To backtrack for a moment: Like many, I carry invisible scars. Some days, venturing out feels like navigating a minefield. There was an event out of town, one that involved a precious child I adore. Logic dictated I should be there, celebrating with everyone else. Yet, a deep, primal instinct urged me to say no and stay home. Guilt gnawed at me, the familiar monster of “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”
With a sigh, I embarked on errands. As I wrestled with the “should haves,” a familiar wave of loneliness washed over me. Trips, at last completed, I climbed into the car and turned on the radio. The lyrics, a powerful ballad by Melissa Etheridge titled “This is Not Goodbye,” which I had never heard before, transcended physical presence. The lyrics spoke of goodbyes that weren’t endings, but simply chapters turning.
I pulled over, unable to contain my emotions. In that moment, it became crystal clear. It was not about blind faith, but trusting the divine spark within us. Even when it feels counterintuitive to follow the spark that guides us on our unique paths.
By honoring my intuition, my own needs and saying no to the event, a space had opened up. A space of grace that, quite literally, allowed a visit from my son, Marshall, who had passed over four years ago at the far too young age of 26. However brief, it was a confirmation that love endures, that some connections defy the boundaries of time and space.
So, the next time that nagging “should I?” creeps in, take a moment. Breathe. Listen within. You might just be surprised by the unexpected beauty that awaits when you honor your own truth. It might just guide you towards something far more magical than you could ever have planned, reminding you that you are always held, loved, and guided.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
Ruby, a precious gemstone prized for centuries for its beauty, rarity, and strength, also symbolizes love, passion, and faith. While some wear ruby jewelry to mark milestones, I found myself drawn to a 14k gold ruby ring during my tumultuous divorce in 2011.
Some people might have questioned why I had chosen to wear it daily at such a time of emotional and financial upheaval, perhaps perceiving it as flaunting wealth amid chaos. However, the truth was, the ring gave me a sense of control I desperately needed in my vortex of life.
Most of us have our personal ways to seek grounding and stability in life’s unpredictable moments, and sometimes it’s the “things” we hold dear that guide us back to our center. While some might find solace in religious symbols, such as a crucifix, for me, a simple ruby ring had served as a powerful anchor. It offered a sense of calm and strength, much like the red shoes provided balance for the woman I wrote about in a previous blog post.
While I rarely wear the ring anymore, whenever I come across that beautiful ruby ring tucked away in my jewelry box, it serves as a powerful reminder. The ring whispers tales of past chapters, highlighting the importance of personal anchors. This realization also prompts me to soften my judgments when I see others clinging to their own possessions, whether it be a cherished trinket or a flashy car. All things considered, life’s journey is rarely smooth. If driving a ruby red Mercedes or wearing a ruby ring helps someone navigate life’s bumps and roadblocks, who am I to judge? Perhaps the truest faith lies not only in traditional beliefs, but in the quiet understanding that many of us possess our own personal talismans that not only help stabilize us in life’s storms, but power us forward. Ultimately, we all carry our own burdens, and sometimes the most faithful act is simply acknowledging the quiet battles fought behind the projected facades as well as victories celebrated within the hearts of others.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
As a child raised in the Ukrainian Catholic Church, I spent countless hours participating in rituals. Crossing into adulthood, however, these memories transformed into associations with aching knees from kneeling, a stiff back from standing for what felt like an eternity, and a constant glance at the clock’s hands that seemed frozen in time, like a nagging hemorrhoid.
Despite my aversion to the rigid structure of my religious childhood memories, as an adult, I found myself drawn to the role of Cubmaster and leading my son’s Cub Scout troop for several years. While vastly different, the organization provided a surprising sense of comfort and familiarity through its own set of rituals. This experience reinforced the idea that while we may evolve throughout life, fundamental human needs, like the desire for connection and belonging, endure.
These memories and discussion of heritage brings me back to the day that my older brother, Michael, passed on March 18, 2002. It was one of profound grief that forever altered me. Later that year, when Bruce Springsteen’s album “The Rising” was released, the song “You’re Missing” became a source of immense comfort, its lyrics resonated deeply within the void left by my brother’s absence. I sang along to it repeatedly as I drove aimlessly through our neighborhood. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the steering wheel in a silent, unconscious ritual.
Two decades later, this March and my brother’s passing feels particularly poignant, perhaps triggered by a beautiful blog post titled “Photographs,” Reclaiming the Forgotten, written by Anand, the son of my dear friend, Preema, whom I consider my Indian karmic sister.
In the moving reflection, Anand remembers his brother, Shyam, who passed away in 1994. “Nobody has asked to see my brother’s picture for a while. In a house full of books & papers, stationery & cutlery, clothes & bags, old letters & broken hardware – that I don’t have a ready picture of this feels like a small betrayal.”
Reading these inspiring words, a realization dawned. Over four years ago, following our family tragedy, I, too, had unknowingly committed a small betrayal. Grief narrowed my world after losing my son, and I had pushed my brother away. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten him or erased him. It was more that the raw pain of losing Marshall had painted gray shades over everything, etching little space for anything else.
To my surprise, as Anand delved into photo albums, reminiscing about his brother, I found myself drawn to a different kind of search. Borage seeds, to be precise.
These vibrant white flowers have thrived in our front garden for the past two years, and I felt compelled to plant a third batch yesterday – a little earlier than usual, on the anniversary of Mike’s passing. Planting the seeds felt like a fitting tribute to leaving room for my brother’s memories. It was a simple act that promised to become a cherished annual ritual. (My photo albums in the attic of Mike as well as my son can’t wait much longer either!)
After reading Anand’s beautifully written elegiac blog, which triggered so many other layers of grief in me, I also started to reread a blog, Big Brother Musings, I had written about Mike two years ago. That particular blog includes a letter I wrote in Mike’s honor. The following is an excerpt from it, “Not because you were handsome, strong, generous, compassionate, highly intuitive and intelligent and a war hero to boot, but because you knew that everything, no matter how utterly defective, stained, sinned or doomed, could root, grow and live under one condition: that it is planted in a bedrock of unconditional love.”
Was it a coincidence to purchase the seeds for planting in memory of the bedrock of his legacy?
The letter ends, “Dear Big Brother, I hope I see you someday. Feel your arms around me again and see the twinkle in your eyes when you gently whisper, ‘Peace.’”
This spring as the seeds sprout and mature, I hope to begin each day gazing out my window, the sight rekindling a sense of peace and gratitude. Though flowers bloom only during certain seasons, faith, in the face of loss, can blossom and flourish year-round, only needing a minimal space of its own to take root.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
As I picture the broken mirror that I wrote about last week, in my mind, I’m still struck by how its shattered fragments reflect the fractured pieces of my own life. But perhaps, instead of striving to mend them perfectly like the Japanese art of Kintsugi, there’s another path. Maybe it’s time to let go of these pieces, to remove them from the space they occupy in my mind. In their place, I can choose something new, something that uplifts rather than burdens my spirit.
This “something new” needn’t reflect a physical object. It could be the act of comforting the scared child within me, the one who’s carried burdens for too long. Whispering reassurances to my five-year-old self, “This too shall pass. You have the strength to overcome. Have a little faith and trust in yourself. Map out the future. Make a plan.“
Perhaps it’s time to reconnect with my grounding force, those often-overlooked feet that carry me through life. With newfound stability, I can rise tall and claim my rightful solid space in the universe.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
We’ve all heard that broken mirrors bring bad luck. Seven years to be exact. Well, six years ago, a stray mattress shattered the mirrored back of our small china cabinet. I shrugged it off at the time, preoccupied with other matters.
A few months ago, my dear friend Michelle recommended a wonderful handyman. Recently, while he was working on some odd jobs, our conversation turned to the china cabinet’s broken mirrored back.
“My wife won’t allow any broken mirrors in our house,” he said, his voice heavy with an unspoken worry. His words clung to the air, making the shattered reflection before me appear ominous. The cracks seemed to mirror the fractures in my own life, the hardships I’d endured, and the raw pain of our family’s tragedy.
Even though I was raised in a superstitious family, I didn’t really believe a piece of glass held any power over my circumstances. Fortunately, I do have a little more faith than that — but just in case — I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Maybe the broken mirror brought the bad luck into the house! I want it out as soon as possible!”
A few weeks later as the mirror came out, there was such a lightness in its place. I felt this sense of renewal – not in a superstitious “now things will be perfect” sort of way, Instead, it felt like a chapter had closed and getting rid of the broken mirror felt incredibly liberating.
During a conversation with Michelle, she mentioned something a friend, who had recently retired from the corporate world, had shared: “Hope is not a strategy.”
The wisdom resonated with me. I realized that removing the broken mirror was the true strategy. In doing so, I found hope. Perhaps the real power lies not in the shattered glass itself, but in the courage to choose change and embrace hope.
We all hold on to things, physically and otherwise, that no longer serve us. Whether it’s an old teacup with a stain, an item of clothing with a tear, or even a situation or person we can’t seem to move on from… sometimes letting go is the most cleansing and rejuvenating action we can take.
What are you holding onto that it may be time to release?
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
A common refrain in the face of tragedy, often dismissed as a platitude.
But in Akin’s stream of thought, a main character in Stay With Me, Ayobami Adebayo reveals a powerful truth: Sometimes, the most profound emotions reside in the absence of words.
“I realized that the ground under our feet had just been pulled away, we were standing on air, and my words could not keep us from falling into the pit that had opened up beneath.”
Through grief, we confront the universal cavity life eventually carves, a void even the most eloquent language cannot fill. That’s Akin’s experience when he grapples with the devastating loss of his second child and is forced to reveal the truth to his wife, Yejide.
Without revealing the entire powerful story of Stay with Me by Ayobami Adebayo, let me say this: it’s a poignant exploration of love, loss, and the intricate bonds of family. While it delves into sensitive topics and doesn’t shy away from life’s harsh realities (trigger warnings advised), it also offers a captivating portrayal of Nigerian culture and societal pressures in the 1980s.
Can Yejide and Akin, the central characters, rise above their suffering? To answer that, we must first define what constitutes suffering and what defines strength? Does abandonment, for example, truly shield us from pain or, simply, compound matters?
If you haven’t read the book, prepare for twists and turns, even taboo ones.
The reason Stay With Me resonates with me is that the novel’s message transcends the specific narrative. It challenges the notion of starting life with grand expectations of a perfect world. Instead, it urges us to embrace reality – a reality where loss is inevitable, where storms are guaranteed. It’s in navigating these storms, in weathering the tides of hardship until true faith reveals itself.
While I was immersed in Stay With Me, my friend Pat presented me with Winter of the Heart, Finding Your Way through the Mystery of Grief, by Paula D’Arcy. This book, gifted to Pat by a mother who had lost her daughter to suicide, was part of a grief resource bundle. As I delved into its pages, I realized the uncanny connection – both books explored profound themes of loss and grief, making Pat’s gift feel divinely timed and deeply meaningful.
Here’s an excerpt from a section called, It’s Your Turn from Winter of the Heart: Although loss feels personal and isolating, it’s common to all humankind. Countless men and women have traveled this road; many are walking with us right now. The book of Ecclesiastes repeats the phrase “There is a time.” It’s true. Eventually there is a time when we all lose someone or something of great value to us. We expect grief in the wake of deep loss, but even everyday losses and unmet expectations may surprise us with force. The common experience of loss binds us all. We will each take a turn one day; we cannot escape life. We can only meet our circumstances with a deepening awareness of what it means to live life fully.
Instead of chasing some nebulous concept of “happiness,” what if we set our sights on a life that’s full? Consider the dictionary definition of “full”: packed to the brim, complete, lacking nothing. Now, compare that to “happy”: a fleeting state of well-being and contentment.
Life typically isn’t a neatly plotted story with a guaranteed happy ending. Nor does it have to contain a heart-wrenching Stay by Me plot line. But in a full life, the twists and turns, the moments navigated by blind faith, become chapters in a rich and vibrant story.
“I have no words,” becomes a celebration of life’s unpredictable nature. Because in a full life, the ending isn’t written yet. It’s an open book, waiting to be filled with the messy, magnificent adventure that is called your life.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 