enough-ness ...and your astonishing power

-Hans Christian Anderson

I am writing this because I'm someplace I've never been before and I sense the importance of remembering every moment of this breathless, stunning trauma that I'm living with each day. 

And even though I still can't believe it. It's real. And I'm trying like hell to be fully present for all of it, so that maybe, by piecing together these fragments of feelings and experiences, I can somehow remain intact, even though my world as I once knew it has been obliterated.

I sense it in my deepest soul.

There is value in remembering what it feels like to be in the middle of this dark, bewildering tunnel without any sign of light at-the-end. I don't know. Maybe someday I'll wonder how I survived this catastrophic loss of Patrick, and in the process, maybe I'll learn how I endured a pain I once believed would kill me.

In the meantime, I'm still here. Although every part of my body, mind, and soul seems to be in the process of recalibrating and I feel strange, as if I'm viewing the world from inside a cocoon, separated from you by an undetectable space that feels gauzy and distant. And I suspect that you and I no longer share the same sun and the same moon.

The specialist in trauma and grief says that all my feelings are normal.

That a traumatic loss results in traumatic grief. And losing a child--at any age is always a trauma. But especially when the loss is shocking and swift and unexpected like Patrick's.

Joanne Cacciatore stresses that losing a child is different than losing a husband or anyone else for that matter. Because the very idea that your child should precede you in death is so outrageously unnatural and wrong and horrific that it produces a kind of "mental-mind-fuck." Where your entire belief system is shaken to its core. Your trust in the world as-you-knew-it, is destroyed. Your spiritual practices, in question. 

And the ONE question you want answered--as if that will give you some peace of mind--dangles silently in the air, taunting every breath you inhale.

Why am I still here when my child is not?

Of course, none of this inner turmoil is noticeable from the outside and if you saw me in person you would probably catch me smiling. Tossing my computer case into the back seat on my way to work or maybe hanging a fresh wreath on my door and waving to neighbors. 

This is what life looks like when you are a mother who has lost the most extraordinary son she could ever have--but has another precious son still here.

This is the paradox of mothering; it requires a love so profoundly giving that it actually evokes miraculous powers in the giver. At least it's kept me upright and moving. Especially in those moments when all I feel like doing is laying face-down in the damp earth, paralyzed with a wild and primitive grief. And wailing from a pain so heart-shattering that I recently had to see a cardiologist.

But instead I run to the store for milk.

Everything considered you might expect that my first Mother's Day without Patrick-and both my boys being together-would be an excruciating affair.

But it really was ok. In fact there were many beautiful moments.

Like when I went looking for the tape measure in our garage and discovered the hot-pink balloon peeking out from the shadowy corner next to the fridge. Big, giddy letters screamed out "Happy Mother's Day" and when I saw it I instantly understood the tender hesitancy that led Michael to leave it there. 

Later he confirmed it. "yeah, I wasn't sure how you'd be feeling so I left it there just-in-case,"

Then he forgot about it as he scurried about, pulling the kitchen table outside under the pink bougainvillea, and placing a bottle of champagne and orange on it while he made breakfast.

All this would have been an overwhelming gift, but later there were the smells of sausage and eggs with avocado and Michael in the kitchen blaring music. There was happy chatter and the table set for four so that when we made our toast we could include Patrick of course. 

On the counter, instead of finding my sons' handwritten notes tucked inside two bright Hallmark cards, I saw a long white envelope with the word Mom scribbled in pencil on the front.

And I still feel the power of his words.

See what I mean?

How do you get through these dreaded first milestone holidays and special occasions when there is a massive void in front of you?

 Oh God. It's so hard. But I can tell you what happened with us.

How Jim and Michael were struggling with ideas for this Mother's Day, and how we all felt unsure of what options would feel less sad.....and how helpful it was to have a conversation beforehand, about expectations. Mostly mine. 

But we all feel it. This new and strange and gut-wrenching hole where Patrick's big physical body would normally be, with his magnetic energy, his loud laughter and his ever-churning mind that I was always so fascinated by, as his mother.

Because all three of us had recently completed an intensive 8 week course on grief, I knew we were all on the same page when it comes to talking openly about our feelings.
 

And we talk about these hard days.

Michael's approach to this Mother's Day was the simplest and most honest. And I loved his idea. Instead of tiptoeing with delicate feelings around Patrick's absence, we should just lean-into Patrick's presence and acknowledge him directly. From the beginning of our day when we went to Mass--and throughout, over cocktails in the Greek café, it was important that we include him as if to say,

 "We love you Patrick. You are here with us Patrick. And we know it."

Did my heart ache for my missing son on this day?  Of course. But this is the way it is now.

Although I should tell you that all the dread I'd been expecting in the days leading up to this day never quite materialized in the intensity I expected. All that crushing sorrow as I hurried past the card aisles, with all the glossy Hallmark signs reminding me that I would be missing my homemade card from Patrick, had led me to expect the worst.

Only the worst didn't happen.

And this is the part I never want to forget. The part that might be helpful to you.

Because after being stunned by the unexpected emotion I felt on Easter morning, I decided to try something different. I woke up determined to:

1. completely let go of any expectations
2. and to make a point of finding the "enough" in each moment.

on having Enough vs Abundance

In the yoga world I hear the word abundance a lot and it's always evoked such positive associations. But when you're--like me- and going through a time of unimaginable suffering, the idea of abundance, with it's imagery of excess, feels like an extravagance. 

For me, the difference can be understood with the metaphor of food. I think of it this way.

If "enough" is the simple meal of a Buddhist monk, then "abundance" is the gourmet dinner with dessert.

I'm not suggesting that you shouldn't embrace abundance in your life. I'm just saying that when you're in the midst of a pitch-black forest, focusing on those tiny, nourishing crumbs can lead you toward the light where abundance suddenly seems more possible.

On Mother's Day I was determined to approach each moment with the intention of seeing the enough-ness in it. I talk about moments a lot because right now I just can't imagine a future without Patrick in it, so living moment-to-moment is how I survive. It makes the pain more manageable.

And because the very definition of enough is the bare requirement, I think it's much easier to attain than the idea of abundance, which seems loaded with flowery imagery and possible expectations.

For me, seeing the enough in each moment means being content with simple and small. 

The flash of smile that's easy to miss. A brief exchange of kind words. A thoughtful text message that suddenly pops up on your phone. Or a single Mother's Day balloon, purchased and then hidden away with tenderness.

 On a day when I felt raw and unsure, focusing on being content with just enough-- felt right.

In one of those interesting synchronicities, my meditation teacher happened to do a guided meditation this morning on this very topic. And I liked his words. He said that our lives are unfolding moment-by-moment and in each moment, everything is available to us. No matter the situation, there are actions and steps and re-framing available to us and each choice will lead to different options. 

I survived this past mother's day. 

Because I was reminded that I have this astonishing power that actually makes my grief journey a little lighter in spots. But we all wake up with this same power, to be a seeker of enough-ness instead of a demander of all-ness. 

And this simple shift in perspective can help us find those moments of joy no matter what we're going through. 

* It takes a lot of courage to enter the orbit of a grieving mother.

Thank you for your courage. I'm so grateful for your visit here.

xo

Leslie

sharing this post here:
Imparting Grace

on having dreams and being your own damn hero

I believe in magical moments.

Those quiet interactions we have with enlightenment that happen during an ordinary day. Because you have them, and so do I, more regularly then we realize.

And only later, when you look back you’ll see how a string of little circumstances aligned, like stars in the sky, to bring you in contact with someone who might not be a regular in your daily life. A passing brush with an acquaintance that lasts only long enough for something vital to be passed along to you, and it will feel like an answer to a personal question you had not yet formed in your mind.

But you sense it, this wisp of truth or wisdom left dangling behind, ready for your taking.

"Wow," you’ll say later. "That person or place came along at such a perfect time."

Linda was one of these.

And someday I hope you’re like me. I hope you're lucky enough to find yourself standing in a cramped kitchen while a tiny white dog sniffs at your shoes and a yellow-tailed cockatoo screeches from its corner cage and sends creamy colored feathers fluttering in your direction.

I hope that you’ll have your own version of a platinum blonde woman sitting across from you at a messy table stacked with yellow-lined note pads, monthly bills and rows of medications, who will surprise you with engrossing stories of historical US battles and obscure facts about Navy Frogmen in World War 2.

“Hmm… do you know what kind of suit the Navy divers wore back in the 40s?” this woman asks me as I stand in her kitchen.

Earlier she had told me she was writing a book about her courageous uncle—an original Navy Seal--and in the middle of talking about one of his life-and-death missions she realizes she needs more research on the fabric used for the early frogmen suits. Before I can answer she makes a quick note on her yellow pad and keeps talking.

In the next room Linda’s mother is dying.

This is how we met.  I talk to Linda each week when I read to her mother from her favorite book, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. Ironic, considering how long I had avoided reading this best-seller, mostly because of the graphic POW details I find so troubling, but here I am each week, catapulted into a world of unfathomable courage, harrowing battles, and a fight for survival.

Linda’s mother is my co-voyager during these literary time-travels and on good days she stays awake most of the time, on bad days she sleeps throughout. Some days I admit that the parallels between the stark life-and-death tone of this WW2 book and the atmosphere of this house leaves me with a vague sense of the surreal. One minute I am reading about a fragile Louis Zamperini clinging to life by a thread, and the next moment I am looking at a woman who is laying in front of me clinging to life by a thread.

For me, the lives of Linda’s mother and Louis Zamperini have become intricately connected.

On my way out, I always check in with Linda, since she has become her mother’s voice and energy and her devoted nurse. On this afternoon, she is telling me about the books she is currently writing.

And of course, as a wanna-be-author, I am intrigued and a tad jealous. Oh how I would love to be writing a book. From her seat in the kitchen Linda is beaming while she talks.

“My grandmother was a blood-sucking alien. That’s the title of my other book I’m working on,” she laughs, “I just love science-fiction, don’t you? My husband keeps kidding me about finishing the book so we can sell the movie rights and he can retire.”

And I chuckle too, not only because I’m madly love with the boldness of this title, but because it’s becoming clear to me after she mentions the screenplay, that Linda is unabashed about dreaming big.

And god I admire people with bold, ballsy dreams. People who walk around with enough sparkling Hope spilling from their orbit that it effects those standing in their presence.

In fact, listening to Linda describe her love of painting and her current writing projects suddenly makes me feel like the melting version of the cackling green witch in The Wizard of Oz, a weak, diluted form of this solid, resilient woman.

You see.

Linda has liver cancer.

She also has severe arthritis in her knees which makes it difficult to walk and physically tend to her mother, who happens to be dying of leukemia. Because Linda is the only daughter and her closest child—and dealing with her own personal battle with cancer-- I can only imagine how emotionally tough these days must be for her.

Once on a sunny afternoon, I asked her if she had been able to get outside to her garden and she answered by telling me the life lessons she was teaching her teenage nephews who came to do her weeding.

“I’m showing them how to plant from cuttings, she said, “making something from nothing, it’s wonderful.”  Those were her words.

I never finished reading Unbroken to Linda’s mother. She died before we got to the end of Zamperini’s riveting story and for some reason, I haven’t been able to finish it without her.

But if you asked me to sum up my experience in this house I would say it’s the exact opposite of sadness.

Instead, Linda--her surviving daughter --left me with a profound impression. She reminded me by her own resiliency to have the courage and chutzpah to keep dreaming. That no matter what’s happening in our life, our dreams are powerful intentions that keep us moving forward physically and spiritually. They infuse our life with exhilarating hope and, life-affirming possibilities that might not otherwise be there. And no matter what our age, we should never be afraid to use the word “dream” when we talk about our future.

Everyone deserves to have dreams. Period. But especially those nurturers out there, those women who find it much easier to dream and hope on the behalf of others, and who might not take enough time to examine their deepest desires.

 Maybe as  you're reading this, you’re not quite sure what dreams you have anymore.
And that's ok.

As my platinum blonde friend might say, pick a dream that helps you answer this question:

“What would my life look like if it were organized around my deepest values?”

This is how you begin.

This is the direction to your joy.



xo
Leslie

friends I'm sharing this with:
Feathered Nest Friday
Lakeshore Drive #265
The Scoop
Inspire Me Tuesday
Inspire me Monday

finding joy in the ordinary

via

This past weekend I celebrated my birthday with my family.

Patrick drove back into town with his girlfriend Allie and Michael returned home on Saturday from his second stint as counselor at Camp Rec, and I was bubbling over at the mere thought of having our family together again.

Honestly, that was my best birthday present.

Us. Being all together again.

I haven’t shared it much here, but this has been an interesting summer for me. Interesting because Patrick stayed in San Luis Obispo taking summer classes and Michael has been gone so often that it’s ended up truly being

our first summer the boys haven’t been home much.

Which means that these glorious, warm days of summer have been tinged with introspection and growing pains as I grapple with my soon-to-be empty nest. Suddenly, it’s all become so real. The clean, empty bedrooms, the sudden quietness. And while these days have been good preparation for Jim and I, there have been times when I’ve felt like my heart was being squeezed. 

So I was pretty excited about this past weekend. Our plan was that we -- Patrick, Allie, Jim and I--would go downtown and be there when the buses arrived from Camp Rec. Then once Michael was done, we would go to dinner. And secretly, I couldn’t wait to watch all the counselors and campers get off the bus together. I’ve learned from Michael’s previous camp experiences that watching the reunion of campers with their families is sheer joy, not to mention the chance to see Michael with his own camper, a fifteen year old boy named Sully.

Unfortunately sometimes I get so caught up in the moment that I forget to take pictures. So I didn’t get a picture of Michael and Sully getting off the bus.

The first time I glimpsed Michael’s camper Sully, he had his teddy bear hanging around his neck and he was carrying a photo album that he kept putting into his mouth. Shortly after this they disappeared in the crowd.

When we found them again, I noticed that one of Sully’s pictures had fallen to the ground and Michael picked it up and put it back into his album. Then he gave Sully a drink out of a sippy cup.

Michael had texted me earlier about Sully; he told me that Sully was basically non-verbal. He only knew three words, “Mommy”, “Baby” and “Come on.” And during his time at camp he needed to be pushed in a stroller because of his slow gait.

When he’s at home he requires 24 hour care so during his week at Camp Rec he was assigned to two counselors, Michael and another Jesuit High School graduate named Brian who wore a baseball cap backwards and was extremely outgoing.

It was a 100 degree day and the sun was beating down on everyone…

but all around us there was happy chaos as campers waited next to their counselors for their family members to arrive.  There were lots of hugs and kisses by everyone.

 

 

While we were standing around waiting for Sully’s mother to arrive a cheerful camper named Chad came over to show Patrick and Allie his picture. He pointed to his picture and Patrick and Allie where looking at it when he happened to see my camera.

 

He immediately gestured for me to take a photo of him and Allie. And she jumped right into the photo with him.

A few moments later I saw Sully’s mother walk up and immediately put her cheek next to Sully’s and she began to whisper softly to him. And to kiss his cheek. She was beaming at him. They were both so happy to see each other and I was so moved by this scene, the way she was talking to him with such tenderness, I forgot to take pictures.

As we watched from the shade, she spoke with Michael and Brian, and seemed eager to hear about Sully’s experience. She looked so relieved and grateful that he had done so well.

I asked Michael later if Sully had struggled at all being away from his family and he said only once the first night.

Michael said he looked sad and he kept saying “Mommy.”

“What did you do?” I asked him.

“We tried to comfort him…after that he was fine.”

Once the boys put the stroller and suitcase into her car, Sully’s mother asked to take a few photos of Sully with his counselors. She smiled and chatted with Michael and Brian until Sully began to pull her toward the car. He was ready for home.

Michael had heard that when Sully’s parents were told that he was accepted as a camper they cried because they were so relieved. Michael said he requires constant care and attention and he can’t imagine having a child that requires so much work. The more I heard about Sully the more compassion I felt for his mother.

Watching her interact with Sully made me think about how selfless the experience of mothering can be. I could relate to how elated she was for Sully, that he’d had a good experience. And that he’d been surrounded by kind people who treated him well. Who made him feel special.

In the end, isn’t that what we all want for our kids?

 

Once Sully was in the car I saw Michael go over to say good-bye.

I watched him smile and nod at Sully in the same playful way I used to when I would be strapping Michael into his car seat. Funny how I thought of that.

 

 

Then he bent inside and gave him one last hug.

After Sully’s Mom drove away I was aware of feeling so incredibly grateful.

It’s hard to explain, but all of a sudden I looked around and all I saw were blessings… I could tell Jim felt the same way.

“Hey Mom, is this going on your blog?”

“Maybeeee…”

 

xoxo

Leslie

 

 

*you can read more about Camp Recreation by clicking HERE.

in the meantime, I’m sharing this post at this lovely place:

http://www.impartinggrace.com/2013/07/grace-at-home-no-66.html

 

 

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