Eternal Love

Posted on January 16, 2024 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, illness, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Nightmares, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Veterans, Vulnerability, war

In 1993, while my infant son, my first born, lay in the NICU, his pediatric cardiologist plopped a hefty textbook about pediatric cardiology onto the surface of the nurse’s station. In fact, one of the chapters was written by my son’s doctor himself. This dense tome, a relic of a pre-internet era, was to become my constant companion, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

Seventy-two hours after giving birth on January 18 of that year to a seemingly healthy baby boy, my world, which had already been turned upside down by a seven-day stretch in the Labor and Delivery room and an unexpected premature delivery, spun out of control. Doctors diagnosed my son, Marshall, with not one but two congenital heart defects – a ventricular septal defect (VSD) and an atrial septal defect (ASD).

A VSD is a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), while an ASD is a hole in the wall that divides the upper chambers (atria) of the heart. Fortunately, the ASD would heal on its own within the first year of Marshall’s life. However, the VSD, shockingly, turned out to consist of multiple holes, not just one, and only open heart surgery could repair the condition.

“A Swiss cheese heart,” his doctor said in his description to me, painting a vivid picture of my son’s condition. I can still recall the doctor’s words, “Ventricular septal defects are the most common congenital heart defects.”

At the time, I interpreted this statement as a reassurance that we were dealing with a relatively common condition. Okay, we’re with the majority. It’s good. My affirmation helped me put one foot in front of another on those endless shining granite-colored titled hallways that seemed to loop around like never-ending hamster wheels.

However, while researching this blog post, I came across a startling statistic: “About 1% of babies born in the United States have a congenital heart defect, such as a hole in the heart.”

This statistic struck me with a jolt. In so many ways, as I’ve previously written, there was nothing typical about Marshall’s birth, life, or death. He truly was a one-percenter.”

Good thing back then I didn’t also know that almost 7 out of 10 infants born with a hole in the heart survive into adulthood, because I would have also obsessed about the three infants who don’t survive into adulthood.

As a new mother, I was understandably overwhelmed by the news of my son’s congenital heart defect. Textbook statistics and medical jargon did little to soothe my worries, and I couldn’t help but focus on the possibility of complications.

Despite my fears, within the first 10 months of his life, baby Marshall underwent two successful surgeries and emerged stronger and healthier than ever. However, our journey was far from easy. During his first year, he struggled with colic, an uncontrollable crying (screaming) condition that left us both exhausted and frustrated.

Hearing the constant wailing was heartbreaking. It was as if our son was in constant pain, and no amount of comforting or soothing helped. Both his pediatrician and pediatric cardiologist assured us that colic was unrelated to his heart condition, but it was hard to believe that a seemingly healthy baby could be in such distress.

As a stay-at-home mom, working as a freelance writer, I felt the weight of responsibility more heavily than ever. The endless cycle of crying, feeding, and soothing left me drained and desperate for a solution. One night, actually early hours of the morning, in a moment of sheer exhaustion and despair, I had a horrifying thought: what if I just tossed my son out the window?

The thought was fleeting, but it shook me to my core. I realized that the stress of caring for a colicky baby had pushed me to the brink.

Fortunately, I had been actively involved in various therapeutic undertakings as well as a 12-step program over the past nine years. These interventions, which I still consider to be the most profound healers in my life, provided me with the strength to navigate this challenging period. I had a reservoir of coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with whatever life threw at me. I remained grateful for the power of faith and fellowship, and most importantly, my son taught me an invaluable lesson: the essence of unconditional love.

You see, exhausted and at my wit’s end after recounting the sleepless nights, I would often conclude my sharing in support groups with the poignant declaration, “I’m learning how to love.” It was a testament to the profound impact my son had on my life.

Gradually, the crying subsided, and Marshall’s congenital heart defects became a successful chapter in our lives. He grew into a healthy toddler and our routine returned to a semblance of normalcy, though our son’s unique challenges remained. He was a fighter, determined to live life on his own terms.

For instance, administering his medication was a daily battle. The only way I could manage it was with the help of my 80-something-year-old dad, who would hold him down while I forced drops of medicine down my son’s throat. Similarly, buckling him into a car seat was another 20-minute ordeal. Marshall had an aversion to being confined, and he would resist it with every ounce of his mule-like strength. I vividly recall a struggle in the back seat of our car at a grocery store parking lot. It took me over 20 minutes, the golden number, to finally secure him in his seat. When I left the back seat, ready to hop into the passenger seat, an older woman, with her arms crossed and a face contorted with rage, confronted me. She shook her head, likely assuming I had just beaten my son in the back seat, but she didn’t investigate any further and, instead, stormed off without a word.

Dental appointments were an entirely different ordeal. Marshall’s fear of the dentist was so intense that he became hysterical in the waiting room. On one occasion, his behavior was so disruptive that a staff member reprimanded me; I mean, the responsibility always falls on mom, right? From then on, we scheduled our appointments at off-peak hours when we could avoid the presence of other children. While it was embarrassing to have to make special arrangements, it was the only way to ensure that Marshall received the dental care he needed.

Wouldn’t you know it? Marshall’s dental issues were far more severe than those of an average child. He seemed to be a one-percenter when it came to tooth problems, so we were frequent (solo) visitors to the dentist’s office.

Around the age of five or six, Marshall seemed to have outgrown his fear of the dentist. We arrived for our appointment, and everything appeared to be going smoothly in the waiting room packed with other children. However, as the hygienist approached wearing her workday garb, Marshall bolted up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It took nearly an hour of coaxing and reassurance to convince him to come out. Despite the setback and leaving a few kids and their parents frazzled, we managed to complete the appointment, just as we always had.

“I’m learning how to love.” My update to my fellows remained the same — week after week; month after month; year after year.

When Marshall first entered kindergarten, some of his behavior was a stark contrast to what had turned into, at least for a good deal of the time, a calm demeanor at home. Specifically as soon as he arrived home and got off the school bus, he ran around the house, screaming uncontrollably. Little did I know that a lot of his behavior stemmed from the actions of his teacher — a story I won’t delve into at this point.

Consulting with the school’s psychologist revealed that Marshall exhibited exemplary behavior in class — a trait that remained consistent throughout his school years. What the psychologist further explained was that he channeled his pent-up emotions from the classroom and school grounds the minute he stepped off the school bus and onto home turf, a safe zone where he was unconditionally loved and able to express his true emotions and feelings. In this case, it was a lot of fear and frustration from performing properly on the world’s stage. Great! This knowledge helped me enormously. I bit the bullet.

Marshall’s determination to live authentically, even within the haven of love and trust, often sparked conflict with those closest to him, the casualties of his relentless quest to shed the shackles of his false self, which I didn’t learn about until his last year on earth. Once someone told me I should have received the Purple Heart medal (which my eldest brother Mike actually did, along with a few other medals, while he was in the service during Vietnam) for raising my son. I agreed wholeheartedly.

Throughout the challenges and joys of parenthood, I never lost sight of my gratitude. First, for the privilege of becoming a parent in my 30s, a rarity among my generation in those days, and second, for the honor of nurturing the most precious gift on earth: human life. It’s a concept that still amazes me to this day.

Admittedly, I didn’t always handle motherhood perfectly. I made mistakes and fell short many times. But through it all, I discovered that the extraordinary act of prioritizing another’s needs above your own — the essence of motherhood — was my ultimate purpose and it still is.

A few months ago, as I was recounting the experiences of raising my son to my dear friend Michelle, my co-author of her memoir. I told her how, especially during the many trials, I would often reiterate, “I’m learning how to love.” And then, as we conversed and I reflected on the profound impact my son had had on my life, I added, “Out of all the lessons he’s taught me, he’s taught me how to love the most.”

To that statement, she amazingly replied, “He still is.”

She couldn’t have been more accurate. Marshall would have been 31 this coming Thursday, January 18. The pain of what was and what could have been, as my therapist Louis, who had lost a daughter of his own, had promised, has softened through these years, but it remains a constant presence. My life has taken on a different dimension, with everything now filtered through the lens of his absence. Marshall is forever young at 26, and I am forever a heart broken senior citizen who understands the fragility of life at the first heart beat.

It brings to mind a podcast, All There Is with Anderson Cooper, (September 21, 2022) with Stephen Colbert: Grateful for Grief. The excerpt is below:

Anderson Cooper: Wow. Something I’ve been feeling a lot with my kids because they’re so perfect. There are these moments of such frailty that, my heart is breaking at just the beauty of this experience. And yet there’s this sense of sort of the awareness of the frailty of it.

Stephen Colbert: The first experience that I had holding my first child, my daughter. The first thing that occurred to me was, how beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end.

How beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end. I repeat that line all day in my head and it never fails to rekindle my sense of gratitude.

In this new, old world of mine, I’m totally indifferent, and that’s okay. I do not need a textbook to interpret my lot, for it is a journey reserved solely for me not bound by external factors, but my own inner compass. Yet without question, intrinsically I know the the path was carved for me to walk; the metaphorical bullet others dodged, but I took the hit. Each step, a small victory over the overwhelming feeling of defeat that threatens to consume me. The hallways endless; granite tiles, cold and unforgiving. Faith forward, my final spin on the hamster wheel of life.

Damn. I’m learning how to love — without victory, without reserve.

Love transforms you. It stretches your limits until you feel like you’re in a league of your own, a realm that only a select few will ever experience. It breaks you down, only to rebuild you stronger, more resilient, and more capable of love than you ever thought possible, a medal of honor with no comparison.

Dancing with Doubt, Painted in Red

Posted on January 2, 2024 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Affirmations, Angels on Earth, Courage, Crisis, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, Gratitude, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Reframing, Relationships, Resurrection, Sacred Space, Safe Space, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, What you resist persists

The clickety-clack of red shoes against the pavement announced her arrival long before her presence did. Each step towards her therapist’s office echoed a question thrumming in her heart: “Do I still believe?”

January 2nd; the new year kicked off, but the same relentless storm of challenges remained: job lost, debt mounting, love departed, health fading, leaving her grappling for faith.

Then, her gaze snagged on the crimson glow of her shoes. A whimsical purchase, worn for the first time today. They felt like a spark, a whispered counterpoint to the storm. Even in the depths of despair, beauty clung on, defying the shadows.

The woman arrived at the office housing a number of therapists and took a seat in the quiet waiting room. She looked around and a mosaic of faces mirrored her own uncertainties. But instead of isolation, she felt a strange sense of solace. She wasn’t alone in this dance with doubt.

Her therapist called her name, and she went into the office. She sat down in a plush chair, and the therapist asked her how she was doing.

The therapist, with a gentle smile, listened as the woman poured out her story. The loss, the anger, the fear, oh, the fear, and the gnawing void where faith once resided.

“It’s okay,” the therapist finally said, her voice a soothing balm. “Finding faith isn’t always the answer. Maybe we don’t have to overthink it because maybe faith, like air, simply exists. We breathe it in without being fully aware that that is what sustains us.”

The surprised woman blinked with wet lashes. “But God?” she whispered.

The therapist shook her head. “I don’t know. But my faith in beauty remains. Even in the storm’s eye, even in the cracks of life, something shines. If I can’t see it then I must trust in the eyes of another who can. I must feel it in the warmth of a mug; hear it in the comfort of music; smell it in the emerald symphony outside. And that, for me, is enough.”

Silence stretched for a moment, then the doubting woman’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “What if I’m still oblivious to faith?”

The therapist’s eyes twinkled. “Dare to hope in a new tomorrow. Let the sunrise ignite your hope. Make a point to do the right actions, and share that radiance with others. A smile to a stranger, a surrendered parking space in a crowded lot. Remember always: the free-spirited audacity of red shoes dancing on marred gray sidewalks – these too are paths to beauty. Look at Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. The cracks, once wounds, become gilded threads, woven into the story of the piece. Like your shoes, every scar can be a flourish, a testament to resilience. Regardless of differing fortunes, we all walk paths riddled with cracks, yet they are still our steady ground.”

A wave of relief washed over the woman. She didn’t have all the answers but she had derived what she had needed: a seed of hope. She’d let up on the searching, but would continue to walk despite the brokenness, scarlet threads woven through her path, unseen but keenly felt.

Let Go🌟Let Light

Posted on December 12, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, Angels on Earth, bankruptcy, Christmas, Courage, Crisis, Damage Control, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, marriage, Meeting your needs, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Resurrection, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Total Control, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability

Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.

The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down. This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer. Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.

As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.

My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.

But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.

This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.

Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.

And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.

The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.

In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.

“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.

^{Final Letting Go …}

Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.

This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.

From Feces to Forgiveness

Posted on December 5, 2023 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, Courage, Crisis, Damage Control, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, humor, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Resurrection, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, Total Control, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, What you resist persists, Widowhood

My friend Denis M., now long retired, was not just a lawyer, but a champion for justice and certainly a pillar of support in my personal life. To this day, I consider him an important mentor who imparted invaluable lessons that have guided me through life’s turbulent waters.

I will always remember his sharing about the morning when his brisk walk to the courthouse was abruptly halted by a foul odor. His eyes darted to the source, and there, amid the manicured lawn, lay an unsightly pile of human feces. His shock was quickly replaced by a surge of anger that coursed through his veins. Fists clenched tightly, he paced the grounds, his heavy footsteps echoing his fury. With each turn, his face grew flushed, his burning desire was to identify the culprit who had dared to defile his path.

After about ten minutes of scouring the courthouse grounds, he was so emotionally shaken that he sat down on a bench to try and catch his breath. As his heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied, his thoughts turned to the perpetrator of this vile act. He wondered what kind of person could commit such a senseless, disrespectful deed. The more he pondered the individual, the more empathy he felt. He envisioned a life devoid of self-respect, a soul trapped in a state of emptiness, incapable of comprehending the degrading nature of his or her actions.

Rather than condemning the individual, Denis felt a surge of compassion. He saw a lost soul, a human being in desperate need of guidance and understanding. His anger gradually gave way to a sense of melancholy, a realization that the true tragedy lay not in the act itself, but in the desolate state of mind that drove it.

As Denis finished recounting his tale, a wave of understanding washed over me. It was like a door in my mind creaked open, allowing in a flood of light that dispelled the shadows of long-held, rigid perceptions. Forgiveness, once a distant concept shrouded in judgment, suddenly felt attainable, even desirable.

This newfound clarity manifested itself in subtle yet profound ways over the years that changed my life. Take last Sunday, for instance. I found myself drawn back to the familiar pews of my childhood church, a place I usually avoid since our family tragedy in 2019, especially when I feel emotionally exposed.

As it went, I found out that one of the parishioners, a woman in her 70s, had lost her husband, about the same age as herself. After the liturgy, my sole desire was to offer my condolences. My heart ached for her, and for her son, a man I hadn’t seen in 20 years, who stood beside her in the church hall, his grief a stoic shadow. I approached them, eager to offer comfort, and not only to share the simple truth of her son being a fine young man, but knowing how it was to lose a father when I was around his same age.

But before I could utter a greeting, the woman descended upon me. Her words tumbled out like a torrent, each one a sharp stone flung at me. “Forty-four years, that’s a long time. I had my husband for a long time,” she rasped, her voice cracking like dry leaves. “That’s a long time. But a child? Losing a child…nothing compares. It’s the worst thing, the absolute worst…”

Her son, his face etched with sorrow, simply watched.

My tiny voice, unfamiliar to my ears, piped up, “All grief is justified.”

The woman ignored me as she continued, her black eyes flickering. “I don’t know how you survive. How you get out of bed each day.” Her tirade was like a broken record. “I don’t know how you go on. How you face the day.” Her gaze, raw and accusatory, pinned me like a butterfly under glass.

“Should I just self-destruct then?” I almost retorted with a bitter humor. The thought of crumbling in front of her, offering myself as a sacrifice to her anguish, felt perversely tempting.

Her son, shoulders slumped under the weight of the woman’s emotional meltdown, his own grief shoved to a backseat, simply shook his head compassionately at me. His apology, whether for his mother’s behavior or for my being plowed over by her words, hung heavy in the air.

The air crackled with her sudden curiosity. “How’s your daughter?” she asked, her voice like a spark.

“Great!” I barked.

Leaving a house of worship should be an act of renewal, a shared understanding that even in the face of darkness, there’s a flicker of light, a whisper of hope. But this woman, she seemed to believe the very walls of the church were a shield, a fortress against the inevitable.

As I settled into the familiar embrace of my son’s car, my anger simmered. In a flash, I remembered: a leopard-print shirt, skin-tight pants, spike heels, the stage lights blindingly bright. My stand-up days, a time when humor was a shield, a weapon even.

So I channeled that young, brash 20s version of myself, the one who in the 80s faced hecklers and self-doubt with a joke and a wink.

“I don’t know how I survive, lady?” I imagined myself saying in a comedy routine, a mischievous glint in my eye. “Well, let me tell you, two days ago, I brought down the Christmas tree and old decorations. Post-tragedy stuff that had been dorment in the attic for four years, mind you. And revisiting the holiday time capsules attached to so many poignant memories, I couldn’t bare the thought of surviving one more day. And with people like you around, even the luckiest among us will feel driven to ask Santa for a stash of spiked eggnog to keep the holiday spirit bright. Cheers to surviving another season of crazy crazies, uh, I mean, Christmas cheers!”

Hardy har har.

Some say the funniest people are the ones who’ve hopped through fire. Now I understand why. But it’s not funny, really. It’s a wound, a gaping hole in the soul, masked by a thin veneer of laughter.

But this time, something felt different. A newfound strength, perhaps, or maybe a flicker of Denis’s own empathy, guided me through, while the barnacles of disdain began to loosen their grip. Forgiveness, once an abstract notion, morphed into a tangible practice. It wasn’t about condoning the actions of others; it was about releasing myself from the shackles of resentment.

I wouldn’t call it an overnight transformation, but a seed had been planted, nurtured by Denis’s example, and so many others like them over these years, along with my own mental capacity and willingness to open the door to compassion and follow the examples of my past mentors.

As I arrived home, the sunlight felt a little warmer, not just on my skin, but on my soul. The woman’s words still stung, but they also sparked a different kind of fire within me – a fire of defiance, of refusal. I wouldn’t let her define me, wouldn’t let her armor-plated judgment cast a shadow over my journey toward forgiveness. I would just see her as another soul trapped in a state of emptiness; her despair spilling over and soiling the lives of those around her.

The echo of “All grief is justified” resonated within. Her son, too, carried the weight of losing his father, yet I could discern in his compassionate gaze how he held space for empathy. And maybe, just maybe, that was the key.

Maybe, just maybe, I could carve out my own space, reclaiming the ability to laugh, not at the absurdity of life, but with it, despite it, even in the face of the woman and so many like her that I’ve encountered.

So, yes, the woman may have left a mark, but it won’t be a scar, it will be a tattoo. A reminder of the day that led me to decide to rise, to laugh, to forgive, to be in Denis’ league, and a leopard in the pews, not afraid to show my spots, not afraid to offer a hand to the woman drowning in her own inconsolable darkness.

Because in the end, isn’t that what true faith is? Not the absence of hardship and tragedy, but the unwavering belief that even in the cracks, even in the shadows, even in the face of the woman with the black eyes, we have the power to choose love. And that, my friends, is a story worth writing, a story worth laughing at, a story worth living — at least for one more day, just one more day.

Drink from the Lake: Finding Beauty in Suffering

Posted on November 21, 2023 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Support Group Resources, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, What you resist persists

As Thanksgiving week unfolds, once again I am filled with a sense of Ubuntu, a profound understanding of our shared humanity. I stand in solidarity with my indigenous brothers and sisters and all those who have been stripped bare by life’s pain, left to confront the raw vulnerability of their existence.

I attended the International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day conference last Saturday at the Noroton Presbyterian church, just as I did last year.

My fiancé accompanied me, describing the experience as “brutal” in its raw honesty. Despite the smaller group size compared to last year, the support and camaraderie among the attendees were palpable.

On the following day, marking the four-year anniversary of my son Marshall’s passing, I attended a virtual New England Survivor Day event.

Before these two events, I had been grappling with debilitating pain that brought me to my knees. Nevertheless, I found the strength to attend the first in-person conference, knowing from last year’s experience that the people involved were nothing short of extraordinary. The next day, the participants at the virtual event proved to be equally remarkable. Overall, both events provided a sense of being enveloped in loving care from start to finish. Social workers were readily available, and the fellow survivors made the extra effort to attend, making the experience all the more worthwhile.

Amidst the pain, a sense of Ubuntu and solidarity prevailed, reminding me of how an artist can convert discarded materials into something extraordinary. Deniz Sağdıç’s “Ready-ReMade” project, launched in 2015, exemplifies this concept, reimagining everyday objects and waste materials as works of art.

Similarly, during these two days, unwanted fragments of heartbreak and human wreckage were revealed in these safe and supportive zones until the grief became malleable and reshaped into something miraculously magnificent. I came to understand that it is the harsh judgment of grief, particularly in relation to suicide, that twists and distorts it, making it all the more agonizing. In its raw, unfiltered form, grief, though undeniably crippling, holds a profound divinity when allowed to flow freely, without judgment or restraint. Just as a sky without periodic clouds would be incomplete, loss and grief are an integral part of the human experience.

While the reasons behind individual tragedies lie beyond my comprehension, the weekend’s reflection has brought me a profound realization: the depths of anguish that can bring one to their knees also harbor the power of unconditional love. It is this transformative force that shatters the barriers of prejudice and guides us towards our true siblings, the kindred spirits who offer empathy, compassion and unwavering support in the face of hardship and tragedy.

One of the ultimate goals of the twelve-step program is selflessness. However, this stage of development can only be reached when an individual attains a deep-rooted faith and spirituality — a remarkable transformation that was exemplified throughout the weekend’s events.

In his book “Think Like a Monk,” Jay Shetty shares a poignant story that illustrates expanding our heart and perspective:

An old, wise woman met a young man who expressed his longing to experience the joy and beauty he observed around him from afar, while his own life was consumed by pain.

The wise woman silently poured a cup of water for the young man and handed it to him. Then, she held out a bowl of salt.

“Pour some in the water,” she instructed.

The young man hesitated, then added a small pinch of salt.

“More. A handful,” the old woman urged.

Skeptically, the young man added a scoop of salt to his cup.

The old woman gestured with her head, prompting the young man to drink. He took a sip, grimaced, and spat the water onto the dirt floor.

“How was it?” the old woman inquired.

“Not my cup of tea,” the young man replied glumly.

The old woman smiled knowingly and led the young man to a nearby lake. “Now put a handful of salt in the lake,” she instructed.

The young man complied, and the salt dissolved into the vastness of the water. “Have a drink,” the old woman said.

The young man knelt at the water’s edge and drank from his hands.

When he looked up, the old woman again asked, “How was it?”

“Refreshing,” he responded.

“Could you taste the salt?” the wise woman inquired.

The young man smiled sheepishly. “Not at all,” he confessed.

The old woman knelt beside the man, drank from the lake, and said, “The salt represents the pain of life. It is ever-present, but if you contain it in a small glass, it becomes bitter. If you disperse it into a lake, it becomes imperceptible. Expand your senses, expand your world, and the pain will diminish. Don’t be the glass. Become the lake.”

This profound analogy resonates deeply within me. We are not alone in our suffering. Pain, a universal human thread, holds the potential for transformation. With the resilience of mental capacity and the summoning of courage, we can stitch its raw essence into a profound and meaningful tapestry of transmuted art that embodies the essence of Ubuntu: “I am because you are.”

“I am not alone.”

This mantra echoed throughout the past weekend. Having participated in a twelve-step program for nearly four decades, I have heard this phrase countless times. Now, entering my fifth year after our family tragedy, I understand these words more than ever. I am not alone.

Through these two events last weekend, I have met new individuals who have become integral members of my superhero tribe of brothers and sisters that also encompasses each of you in my cherished blogging community. The extraordinary courage I have been presented with has inspired me to speak up, to acknowledge that it is okay to not be okay, to say Marshall’s name, and for the first time, year five, set him a place at the Thanksgiving table.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the support of my family, close friends, Anna, Michelle, Camille and Godmother Pat, and the blogging community. As we move forward, let us remember that we are not alone in our struggles. We are connected by our shared humanity, and we have the power to overcome adversity and find beauty in the midst of pain.

The Case of the Missing Big, Bad Bags

Posted on November 14, 2023 by cattalespress under A Writer's Life, Affirmations, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability

When I was an adolescent, Mac, along with my other peers, called me the “Bag Lady.” I don’t blame them. My purse always looked like a carry-on piece of luggage. I could have easily stuffed a 20-pound turkey and a few bags of stuffing inside, with room to spare.

I was never able to get away with slipping into the classroom at middle school — and later high school — late. As I precariously balanced my purses, the silver bracelets that looped up to my elbows, transforming my arms into two gleaming pipes, jangled and clanged incessantly. In an attempt to muffle the jarring symphony, I shuffled my feet and swayed my hips, but I always found myself teetering on the brink of toppling over.

I know getting detention for tardiness is not ideal, but it was worth it to me. My bags bulged with hardcover journals, precious cargo I clutched close to my heart. Pages upon pages overflowed with my innermost thoughts and feelings: poems, doodles, to-do lists, secrets, deep thoughts, quotes. Every inch of space was filled, a testament to my teenage angst and yearning for self-expression.

In middle school and high school, my journal was my sanctuary, a place where I documented every triumph and heartbreak, all my fleeting thoughts and deep-seated emotions. Each page was a snapshot of my life, a personal drama that unfolded before my eyes. Even my to-do lists were epic sagas, with tasks labeled “MUST DO!!” and “VIP!!!” in fiery red ink. I was the heroine, the only one who could save the day (or at least finish my homework).

With each pen stroke, I became the director of my own life, crafting a story that was uniquely mine. My journal was my canvas, and my pen was my brush.

Mac would sometimes ask me for my purse. Naive as I was, I’d hand it over without hesitation. He’d hold it up like a prize at auction, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“A bowling ball!” he’d exclaim, his voice laced with mock surprise. “It must weigh a ton.” He’d heft my purse in the air, his arms straining under the weight. Then he’d hand it back to me with a chuckle, and we’d move on to another topic without further drama.

I clutched my big bag as if it were a third hand, no matter where I went: to school, to work, or on my frequent trips to Florida. Everything inside felt as permanent and essential as fingernails. As I grew older, my time was consumed with raising a young family. My journals disappeared, replaced by small notebooks filled with inspirational quotes. But my bags remained oversized, bulging with a wallet, coupons, comb, brush, blush, and more.

Then, about seven months ago, something strange happened. Without making a conscious effort, I switched to small crossbody bags. My big, bad bags became a relic of the past.

In the wake of my trauma, I realize that my love of carrying big, bad bags was a metaphor for my fear of letting go. I was terrified of losing control, of not being enough, and of missing out. But four years ago, my life was turned upside down. I lost my son, and the future I had envisioned for myself, for us, was shattered.

I still live in a haze, waiting for Marshall to pop out of the corner. On my daughter’s recent birthday, I realized that she is now older than her older brother, who was buried with his wisdom teeth intact. She will soon be getting her wisdom teeth removed.

Compared to that loss, do I really need an extra tube of lipstick? I’ve realized that the more possessions I cling to, the heavier my burden becomes.

After experiencing a crash course in letting go, all that’s left is to trust. As unwilling as I was, I’ve retired my hero cape. I’m not anyone’s savior, not even my own. My director role has also taken a hit, falling into obscurity. I may have a unique voice, but I don’t set the stage.

I’m learning to let go and trust that certain things are beyond my control. I’m learning that I don’t need to be defined as a victim. I’m learning that pity isn’t what I want. I’m learning to trust myself and make decisions on my own, because I am a competent adult. My newfound trust stems from finally accepting this simple fact: I am enough, just as I am. Without faith in myself, who can I put it in?

As I trudge into year five without my son unexpectedly emerging from a hidden corner, I’ve learned that the things I really need can’t be carried in a bag. They are carried in my heart and soul.

Seasonal Smells of Sombre

Posted on November 7, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Nightmares, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Pipe Dreams, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sibling Death, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Support Group Resources, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, What you resist persists, zen

Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.

Orange and brown leaves danced and twirled across the brittle grass, driven by a gust of cool air outside my window. Inside, the warm and safe air was filled with the scent of my pumpkin spice candle. Last week when Halloween finally arrived, I rejoiced in the ghost town appearance of our cul-de-sac, where not a single trick-or-treater dared to venture.

It brought to mind a member of our suicide loss survivors support group on Facebook who had posted how young kids ran in front of her house and screamed, “Hanging! Hanging! That’s where the hanging was! Bad luck! Bad luck! The house is bad luck!”

The recipient of this horror was a mom whose adolescent son died by suicide in his bedroom. Surprisingly, the mom paid little attention to the comments. She told the group that the bullies were simply kids who didn’t know any better and were doing their best to process the information that adults had presented to them.

Remembering this vulnerable mom in our facebook group brought a chill that ran down my spine. Was that what the local families thought? Was that why no one had come to our door?

I realized that I wasn’t going crazy. I was crazy. The emotional rollercoaster was relentless, a ticket to the unthinkable place that became my everyday endurance. I summoned my rational mind and washed away the wave of trepidation that engulfed me, leaving me empty. Past Halloweens with my young children filled the blankness. I envisioned my ex-husband’s expert pumpkin carvings, smiley symbols of hope and abundance for the future.

Remembering only propelled me into the vastness of despair. Again, I reined in my emotions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness. I hadn’t bought any candy to give out, which was what I had wanted, but now I felt a pang of regret.

At that moment, my phone rang and I answered it. It was my dear friend, another bereaved mom.

“Anybody on your street? Did you get any trick-or-treaters?”

“Nope. Did you?”

“Seems quiet.”

We started talking about our plans for the upcoming week and other trivial things, but then about 10 minutes later, she suddenly remarked, “It sucks.”

My heart sank. We paused for a moment, our silence speaking volumes. I felt my friend’s grief through the phone line, and it mirrored my own.

But then something unexpected happened. I sensed a surge of love for my friend. It was a deep, intimate love, born of shared pain and understanding. It was the kind of love that helps us get through and paints a sign of five letters: FAITH.

“It does suck,” I said, my voice breaking.

We didn’t need to say anything else. We simply sat there on the phone, holding each other close in spirit. It was a moment of profound connection, and it was exactly what I needed to wind down and get back to breathing a bit.

After I got off the phone, I crept to my bedroom and collapsed into bed, grateful for the fresh, clean sheets, the warm heat, my good friends, and the infinite book selection on my Kindle that stretched before me like a starlit night sky.

All at once I realized that I had forgotten to extinguish the candle. I bolted out of bed and into the hallway, and as I blew out the candle on the mantle, I felt a warm glow in my heart.

For a moment, I was transported back to pumpkin patches and hay rides from long ago, when nutmeg pierced the air and squirrels zipped through carpets of fallen leaves, stashing their acorns for the upcoming winter. I heard the laughter once again of our young family, the joy on their faces as we picked out their perfect pumpkin to be carved.

And in that moment, I realized that even in all the sorrow and all the sewage, the love you once had for the season can still reawaken. Even if it was only for a second, it was love, still.

And it was enough.

^{Photo by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver on Unsplash}

Halloween: A time for fun and celebration, or a painful reminder of trauma?

Posted on October 31, 2023 by cattalespress under Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Good over evil, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, inner voice, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Long-Term Coping Strategies, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Natural above Normal, NEVER GIVE UP!, Nightmares, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sibling Death, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Support Group Resources, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, Therapy, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Validate Your Feelings, Vulnerability, war, What you resist persists, Widowhood, zen

Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.

Halloween can be a time for celebration, but it can also be a difficult holiday for trauma survivors who are sensitive to images of death and violence. As a World War II survivor, Fourth of July was the most triggering holiday for my mom. Whenever fireworks exploded, she would shield her head with her arms, transported back to her youth and the war she had to live through. She felt safer during Halloween, when the night skies were filled with the laughter and scurrying feet of children, and when gory images were less common.

After experiencing our own family tragedy, I can now look back with empathy at the memory of my mother trembling, huddled under her arms during our backyard firework shows, amidst our laughter and glee. I have come to terms with many harsh realities. The result is a sense of solidarity with trauma survivors.

With trauma victims in mind, I worry about the increasing popularity of gory Halloween decorations that promote violence and death. I’ll never again have the boundless glee of yesteryear, when I was naive and removed from personal horror. Tragedy, grief, and loss stretch you to a breaking point, like the very difficult Tripod Headstand with Lotus Pose in yoga.

To protect my mental health, I am learning to avoid areas with heavily concentrated Halloween decorations that trigger painful memories and images. If you have ever had to sever the rope of a hanging loved one, seeing decorations of hung skeletons and witches can be anything but funny. Imagine also a grieving mother facing the just-for-fun skeletons, coping with the image of her young child’s skeleton buried in the grave—a child who, perhaps, once dressed up in a skeleton costume for Halloween.

Some of our neighbors have even roped off parts of their yards with crime scene tape that says “DO NOT CROSS.” I can imagine that for anyone who has had to come home and find their family members murdered, this is not a fun reminder.

If you are part of the minority who finds Halloween difficult, please know that you are not alone. I hope you have a therapist, empathetic friend, faith-based community or support group to help you cope. Remember, too, that you don’t have to force yourself to participate in the festivities if you’re not feeling up to it. It’s okay to tell people you’re not feeling well. I, for one, plan to start my morning as I do every morning, keeping in mind those who have to sever the cord of their loved one on this day. Later, I will keep my house dark and won’t give out candy tonight. I think my mom would understand; she stopped accepting trick-or-treaters in her later years, and now I have age on my side and a perfect excuse to do the same.

To my mom: I know you really got a hoot seeing the joy in your grandchildren in Halloween costumes. I wish we could go back 30 or so years and experience just five minutes of that bliss, and oh, those delicious sugar highs!

I’m so grateful for your strength and resilience, and I love you more than words can say.

To all who celebrate, Happy Halloween! May your holiday be safe and enjoyable. To those who don’t celebrate, I wish you a peaceful and restful evening with a beautiful eruption of crisp stars in a quiet, dark night sky.

Wild About Harry

Posted on September 19, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, American Dream, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, bankruptcy, Career, Courage, Crisis, Death, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Lost youth, Military, Natural above Normal, Positive Change, Positive thinking, Problem Solving, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Simple Pleasures of Life, Sing a new song, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, To thine own self be true, Turmoil, Unsung Heroes, Veterans, war

About this time last year, Harry was surrounded by stacks of files and folders piled high on his desk, and the phone was ringing off the hook. He was a commercial real estate agent who was used to working long hours and after a brief retirement, his real estate business seemed to be flourishing.

In addition to his business dealings, Harry had been keeping years of notes about his personal experiences. He wanted to write a memoir so that future generations could learn about his life, and the Holocaust.

I first knew Harry through my dear friend Pat’s husband and then through her. Now, over this past weekend, Pat and I found out that Harry, who had the onset of dementia and suffered a recent stroke, was admitted to a hospice facility. The doctors gave him a couple of days to live. *

Harry turned 90 this past May. He had a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. Harry loved to ballroom dance with any woman who knew the steps, no matter her age. He would whisk her into a rhythmic routine, whether they were in a doctor’s office or the snack bar of an assisted living facility. He was a reminder that age is just a number.

His mother survived the Holocaust, and they managed to flee to America when he was seven. This was a Houdini-like feat, considering that the United States had restrictive immigration laws and policies in place during World War II, including the Johnson-Reed Act, which made it difficult for Jewish people, and other nationalities, to immigrate. These laws and policies were motivated by anti-Semitism and discrimination. (Interestingly, among this group that was denied visas to the U.S., as well as other countries, to flee the spread of Nazism in Europe in the 1930s was the family of Anne Frank.)

In America, Harry fought the bullies in grammar school but didn’t let them define him. He excelled in math, and in his spare time, helped his mother sell a variety of items from her truck that she and her new husband had scrimped and saved to purchase. Their hard work, determination, and entrepreneurial skills provided all the necessities they needed.

During his pre-med years at UConn, one of his professors gave him a dead cat to dissect. He looked at the cat, put down his scalpel, and said to himself, “I guess being a doctor isn’t for me.”

Harry’s change of heart led him on a different course.

Approximately 1.5 million Jews served in the Allied military during World War II, including 550,000 American Jews. Of these, 52,000 received U.S. military awards. Harry was one of them. His fluency in German made him a key player in the development of missiles, and he was awarded many distinctions and honors for his efforts. Obviously, he never held the discriminatory Johnson-Reed Act against America.

During the war, Harry married his first wife, a prominent Southern Belle, and started a family. Decades later, after his divorce, he married a second time and had a second family. His children from his first marriage are in their 60s, and his youngest son is in his 20s.

Harry’s career was as colorful and varied as his personal life. But he consistently worked hard and made money, until he lost it in his later years through no fault of his own. But he flexed his faith muscle, got back into the ring for another fight, and won another round of financial success, which kept him going to the sunset of his life.

I could tell countless stories about Harry, and I would love to write his memoir one day because I am wild about him in so many ways. But for the sake of brevity, I will focus on his humility. Even though Harry was a larger-than-life figure in business, and the last person you wanted to negotiate with, whether it was retail or real estate, he never forgot to share his wealth in many ways.

As a young entrepreneur trying to hit it big in the 1980s, I remember how Harry helped my t-shirt business. He purchased my entire stock for his thriving retail store, saving me from bankruptcy. Sure, my kids’ Godfather had requested his help, but Harry did this on his own accord and sold out of the entire line. (Pat met Harry through her now-deceased husband, and both men had met through their love of playing tennis, cementing their friendship on the court.)

Later on, when Harry went into commercial real estate, his primary job, as I see it, was providing mentorship. Sure, he was successful, but what’s success if you don’t pass it on? That’s what he did. Instead of getting wrapped up in his very important wheeling and dealing, he humbled himself to make room for others. For instance, one of his college-aged administrative assistants from Haiti, who was challenged financially and had no clear picture of the future, ended up with a highly successful career in real estate.

If only the world had mentors such as Harry. What a world it would be, wouldn’t you say?

So, around this time last year, Harry was wheeling and dealing again, until things started working against him, such as when he would get into a panicked state for the most innocuous reason. One of the last times Pat saw him, shortly after he was diagnosed with an onset of dementia, she had driven them both to dinner. During dinner, Harry became belligerent and argued with the professional and kind staff about the swift manner they were serving their meal. He insisted on “European dining.”

Needless to say, they never returned to that restaurant. Harry was confined to an assisted living facility at that point, and I knew his qualms about “European dining” were not about dining at all. He now faced a new enemy: deterioration and death. His goal was to rescue his life with the same chutzpah his mother had. Harry wanted to live longer and maintain his healthy lifestyle. After all, he was the kind of guy who could stroll through a burning building unscathed. Somebody or something was watching out for him, or he was plain lucky, at least most of the time.

Harry’s story is an inspiration to us all. He overcame incredible adversity in his life, yet, he never lost his faith or his sense of humor. He was a true mensch, often putting others before himself.

I toast you, Harry, with a glass of lemonade, your recipe that started with bitter lemons, now sugar sweet. May your legacy inspire us all to live our lives to the fullest and make the world a better place.

I imagine Harry, wearing one of my old custom-designed t-shirts from the 80s, smiling at me and raising his glass in return. “To life! To love! To lemonade! And to t-shirts!” he says.

* We received word only a few hours ago that Harry passed away peacefully this morning.

Summer Soulstice

Posted on June 13, 2023 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Courage, Crisis, Death, Do Not Be Afraid, emotions, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, grief relief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, hope, humor, illness, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Mental Health, mindfulness, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, pride, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, spirit-filled life, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Unconditional Love, Unsung Heroes, Vulnerability, zen

June kicks off the official start of summertime. The end of school. Vacations. Weddings. Graduations. Father’s Day. Surf and sun. But for those of us who have experienced loss or who live with a serious illness, it can be a season of reminders. A season of triggers that ignite a range of feelings from sadness to anger to guilt.

It’s natural to feel these emotions as a response to loss or illness, which are painful experiences. But it’s important to remember that we’re not alone going through devastating experiences. Others have also walked these paths before us. There, too, are people who will soon be forced to meet a life-threatening illness head on, as well as others who will soon cross the “Welcome to Grieve-ville” line.

When we experience crossing over these life-changing lines, it can be difficult to maintain our sense of hope and faith.

It’s as if our vibrant June-summertime-celebration canvas of life is suddenly stained with black ink, leaving us feeling helpless and lost. Weightless, dripping, dissolving in tears; questions pelting down on us.

“Why did this happen to me?” or “What’s the point of going on?” or “How will I ever get through this?”

It’s okay to ask these questions. In fact, it’s important to do so because it addresses how we honestly feel. But it’s also important to remember that we don’t have all the answers. Sometimes, we just have to trust that there is a greater purpose, even when we don’t understand the logic behind it.

While it may seem like the end of the world (and, maybe, in some ways it is), one way to gain strength to carry on is to realize that we are not alone in this journey. For instance, currently about 12 million people in the United States live with PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder).

Twelve million people. That’s no small potatoes when you consider the numbers!

There is power in numbers. Interestingly, when I looked up the significance of the month of June, I not only discovered that it is Alzheimer’s & Brain Awareness Month, but it also serves as a reminder for the following themes:

 LGBTQ+ Pride Month
 PTSD Awareness Month
 Gun Violence Awareness Month
 Immigrant Heritage Month

Obviously, these important themes can inspire some heavy-duty conversations and help create positive change in our society. It makes me call to mind how we are connected through our vulnerability — and make no mistake about it — we are all vulnerable because we are human. We are all capable of experiencing pain, both physical and emotional. We are all susceptible to illness and injury. We are all subject to the whims of fate.

Likewise, June is a month of change. In June, as in life, nothing remains the same. The days are long and warm, and the sun sets later in the evening. Given this, we have a longer time period to schedule a few minutes of awe, watching the golden summer sun dip below the frothy, creamy horizon. It is a good time, too, to take stock of our collective strength and resilience and stay focused on how precious our time really is — encompassing joy, pain and sorrow all at once. In this way, our lives become a poignant concerto of experiences and memories that fall nothing short of a symphony. We all have the power to create our own grand finale one day. Whether it’s through our words, actions, or simply our presence, we can strive for a legacy that deserves nothing less than a standing ovation and, perhaps, a sweet rainbow-colored sprinkle of “BRAVO!”