As the clock flickers towards midnight, a familiar ritual unfolds. Champagne bubbles, confetti dances, and resolutions whisper into the starlit sky. This time, however, as the year draws to a close, let’s rewrite the script. Forget the forced resolutions, toss the tired expectations. Instead, let’s ignite a revolution within, breaking free from self-doubt and crafting a haven of self-acceptance.
And this revolution has already begun for me. It lives in the wise gifts you’ve shared: your words and kindness like vibrant brushstrokes painting light onto the canvas of my being. From your help, I’m learning to embrace vulnerability, letting my empathy shine like constellations while dancing to the rhythm of my own unfamiliar steps, waltzing with joy, tangoing with grief, and pirouetting through loss across the canvas of life.
Because of the many gifts you’ve given me, I raise my glass to you, my blogging community friends. May your untamed fires illuminate the path ahead, and may your brushstrokes of faith paint your personal masterpiece, abstract or otherwise, in the coming year. Happy New Year to you all!
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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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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I can do a million different things at once, most of them trivial, such as dusting. I’ve never been one to procrastinate, but doing nothing at all stumps me every time.
When I’m not actively engaged in a task, my mind is always working. I might be analyzing a character arc, figuring out a past perfect tense, or projecting things like financial ruin because of my paranoia from working in a non-essential and highly competitive field for my entire life.
Over the past two years, I’ve had the good fortune to collaborate with my dear friend on her heartfelt grief memoir that is finally ready to take flight. It’s complete, at least on my end, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished.
My heart swells with gratitude as I recall my collaborative journey with Michelle, the beautiful and relatively young widow behind the story. In the early months, writing her memoir felt like an Impressionist painting: a blur of colors and emotions, akin to our own personal lives, with no clear definition. But over time, like a Realist painting, the memoir and our worlds became sharper and more focused.
Through my encountering her grief, my own perspective on life and tragedy has widened and deepened. I’ve learned that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope. And that love is the most powerful force in the universe.
Thank you, my dear neighbor, colleague and friend, for your faith in me and teaching me so much about what it means to be human. I am truly blessed to have shared your “voyage.“
Almost every goodbye is a hello in disguise. Therefore, as I celebrate the completion of this project, I’m scheduling only ONE thing on the to-do list — spending downtime with the most important person in my life: me. It’s high time we reconnect and get acquainted again, even if it is only to say, “Hello! I’m here.”
In exchange for this kind of surrender, I will find peace, joy, and gratitude. It’s a paradox, but the more I let go of my need to control everything, the more I find that I am truly in control. (Michelle’s memoir really drives this point home.)
My soul is my compass, and when I don’t procrastinate, take the time to “do nothing” and listen to its gentle guidance, I am always led to the right path, because I have opened my heart to the divine.
Remembering Mom: October 10, 1925 to December 29, 2015
My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.
“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.
I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.
That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.
Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.
My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.
Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.
Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.
A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.
As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.
The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).
My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.
When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.
When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.
Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.
Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.
That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.
Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.
Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.
My mom spent decades reading the obituaries, and the memoriam section, in the local daily newspaper with a keen eye, curious about what made each person unique and how their story was woven together. It were as if she tried to make sense of the world by connecting the dots between people’s lives.
My mom alerted me to anything she found interesting in that particular newspaper section, and we would end up discussing the deceased stranger and how, for example, she had outlived three deceased husbands. Or, as another example, how another deceased stranger traveled to every continent three times. Every time we reflected on these strangers, it felt like delicious gossip. Through these obituaries, and the occasional memoriam, we were able to appreciate the stories of strangers who had passed away and reflect on our own lives in the process. Paradoxically, reading and sharing our insights about the deceased kept mom and me alive!
While some may find delving into obituaries morbid and sad, in my solitude, I find it an opportunity to examine a few dozen strangers’ lives while I reunite with my mom, sync with her vibrant emotional range, and inhale her Pond’s facial cream, which she wore every night of her life. The memoriam to Mary Jane that I read earlier this year would have really lit up her world.
MARY JANE. MEMORIAM To Mary Jane It was late in the morning, It was early in spring, When I took that picture, Of you on the swing. It was so long ago, It was just yesterday, The years go so quickly, The time slips away. We should have returned, At least once a year, But we never came back, Now alone I stand here. The swing is long gone, From the top of this hill, But that doesn’t matter, For I see it still. I still hear your laughter, Feel the touch of your hand, And although that is true, Where ever I am. It was here at that time, In this place that we knew, What we had was forever, It was true then, it is still true. Rest in peace my love. Ed
One reader’s response to the memoriam, stated, “So very sweet and heartfelt. I do not know Mary Jane or Ed … but that was beautiful and I’m sure Mary Jane is pleased.”
Yes, I agreed fully. I could easily picture Mary Jane swinging in heaven somewhere on her swing, carefree and forever young and in love.
Memories can be a balm for grief. We hear the laughter, the excitement, and feel the fluid joints and hefty muscles of youth. Ponds-scented memories are like a warm blanket that wraps us up and protects us from the cold world, whispering, “Have faith. You are safe. Alone, but safe.”
They are reunion celebrations where love and faith reign supreme. Faith that we are never truly alone. Faith that there is more to life than what meets the eye.
Mary Jane is pleased. And if Mom gets to share her swing, she will be pleased too.
Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.
I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.
My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.
Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.
Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.
Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.
I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”
To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.
It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?
I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.
I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.
It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.
It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.
Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.
Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 