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.
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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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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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Despite my reservations, I decided to attend “The Judds: The Final Tour” concert last Saturday. I had a variety of concerns about the event that were causing me to hesitate, none of which I’ll elaborate on, but in the end, I decided to take the plunge and go with my dear friend, Camille, who secured the tickets. As it turned out, my worries were unfounded.
Wynonna Judd has been a household name since the early 90s when she rose to fame as a country music star. Her success was meteoric, and she quickly became one of the most popular country singers of all time. However, despite her fame and success, although I liked and sang along to her hits on the radio, I was never a huge fan. Since Lucille Ball died in 1989, I did not conform with the masses and follow any other entertainers, singers or celebrities.
Before our family tragedy, I had been an avid fan of country/western music. Now, I no longer feel the same connection to this genre. I was curious, however, to see how Wynonna would bring her style of music to life on the stage. I wasn’t sure what to expect. After all, I had never seen her perform before. But when she took the stage and started playing her country music, I was blown away by her talent and energy that had me – and the rest of the audience – captivated from start to finish.
The Judd family has been in the public eye for many years, and during that time, many rumors and conflicts have come to light. It is no secret that the Judds have also faced a great deal of mental health challenges, ranging from depression to addiction. The matriarch, Naomi, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound on April 30, 2022, the day before she and Wynonna were scheduled to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. The concert we went to was initially intended to be part of Naomi and Wynonna’s tour, the first one in nearly a decade that the singers announced on April 11, nine days before the tragedy happened.
Strongly influenced by her husband, Cactus, after her mom’s death, Wynonna decided to perform the tour solo. Her decision has led her to be a symbol of hope and faith for many people, myself among them. The singer’s strength lies in her ability to perform while grieving her recent loss, especially when you consider the scope of the monster. Labeling grief as an emotion or feeling is only looking at it in a very limited way. Grief is more like a giant sponge that absorbs and affects us on all levels – physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. For Wynonna, there is no running away from the pain. Instead, she takes it head-on with her fearless attitude.
Grief is also a universal emotion, yet it is often associated with shame and taboo. On stage, one woman has chosen to counter this stigma by sharing her story of loss and grief in an open and honest way. Through Wynonna’s tears, she communicates to others that it is okay to cry, to feel pain, and freely express emotions and, thereby, encourages others to confront their own uncomfortable feelings. Furthermore, she demonstrates resilience by continuing to live a different version of life after grief’s transformative effect.
As I looked around the room during the concert, I was taken aback by the sight of numerous rows of empty seats. It was a stark contrast to the energy and enthusiasm that Wynonna spread throughout the arena. Instead of ignoring the empty seats, she addressed them directly, revealing her difficulty in coming to terms with empty seats when she was a young performer. She told the audience that she now at 58 years old understands that quality is more important than quantity. She has experienced the highs and lows of life and decided that living meaningfully is what truly matters. On the night of the concert, it was definitely quality and not quantity that counted. The atmosphere was electric. As Wyonna put it, it felt as if there were 10,000 people in the audience cheering and singing along to every song. She confided that, as it turned out, we had been her BEST audience during that particular week.
The performer shared during an interview that the goal of her performances on this tour was to heal. The stage, in fact, was filled with love, a powerful emotion that has the ability to bring people together and heal broken hearts. It was a sight to behold, as people of all ages and backgrounds were united in love. Last week, I wrote about the topic of love and actually planned to write about it this week with a totally different story angle until I attended the concert.
Interestingly, when I watched Wynonna and Cactus, an amazing drummer, singing and gazing into each other’s eyes, I, too, was moved by their deep connection, a positive element of their relationship that she has also publicly discussed. It was a reminder that true love is not always about grand gestures, but more about being present to the moment and appreciating what you have.
Wynonna’s performance became further enhanced by her nostalgic mix of photos and videos that served as a reminder of the many impactful memories Wynonna’s mom created in her lifetime. At the end of the concert, it was particularly heartwarming to hear Wynonna singing along with a synced video image of her mom singing too.
The music of a vulnerable human being is something that goes beyond just sound. It is an expression of deep emotion and experience that can touch the heart and soul of listeners. When such a person sings, it is as if they are presenting themselves in a poignant song, inviting us to feel their pain and joy in every note. I was drawn to Wynonna’s music and able to reflect and introspect in a way in which I connected with the artist on a deeper level than I could ever have imagined. Her music moved me emotionally, helped me process my own grief I was feeling at the time. Even though country/western music is no longer the genre that defines me as it once did, Wynonna helped me understand that it still holds a special place in my heart. I cannot erase the part it played, along with my memories, in my own unique narrative and journey. Who would have dreamed that in about an hour and a half of her performance, though I knew the power of love could heal a broken heart, what I didn’t fully grasp was the importance of understanding how the bridge of love had already been built inside me over a long course of time. I can look at both sides, inward and outward, and find solace despite the pain and hurt, see a broken heart and take comfort in the fact that its quality as a vessel of love remains.
The tip of my head to the bottom of my toenails hurt and every part in between. Last Wednesday, January 18th, on what would have been my son’s 30th birthday, I needed a lot of love. More than usual. The stillness of the day exemplified how the world has moved on, and I’m still stuck in the quicksand of November 2019.
The people I thought would at very least “check in” must have “checked out,” because I did not hear a word from any of them, and I found myself focusing on the disappointment rather than on the joy I felt from those who DID show up with kind-hearted words, text messages and emails.
My dear friend, Camille, in fact, surprised me with a lovely sunflower bouquet and beautiful greeting card.
In addition, during the last year, I’ve been honored to assist in writing a widow’s grief memoir. The relatively young widow, Michelle, happens to be a dear friend of mine. The book is partly composed of letters she writes to her deceased husband who passed away tragically three months prior to our family’s tragic loss. Last Wednesday, feeling weighed down with grief, I happened to reread one of her letters in which she elaborates on her mother-in-law’s grief of losing a son.
“I know she is as grief-stricken, but she is stronger than I am and loves more because she doesn’t want any of us to be sad for her. She knows we all have our own grief, and she doesn’t want to add to it.”
Miraculously, through the day I channeled this incredible woman, Rita, whom I know only through writing about her, and found myself feeding on her reservoir of love.
“I don’t want anyone to be sad for me.” I repeated, breaking the pronounced silence of the day.
A repeated lesson that I seem to have to relearn constantly is that love is the most powerful emotion in this world. It can change everything ALWAYS. It’s like a ray of sun beaming through the grayest of days. It is a life force; an energy; a mega dose of Vitamin C.
The day ended on a bittersweet note. I hadn’t heard from my 28-year-old daughter all day on Wednesday. I thought she needed the space and privacy, and the solitude to put one foot in front of the other and inch forward.
At around six p.m. that evening, she called, out of breath. I could barely understand her words. “The cemetery is so dark.”
“What?” You got in your car directly after work, jumped into the height of traffic, and you sat on the highway for an hour, just so you could visit your brother in the dark cemetery, even though I do believe it’s supposed to close at sunset? That all sounds kind of risky to me.
I refrained from saying how crazy I felt her actions were, especially since her character is usually driven by pure logic. Though I will say that they were incredibly similar to what I would have done at her age in her situation, working purely from an emotional realm.
Our conversation was filled with love and honesty, and it reaffirmed my faith in the power of love. This is what love looks like when it’s real — when there are tears and laughter and sadness all mixed together in one moment in time. In the end, all that matters is not a perfect public facade that masks our private despair, but the intimate moments of our imperfect hearts.
I’m learning that grief is my price to pay for love. Paradoxically, living through grief has helped me to push, stretch until it feels unbearable, love in an insurmountable way.
Camille’s sunflower bouquet: nearly a week later, but still beautiful
A few seconds after I heard that Lisa Marie Presley, the only child of singer and actor Elvis Presley and actress Priscilla Presley, died at a California hospital last Thursday from a cardiac arrest, I intrinsically knew she died from a broken heart. Ms. Presley lost her only son, Benjamin Keough, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the age of 27 on July 12, 2020, at his house in Calabasas, California.
After hearing the news about Lisa Marie, my sadness seemed unrelenting, because I had followed every segment of her grief story. Each time she shared a bloody slice of her grief to the world, I grew short of breath. All that came to my mind was the figure of Atlas in Greek mythology. He was a Titan condemned to hold up the world for eternity.
Man, when I visualize Atlas, I can’t stand his back-breaking pose; and, alas, I imagined Lisa Marie’s face instead of his. It was like looking into a metaphorical mirror and seeing my own reflection.
Five months prior to her death, in honor of National Grief Awareness Day, “Lisa Marie Presley penned an emotional essay” about her journey and the lessons she learned after her son died.
In the essay, she writes: “Death is part of life whether we like it or not — and so is grieving. There is so much to learn and understand on the subject, but here’s what I know so far: One is that grief does not stop or go away in any sense, a year, or years after the loss. Grief is something you will have to carry with you for the rest of your life, in spite of what certain people or our culture wants us to believe. You do not “get over it,” you do not “move on,” period.”
Coincidentally, my niece sent my daughter and me a text, “This made me think of you both…” and a copy of the same essay that appeared in People magazine with the headline, “Lisa Marie Presley Said She Was ‘Destroyed’ by Son Benjamin’s Death.”
At the time my niece sent it to me, I couldn’t bear to look at it until days later.
In the same essay she wrote the excerpt below:
” … grief is incredibly lonely. Despite people coming in the heat of the moment to be there for you right after the loss takes place, they soon disappear and go on with their own lives and they kind of expect for you to do the same, especially after some time has passed. This includes “family” as well. If you’re incredibly lucky, less than a handful will remain in contact with you after the first month or so. Unfortunately, that is a cold hard truth for most. So, if you know someone who lost a loved one, regardless of how long it’s been, please call them to see how they are doing. Go visit them. They will really really appreciate it, more than you know ….”
Lisa Marie was on point. Loss can feel like a whirlwind, leaving nothing behind but destruction. It can be difficult to pick up the pieces and start rebuilding, especially when you are doing it alone, ditched by the rest of the world.
Her final, personal lesson is below.
” … particularly if the loss was premature, unnatural, or tragic, you will become a pariah in a sense. You can feel stigmatized and perhaps judged in some way as to why the tragic loss took place. This becomes magnetized by a million if you are the parent of a child who passed. No matter how old they were. No matter the circumstances.”
Again, everything she concludes is absolutely true and not an understatement. Frankly, while processing the news of her demise from a “broken heart,” I also felt relief for Lisa Marie. Atlas’ weight was, at last, removed. I shared with my niece how completely saddened I was by her loss.
In response, she wrote,”Nothing wrong with finding a kindred spirit, no matter how it manifests.”
Marshall’s 27th on January 18, 2020 that I, my daughter and the children’s Godmother “celebrated”
Today, I regret not contacting Lisa Marie back in 2020 after she had lost her son by suicide. I simply did not make the time. (Saying, “I didn’t have the time,” is incorrect since I am one hundred percent responsible for ME and MY actions.)
During last week, I spent a good deal of time reflecting on her death, pacing around my office where I have two calendars, one on the wall and one on the desk. Both of them have stick-it notes on them, smack center, covering up the January 17th block, the day I was so freaking sure my son would be born and covering up the 18th block, his actual birthday. Sometimes, with the world on your back, doing everything you possibly can to press forward, “blackouts” are the best weapon to tackle the challenge.
For this week’s blog post, every single piece of me is on fire with guilt, regret, pain and remorse, and my son’s voice from long-ago, stating, “I won’t make it to 30.” I really didn’t want to sit my inflamed body down to hurt it more and think of the unthinkable, but I was so moved by what Lisa Maria and her family endured.
Now, my heart goes out to the survivors of Lisa Marie, and I honor and acknowledge the grief of her family. In return, I am afforded the strength to honor and acknowledge my own grief.
The way I look at it is if we take a leap of faith and open ourselves up to love, we open ourselves up to the risk of experiencing grief. It begins with love and ends with love. If life surpasses death, then love is what will guide us through the infinite journey.
For Lisa Marie, Benjamin, and Marshall, I hope they are now liberated from their back-breaking duties on Earth. Whether it involves physical burdens or mental obstacles, I also hope they are no longer crushed by the weight of life and, instead, free to catapult and soar to new heights.
Last Saturday, November 19, marked the International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. Each year, the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention honors the day by helping to organize large and small events at different venues around the world. The events connect people who are survivors of suicide loss with mental health professionals, and provide a safe, empowering, empathetic and educational space that supports and exemplifies the value of storytelling and shared experiences.
This year, two-hundred and seventy-one events took place at different sites not only in the United States, but also in Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, India, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Nepal, Russia, Scotland, Taiwan and South Africa.
The International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day is held on the Saturday before Thanksgiving each year, which, if you think about it, can be viewed as an oxymoron. How can this day, centered around grieving parents, spouses, children and those affected by suicide, be in such close proximity to a holiday that celebrates blessings? What sort of “blessings” can there conceivably be when it involves heartbreaking, unexplained losses, and deaths associated with widespread societal stigmas that oftentimes are hidden below the underbelly of silence and shame?
If we examine Thanksgiving Day itself, one definition of it is “an annual national holiday in the United States and Canada celebrating the harvest and other blessings of the past year. Americans generally believe that their Thanksgiving is modeled on a 1621 harvest feast shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) of Plymouth and the Wampanoag people.”
Conversely, since 1970, the United American Indians of New England have organized the National Day of Mourning on Thanksgiving Day. “To us, Thanksgiving is a day of mourning, because we remember the millions of our ancestors who were murdered by uninvited European colonists, such as the Pilgrims. Today, we and many Indigenous people around the country say, ‘No Thanks, No Giving.'”
After experiencing our own personal tragedy nine days before Thanksgiving Day of 2019, our personal day of mourning helped me stand, as never before, in solidarity with my indigenous brothers and sisters. “Solidarity” is commonly defined as “unity or agreement of feeling or action.” Ever since our family’s post-tragedy during that “first” Thanksgiving in 2019, each year afterward, I not only acknowledge a feeling of sadness, but I consciously act differently. I make it a point NOT to stuff myself and over-indulge on food, drink or merriment. By nightfall, I direct my eyes at the endless blanket of stars in the night. To me, each star represents those people around the world who have or, at that very minute are, through circumstances beyond their control, forced to leave the comfort of their homes and homelands. In addition, I think about those, now and through history, unjustly serving time in brick and mortar prisons and those trapped in minds of mental illness.
So, anyway, last weekend, five days before this year’s Thanksgiving Day, I feared that attending a suicide loss survivors conference at the Noroton PresbyterianChurch could plummet me to the depths of despair.
Coincidentally, the previous week, I watched an incredible movie, Mission: JOY, “a film that shares the humor and wisdom of two of the world’s most beloved icons, His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu.”
The movie kicked off a four-day summit based on Joy. The theme on day two was “The Inseparability of Joy and Sorrow.” In a segment entitled, “Inciting Joy: A Poet’s Perspective with Ross Gay,” Mr. Gay elucidates a number of definitions pertaining to joy. Most apropos for this blog post, he explains that joy “emanates from the tethers between us when we hold each other through our sorrows.”
He continues saying that the definition not only pertains to the concept of grief associated with death, but with other losses as well. The common thread, he says is that “We’re all heartbroken, all of us, and all of us are in the process of dying, as is everything we love.”
Between the conference I attended and, now, heading into Thanksgiving week, I’ve felt a sense of interconnectedness that Mr. Gay refers to, and I’ve realized how our stories of our shared humanity can land us in a place of belonging, a place, symbolically, that is home. This helping of “comfort food,” BTW, is the complete opposite of my typical “There’s no place for me to go” frame of mind.
The Dalai Lama, in fact, in the movie, mentions a Tibetan saying, “Wherever you receive love, that’s your home.”
I will tell you the moment I felt I was “home” at the survivors conference: when I sat in a circle of about fifteen people at the church that donated their facility for the event. It was the moment Michelle Peters, area director of the Connecticut American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, welcomed the group, her throat constricting as she tried to suppress the tears in her eyes.
It was apparent that the sorrow was not only her own. It signaled Ubuntu in its purest form. Ubuntu means “I am, because you are.” It is derived from an ancient African word meaning “humanity to others” and describes connectedness, compassion and oneness.
(Again, quite coincidentally, the theme on the last day of the four-day summit based on Joy was “Interconnection & Ubuntu.”)
In other words, although Michelle did not know us, nor our stories, there were no strangers in the room. She knew our hearts and the depth of our sorrow.
I am because you are.
From the onset of the conference, Michelle set a “Thanksgiving” table in the affluent town of Darien, CT, and we sat and spent the bulk of our time sharing tears and sorrow, anger, disgust, rage, stories, more tears and sorrow and more stories and even laughter, all connected to the heart of the soul, the heart of Ubuntu, where our genders, skin color, ages, backgrounds, political affiliations, IQ’s and all the labels were set on fire, ablaze in solidarity. We held each other in our sorrows, and in the process, joy and thanksgiving filled the day.
“Marshall Matters,” January 18, 1993 to November 19, 2019
My wish for each and every single one of you in my blogging community is that you find a renewed purpose, a fearless sense of thanksgiving to enable you to embrace the sorrow in your personal brokenness, and keep the faith that your brokenness will not break you, but allow the light and spirit of Ubuntu to shine through the cracks.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 