Finding Faith and Empowerment in the December Night Sky
No matter where you live or what traditions you hold dear, I invite you to take a special moment this Monday, December 25th, when many celebrate Christmas, to simply observe the vastness of the night sky.
Above, twinkling like diamonds scattered on black velvet, are countless stars. Each one, a testament to the incredible power and mystery of the universe. Some, long extinguished and no longer with us, yet their light continues to shine. Their existence reminds us that even in the face of death, something beautiful and enduring can remain.
As you ponder the celestial dance above, allow your mind to wander beyond the limitations of our earthly existence. Imagine the countless galaxies and planets swirling through the cosmic void, each harboring untold stories and unfathomable wonders. In this vastness, we can find not only a sense of humility, but also an exhilarating sense of possibility.
So, under the watchful gaze of the night sky, take a moment to reflect, to marvel, and to find strength and inspiration for the journey ahead.
This Monday, let the stars inspire you to believe in the impossible, to dream bigger, and to reach for the light of faith.
Even when doubt whispers and darkness looms, remember your own light within you. The smallest spark can ignite a fire like the loneliest star that can guide a ship to shore. Dim or bright, unearth your light, and let it rise. Be the beacon that guides your own journey, and in doing so, illuminates the way for others lost in a starless night.
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.
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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.
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“Take a second mortgage on the house and get one of those … It’s a vanilla bean; they’re expensive.”
In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Chef Jean-Pierre’s melodious French accent echoed through our house. My partner, Mark, was deeply engrossed in one of the chef’s YouTube videos, determined to master a recipe for crème brûlée, as a tribute to my late son Marshall, who loved the delicate custard dessert.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and sweet, as well as curried, aromas blended seamlessly with the roasted turkey and simmering gravy, filling our home and mingling with the bittersweet scent of memories. As my daughter, her BF and my life partner and I gathered around the table, our hearts held a mixture of gratitude, sorrow and unwavering love.
This Thanksgiving, our fourth without Marshall and his wry humor and roll-up-your-sleeve helping attitude, was a poignant reminder of the profound impact he had on our lives for his brief 26 years on earth.
Inspired by last weekend’s conferences, I hoped to rekindle the warmth and joy that Marshall brought to our Thanksgiving gatherings by not only making one of his favorite desserts, but also his signature curry pumpkin coconut soup.
I had special-ordered white ceramic dessert dishes, only to be baffled by the sudden appearance of a crystal clear one in the sink that no one could account for. (Later, it was revealed to me that the dish was my dear childhood friend, Anna’s.)
Marshall Matters
This was the first holiday that I decided to set a place at the table for my son. To my astonishment, Marshall’s photo slid out from the cutlery, as if guided by an unseen force. Immediately, I knew to place the photo from 2008 front and center on his designated chair. The place setting was a simple gesture, and it brought a sense of comfort amid our grief.
The meal was a symphony of flavors and memories. It began with the creamy, aromatic soup that evoked Marshall’s infectious laughter and his love for curry in each sip and ended with the velvety crème brûlée, nesting in its delicately caramelized crust that reminded us of his sweet tooth and his insatiable curiosity for new culinary experiences. Marshall mattered, and so did my mom, dad and brother Michael. Although they were no longer physically present, their spirits were woven into the very fabric of the gathering.
As our stomachs filled so did our hearts. In the quiet moments between laughter and tears, there was a sense of peace, a gentle acceptance of the inevitable.
This past Thanksgiving, though tinged with sadness, served as a testament to the enduring power of faith, love and the resilience of the human spirit. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always light to be found, and that love’s embrace extends beyond the confines of mortality, like the lingering aroma of a cherished spice.
1 tablespoon olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon ginger, grated 1 tablespoon red curry paste 1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes 1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree 1 (13.5-ounce) can coconut milk 2 cups vegetable broth 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 tablespoon lime juice, plus more to taste
Garnish(Optional):
Fresh cilantro leaves Pumpkin seeds
Shredded Coconut or Coconut milk Lime wedges
Instructions:
Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, ginger, and curry paste and cook for 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Stir in the diced tomatoes, pumpkin puree, coconut milk, vegetable broth, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Using an immersion blender or a regular blender, puree the soup until smooth.
Stir in the lime juice to taste.
Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish, if you like, with cilantro, pumpkin seeds, shredded coconut, coconut milk and/or lime wedges.
Chef Jean-Pierre’s Recipe for Crème Brûlée in Honor of Marshall
Ingredients:
4 whole eggs ½ cup granulated sugar or ¼ sugar and 2 ounces white chocolate 12 ounces whole milk 12 ounces heavy whipping cream 1 pinch salt 1 tablespoon pure Tahitian vanilla extract or imitation vanilla extract
Equipment:
4 ramekins or small baking dishes Large saucepan Mixing bowls Whisk Fine-mesh sieve Culinary torch or broiler Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 325°F (163°C). Place the ramekins in a baking dish and set aside.
In a saucepan, combine the milk, cream, white chocolate and vanilla extract. Heat over medium heat until just simmering.
In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and salt until well combined.
Gradually whisk the hot milk mixture into the egg mixture until fully incorporated.
Strain the custard through a fine-mesh sieve into a clean bowl to remove any impurities.
Divide the custard evenly among the prepared ramekins.
Carefully fill the baking pan with hot water to reach about halfway up the sides of the ramekins.
Place the baking pan in the preheated oven and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the custards are set, but still slightly jiggly in the center.
Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool completely on a wire rack.
Refrigerate the crème brûlée for at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight.
Enjoy your Chef Jean-Pierre’s Crème Brûlée in honor of someone you love!
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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.
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.
Marshall Matters
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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If I wake up each morning reminding myself that I am not the creator of the world, I will have the balance I need to meet any circumstance, no matter how far the forces beyond my control tip the scale of my life.
This Sunday, October 29, marks 39 years since I began learning this simple truth through a 12-step program, which I believe is the greatest healer of modern times. As a 20-something-year-old with a big ego, I embarked on a humbling journey. As I approach the final chapter of my life, things did not turn out as planned, but the upshot is I am grateful for the opportunity to be a small part of a much larger universe, over which I have little control. As others have shown me by example, we can learn to appreciate the miraculous gift of embracing our limited human powers.
Cornelia is an example of one of the mentors who taught me how humility and empowerment coexist. I met her when she was in her late 60s or early 70s, and she lived into her mid-80s. Let me put it this way: when she walked into my brother’s wake as the first guest, the trembling floor beneath me turned to steel.
If it wasn’t a solemn occasion, Cornelia wore bold colors that didn’t blind you, but kidded you into believing you had a jolt of caffeine. High heels, tights, plaid skirts and crisply ironed tops, she dressed up, without fail, as if she were a presiding member on a garden club committee.
Cornelia was an expert on turning a frown into a smile. She had a compassion and love for others that was truly inspiring. This woman embraced everyone and never allowed her tragic circumstances to turn her into a victim. After losing her husband, she became a young widow. Her first son died in a freak car crash, and her second and only son, a pilot, perished in a plane crash caused by mechanical failure. These were just two of the many trials she faced throughout her life. Despite it all, she spent her final years volunteering at a local bereavement and critical illness support community center.
Don’t mistake being humble, loving, and compassionate for being a pushover. Cornelia fought for justice in her life and rarely failed to obtain it when it was due.
Cornelia’s example taught me to stand tall. After one of her endless pep talks, I approached my nemesis head-on, armed with her grace, dignity, humility, and an unbreakable sense of empowerment.
“Hold your head up. Always. Carry the program with you,” she said. To this day, I align myself with her advice, for that is the legacy of love she left me.
I remember the last time we went out for dinner. The sun was setting, and the sky was ablaze with color. We reached out and held hands, and we reveled in the silence of the miraculous creation around us. I felt her steel side holding me up, as it still does when I need it the most.
You can’t possibly spend nearly two decades with someone like Cornelia and not grow small in a miraculous way. Recently, my watching a sunset brought her back to me. The sky radiant with the colors she wore to celebrate life, even when she was maneuvering through a personal swamp of grief and loss.
I took a breath and closed my eyes. Recalling the warmth of Cornelia’s palm in mine, I felt peace envelop me. I opened my eyes and looked around. The trees were tall and majestic, and the sunny-side up marigolds were still in full bloom, past the halfway mark of October.
I reminded myself that I was a part of all this wonder. I was a part of nature. I was a part of the universe. I shrank in size. My problems and my concerns were not the most important things in the world. But I also felt connected. I felt loved, humbled by it all. Empowered to know that it is possible to find gratitude in the rubble, and all I had to do to gain this great insight was to step outside, stop and settle down long enough to take it all in.
Just before indigo bled into the the sky’s mighty pageantry, I heard Cornelia’s final earthly words to me that help me keep the faith:
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For years, my mom and I had a daily telephone ritual. When she called, her words, “How are you?” would slam me right through the phone like a bowling ball hitting a strike.
“Fine!” I would reply.
Things were never fine with my mom. Never. And, sooner or later, she’d push, and I’d be cornered into telling her the truth about what was really going on in our household, whether it involved the car breaking down or my kids losing their lunch money. Interestingly, I felt better after unloading the daily grievances.
Then my mom would often complain about the behavior of a few people — sometimes including me. She had her favorite targets, and I would sometimes find her complaints humorous, while other times I found them downright mean. But I always listened, because it would eventually turn out that she was right. At least 99% of the time.
It was as if she had a special lens that detected everyone’s flaws. She didn’t hold back; she was always honest, even if it was painful to hear. Admittedly, I spent years trying to hush her up, soften and polish her, but she continued to speak her mind. Period.
Finally, after I had children of my own, I eased up on my mom and gave her the space she needed to be herself. In fact, I owe a great debt to my children, because they were the ones who taught me just how endearing my mom was despite all her imperfections. Once I could step back from my own expectations and give her the space, I saw her humor, her creativity, and her incredible insights and sparks — many, many sparks! I was able to change my behavior toward her by asking myself the question, “Who was I to kill her spirit?”
Over the years, as I experienced betrayal and deception from others in my life, I appreciated my mom even more. She was my anchor, because I always knew where I stood with her.
As I backed off and eased up on my judgments of her, she learned the importance of tact and discretion on her own. She learned that sometimes, it’s better to say nothing at all. And this resulted from my not intervening and trying to mold her character in my image!
What I appreciate most about my mom is that she taught me the importance of having a voice by her own example. She was who she was, flaws and all.
I reflected a lot on my mom last week after I heard that Sinéad O’Connor had passed away. You wouldn’t think that the two women had much in common, but they shared a solidarity of pain and a few other things that connected them.
Anyway, I heard the news on the radio while I was driving in the car. “We have some sad news. The great Irish singer, Sinéad O’Connor, has passed away,” the news anchor announced. “She was 56 years old.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I listened to the report. A wave of shock and sadness washed over me. I pulled over to the side of the road and started crying. As much as I couldn’t believe it, it was something I had worried about after the talented woman’s son, Shane, had died by suicide a year ago.
I felt as if I had lost yet another partner in our solidarity in pain. I sat there for a few minutes, just crying and listening to her music that the station started to play in a tribute to the late singer. No denying, she was a spitfire, but she was so much more.
Often when people hurt and grieve, they fall deeply inward. What never ceased to amaze me was how during her grief journey, Sinéad did not forget about other mothers who were in her position. She may have suffered from grief and mental illnesses, but she made room to remember others who hurt.
If you could look past her infamous moments, many of which were misunderstood and none of which she regretted, Sinéad O’Connor was a lifelong advocate for the vulnerable and, in essence, gave so many people faith and hope. In fact, during one of her interviews, she said she wanted her concerts to represent a church for some audience members, a place where they could find faith and hope.
I thought about how many people she had helped over the years. She had given them a voice, a platform, and a sense of community. She had shown them that they were not alone, and that they were worthy of love and respect.
Our society often encourages people to have diverse voices, stands and opinions. However, it is also true that people who speak out against the status quo, especially against the principles of the norm, often face backlash. Sinéad, like my mom, spoke their truth, even in the face of opposition. My dear friend Kit always reminded me that it’s easy to blend in with the crowd, but it takes real courage to be the lone voice of dissent.
Taking a deep breath, I started the car. I would go home and listen to Sinéad’s music some more. I would cry some more, but I would also remember the times when I was young and single, feeling as if I were the only person on Earth. But when I turned on the radio and heard Sinéad’s voice, I found the strength to not only keep moving, but to even kick up my heels and dance.
I imagined Sinéad, hopefully, finally at peace alongside her beloved son. I saw her calling it the way she saw it, in the company of my mom, their spitfire spirits floating around, sparking their own brand of music, driving everybody batty but never backing down.
I knew that the two spitfire figures would continue to inspire me, even in death. They had taught me the importance of speaking my truth, even when it was difficult. They taught me that it was okay to be different and that it was possible to find strength in your pain.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 