thank you. xoReplyDelete
This is so beautifully written, Leslie. Your dry cleaner was God;s angel on earth that day.ReplyDelete
Your post leaves me with a very full heart of a mother's love and grief. I cried through this post for you and what you are going through. Admire how you can write and convey goodness of others and to be able to share. It brings home the deep feelings of lost that I have for a son who became mentally ill after his 21st birthday. A son who was handsome, straight A student and letterman. Who always had a brilliant smile and cheerfulness about him. He is living and I care to his needs but the boy I knew isn't the same. Acceptance is hard to come by but I try every day. Thank you for getting me in touch with who I can be, nothing but a loving mother that will go on forever. BobbieReplyDelete
Leslie, I think of you often my friend and have you in my prayers each night as I lay in bed. I am in awe of your grace and strength as you celebrate and decorate for the holidays, make your son Michaels' first birthday without Patrick special, put one foot in front of the other each day to reach out and help your friends by retreiving their cats. What you might not know my dear is that each and every time you post here or on Instagram you are an angel to someone else.ReplyDelete
You are the person mentioned in this quote from your own writing:
“There’s no magic cure and God is not a cosmic bellhop,” but if you’re spiritually awake and paying attention, you’ll see HIM in the eyes of some kind stranger, holding your hand in the middle of a sunny parking lot.
You are the kind stranger offering your hand.
Your words are a balm to a wounded soul, a broken heart, a person searching for love and wisdom, or just a little hope, you my friend in your grief are a messenger from God, an angel on earth.
Sending you a bear hug and love. xo Elizabeth
Please keep sharing your miracles...it helps us to see how to be one. xx-hbReplyDelete
Your writing is so incredibly beautiful, Leslie. You touch my soul with all you write. I pray it will help to heal your soul, too. Sending love your way...ReplyDelete
First of all, I truly appreciate your immense courage sharing your journey including the loss of your beloved son. I can't even imagine.. I don't even dare to. You are an incredibly brave, beautiful and loving sentient being indeed. I experienced a very tough loss myself (long ago) so your situation touches me deeply. Talking of miracles, if I may, suggest this amazing memoir "The Unwinding of the Miracle" by Julie Yip Williams (available at Amazon). You may already heard about it. This is by far the best book (her true life experience) about facing death, grief, tragedies, etc. I fell in love with her exceptional writing as well, but mostly, her courage & love. And I see that from reading your blog you are also a gifted writer. I wish nothing but the best for you and your loved ones. Your thoughts & words inspire so much. We are your listening ears & heart, so keep going, for you! Thousands kisses & hugs from North Carolina.ReplyDelete
Oh, Leslie, your words, of such a devastating time in your life, are lovely and heartfelt.ReplyDelete
I cried and then I smiled because you are using your words and your voice to climb your way back.
In the midst of your grief, you are blessing so many. Your beautiful and heartfelt words are like a salve for the hearts of people who have suffered loss. May you experience healing by sharing your moments of grace with us. I cannot imagine your seemingly overwhelming loss, but by bringing insight and love through your pain, it does pull us together in shared emotions. We are all comforted by the knowledge that we are stronger together through our pain, and we have reason to hope. My prayers join with others for your peace and comfort. May you continue to notice all those precious, little miracles in the every day.ReplyDelete
Dear Darling Leslie,ReplyDelete
Thinking of you here in Umbria profound. I am happy you are still writing posts. You are very brave to share your raw emotions. You know I feel along with you, and continue to go thru this. I think of you daily, and wish you moments of peace. Sending you a hug, dear girl. XXo Robin