Good Grief Guru

Archive for the ‘Holidays’ Category

My cousin Sarah joined my family’s trip to Barbados this past January.  She was a welcomed addition, and quickly became the best friend, play mate, and most sought after individual in the house, by my daughter.

Some of the first words out of my daughter’s mouth every morning were, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s sleeping honey.  Let the poor girl sleep.”

Throughout the day, when Alexis wanted to play hide and seek, watch a movie, or go to the beach, she would ask, “Sarah, do you want to come with me?  Yah?  Do you want to come?”

Unpretentious, Sarah fit in anywhere.  She was my kid’s best friend, and also someone who was capable of having a well thought out conversation.  She took equal interest in playing dominoes with the ladies two generations above ours, as she did to building sandcastles with my toddler, or hanging out on the verandah with me.  She was able to be social, or find herself just as happy (perhaps a little more so) delving into a good book.

Sarah was perhaps best known to me for being a Narnianist, and a clay figurine sculptor.  Now, I know her as a Narnianist, a sculptist, a reader, a well moderated thinker, a theatrical artist, an inventor of umbrella tents, a mutual eater of mangoes, and her admitted indecisiveness but ability to go with the flow, made her all the more endearing to me.  Above all, Sarah is someone who engaged in opportunities to connect with others on varying levels, to be present, and participate in the moment that will never come again.

My daughter Alexis, and I, were so happy to have had a two week holiday with cousin Sarah, in Barbados.  I predict an increased number of trips to her neck of the woods over the up-coming year.

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The place: Canada.  The destination: Barbados.  The timeline: the night before departure.

I lugged my over-sized blue suitcase up the stairs from the basement.  I’m pretty sure everything I need I can fit into hand luggage.

• Passport?  Check.
• Swimsuit?  Check.
• Camera?  Check.
• Ashes?  Debate.

The day I collected my late-husband’s ashes from the funeral home, the Director handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I inquired.

“If you choose to scatter your husband’s ashes, this letter will allow you to take them on the plane.”

I hadn’t thought about taking his ashes abroad.  The only places I had considered for scattering where places close to home.  Even then, any time I thought about leaving the grey flecks of Neil’s abandoned, cremated shell behind, I felt hollow about it.  My husband was not in his ashes.  There was no soul in them, no spirit.  I feared scattering his ashes would feel like casting emptiness into the wind.

In uncomfortable or intense situations, I tend to think strange and funny thoughts.  I have no intention of being disrespectful.  It is the way my mind copse.  Jokes off-set heaviness.  Humour maintains equilibrium.  As I thought about packing I imagined trying to lug the heavy, industrial, black container that held my husband’s ashes, through security.  What if security thinks I am smuggling drugs?  Next, thoughts about my husband getting a free ride on the plane made me laugh.  Then, I pictured him strapped into the seat next to mine, the container labeled with a Brother P name-tag sticker.  Hello.  My name is Neil.  I imagined the airline steward telling me to put the box in the overhead bin.  What would I say?  How could I put my late-husband up there?  Maybe I could carry the ashes in my handbag, or disguise them in gift wrapping so passengers wouldn’t suspect my morbidity.

About six months ago I stumbled upon a movie called Bonneville, starring Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates, and Joan Allen.  The movie was about a widow (Lange) who promised to return her late-husband’s ashes to his daughter (her step-daughter.)  She embarks on a road trip with two of her closest friends.  Along the way they detour to destinations that hold fond memories of places she and her husband had visited.  At each spot she finds herself inspired to scatter her husband’s remains.

The idea of scattering in locations of significance was idyllic to me, romantic even, but the perfection of the idea remained only in my head.  What moved any individual, in any movie I had ever seen that depicted the ritual of scattering, was a connection to the departed, even in their ashes.  That was a connection I just didn’t have.  I didn’t think of his ashes as sacred.  They were not my husband.  They were only ash.

Plus, I was going on vacation.  I planned to leave all reminders of my messy year behind me.  I would step off the plane into a new and sunny holiday.

But, what if?  What if I got to Barbados and changed my mind?  What if I suddenly had the urge to scatter his remains?  What if I regretted the decision to leave the ashes at home when I could, in this moment, choose to bring them with me just in case?

I don’t often ask what if when looking back.  That past is behind me.  History is written.  It can not be undone.  But the future is open, and full of opportunities and intriguing possibilities.

I open the black ashes container, and pour some of them into a zip lock bag.  No, that doesn’t look like it’s enough, I think.  I pour out some more.  That should do it.  What if the baggie opens?  I find a mason jar.  I put the baggie inside and screw the cap on tight.  I think about mod podging the jar with tissue paper to make it look more…festive? special?  The peeling spaghetti label doesn’t seem appropriate, but there is no time to fix the jar now.  I will soon be heading out the door.

I pack the remains in my carry on luggage, while the phrase family vacation runs through my head.

I review my packing list.  Ashes?  Check.

Onward bound to Barbados we go.

To be continued…

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Recorded on my last day in Barbados.  Happy watching everyone.  Click here to view.

I’m slightly overjoyed with my floppy brown hat at the moment.  I have trouble sleeping sometimes…okay, a lot of the time.  At home I sleep in a very dark room.  Any light keeps me up.  Some sounds, like the sound of the dishwasher, hums me to sleep, but other sounds, like noises I don’t recognize, noises I want to investigate, or turn off, keep me alert.

The first night in Barbados I heard many sounds.  Crickets, whistle frogs, the sound of the sea.  All natural sounds that would normally pacify me to bed.  Then, I heard a new sound.  An industrial noise like the sound of a generator.  The only thing I could fathom was that someone must be running a generator to work on one of the boats at sea.  It wasn’t until the next groggy morning, my mother said, “It must be coming from a kite.”

“There is no way that sound is coming from a kite, Mom” I argued.  I should have listened to the local.  She walked outside and spotted the kite anchored to a neighbouring house, flying over head, humming powerfully down at me.  I hum-bugged back, “You have got to be kidding me.”

I have now learned there is a special way the Islanders make kites, which produces a noise-maker called a “mad bull.”  After a little research on-line I found I wasn’t the only one desperate for a pair of scissors to cut the mad bull down.

Between the indy race car noise flying over head, the bad karaoke hollering out towards another weekend night, and the spot lights around the beach house that can not be turned off, potential for sleep is not on my side.

But, finally, after two weeks of bull, I’m either going mad myself, or finally growing accustomed to the sound.  Now, I just have to find a solution to the intruding lights.  Then, I remembered my hat.  My thick, dark, floppy brown hat.  I wore it to bed last night, its flaps covering my eyes.  Lights out!  For the first time in weeks I slept like a baby.

As it nears bedtime again, I am beyond happy at the thought of my brown floppy hat, and the dreamy hope that another sound, dark, sleep awaits me.

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The sound of the waves call out from the sea like an amplified heart beat.

I lay on an orange, striped veranda couch and listen.  I feel as though I am resting one ear on a man’s chest, drifting into slumber as the sound of his heartbeat lulls me to sleep.

It seems I was air lifted out of one reality, away from any triggers associated with my husband’s death.  Five hours later I am gently ushered into paradise.  The heat and the shushing of the salty, turquoise waves cause my eyes to grow heavy.  My writing reflects the transition in my thought process, as the ratio between grief articles and happy thought posts, have begun to lean heavily on the lighter side of life.

The sun lifts my spirits and the breeze carries my cares away across the surface of the sea.  It is the first time in months my mind has quieted its thoughts.  I can hold conversations without the compulsion to empty information from my mind in order to make room for more.

Responsibility lags behind me.  Even the threat of insomnia is not so daunting knowing, while I’m away, a house full of women are parenting with me.  Even if I wake up at 6am after falling asleep at only 3, I will awake to the sun, sand, and surf, and a day of little thought or worry.

All bills, chores, and reminders have been left behind at home.

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Watch the VIDEO recording of Happy Thought #14 by Shawna & Alexis, recorded from Barbados

My day started out like this.  My daughter crawled in bed with me, and with a sweet little smile she quietly whispered, “You are so special.”

Oh, that every day could begin like this.

Then she said, “I am so happy.”  I asked her, “What makes you so happy?”, and she answered, “Sarah”, her twenty-something cousin who has been showering her with love and attention throughout our vacation in Barbados.

As we emerge from the terrible twos, I see a glimmer of hope.  My nearly-three-year-old has began to make the connection between cause and effect, the result of which is slightly more cooperation.  She also participates in random acts of kindness.  Sometimes she spontaneously quips, “I love you, Mom!”, or the other night at dinner, she turned to her Grandma and said with a big grin, “You’re awesome.”

Edification from the mouth of babes.  As Martha Stewart says, “It’s a good thing.”

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My cousin is on the boogie board, trying to ride the surf.  My daughter is digging sand wells with a plastic, blue and yellow shovel.  My mother walks down the beach towards us, past the abandoned fishing boat.  She dares my daughter to chase the white caps breaking on the shore.  They slap and roar as they pummel the wet sand.  My daughter squeals and lifts her feet in joyous terror.  My grandmother stands with me on the sand and talks.  Her sister wades into the ocean and floats on her back, bobbing with the swell of the tide.

My feet sink under the wet sand, between the shore and the surf.  They are fully buried.  My daughter pours water over them to make them “grow” out of the sand like a flower.  “Look.  There they are” I encourage her.  “You made my feet grow out of the sand.”

I don’t need to think about how I will engage this moment.   I am a participator of it, but lately I have been more of an observer of life.  The gift of this moment causes me to consider the value of both.

With family roots in Barbados, visiting this Caribbean island has always been like coming home.

We drive to a beach house from the airport, and I feel that Barbados is somehow more beautiful than it has ever been.  Maybe it was the bright sunshine compared to the grey weather I had flown in from.  Perhaps it was the expression of culture that sang out from every brightly painted house.  Maybe it was my feeling of gratitude after we all survived a turbulent plane ride, or in general for surviving the past year and finding myself in this wonderful, stress-free moment.  This perfect moment, where everything that is happening, and all the characters in it, made it complete.

This moment on the ocean, this time I have with family, is a gift.  Then I think, I could be living this same moment in a different scene; a scene back home where I would be wrapped up in routine, or busyness, and might not notice how rare and precious this moment still is.  In the routine of every day life I often forget how inestimable each moment is, and what an opportunity it is to be present, spend time with the ones I love, and participate in life instead of just observing it.

It’s strange how sometimes it takes a moment like this, a vacation, a new friend, or a life changing event like a birth or a death, to interrupt my ordinary, and remind me it’s extraordinary.

No two days will ever be the same.  No moment in time will ever come again.  Each day is a gift that will never be offered again.

As the American Cartoonist, Bil Keane, said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift of God, which is why we call it the present.”

I wonder what I will unwrap tomorrow…

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New Year’s Eve five years ago, Neil proposed to me.  He popped the question, I said yes, and three hours later he was flying in the air back to England where he worked at the time.

For the four years of our marriage that followed we spent each New Year’s Eve reminiscing about the year gone by. Although we endured many struggles in our brief time together, our recollections always seemed to fall on the side of gratitude as we looked back over the year as a whole.

My husband and I would sit quietly on the couch, candles lit, and talk.  In the stillness of the late hours we would recall the lessons we learned, the new roads traveled, the friends and family we were thankful to have shared life with.  2009 was especially unique as we added with fond joy the recount of the birth of our daughter.

Taking stock of the previous year had been our married tradition.  I saw no reason why this New Year’s Eve should be any different.  I have much to think back on, and much to be thankful for.

As had been the case throughout our marriage, this year had been met with great adversity and hardship.  Despite the loss I still saw gains.  I can’t deny the valuable lessons our marriage taught me.  One such lesson was to recognize my limitations.

In the face of the greatest trial my life has seen so far, the letting go of my husband, I have been the bearer of the grace and kindness of strangers, neighbours, family, and friends.  An entire network of individuals have surrounded my daughter and I in creative and practical ways, as well as intangible ones.

This time last year my husband and I enjoyed days of peace and companionship.  I will always be grateful to know that that kind of marriage was possible for us, even if only for a brief moment in time.

I am grateful to have known Neil.  To have known intimately the good that was in him.  To still hear stories from people of how he would talk humbly about our marriage, saying that he was amazed that someone like me would love someone like him.  He truly stood in awe of that.  But that kind of talk I knew was not as much a reflection on me as it was of the strength of character that he had.  He knew gratitude and he aimed it at me even when I didn’t deserve it.  I am grateful that he loved me.

I am aware that I am not the only person in the world who has lost a significant other, or become a single parent through the death of a spouse.  I am also aware that I have a support system that has helped me more than words could ever express.  The kind of support I enjoy is the kind of compassion and love I wish was known the world over.  Sadly I know it is not the reality for others.  I do not take this support for granted, and each helper of mine has become another teacher.  I try to take good notes so when others are in need I can pay forward the incredible support that has been shown to me, extending it in meaningful ways to others.

For the two weeks following the death of my husband my mother did not leave our side.  Since then she has taken my daughter on many sleepovers.  Given me time to re-charge.  I am thankful that my daughter and I are both well loved.  That people, like my mother, her child care providers, and men who have stood in the gap of her father, have taken such an interest in her that they are pouring goodness into her life, building her up, and fostering her development with love and intentional actions.

For all the people who brought us meals when Neil died, who have watched over my daughter so I could have sanity breaks, for those that watched a movie with me, had coffee with me, and encouraged me to take care of myself and attend to my grief, I am grateful.

I am thankful for friends and outlets where I can just be me.  Where I, and all my thoughts are welcomed to the table.  Where I am greeted with individuals who seem more interested in building bridges of understanding, then shutting doors through judgement.  I am grateful for each of you.

When I spoke at Church one Sunday and got to see how my two deepest passions, writing, and public speaking, came together in this situation, I am grateful for opportunities that have appeared in the most surprising places.

My sister encouraged me to start this writing.  Once that begun another friend told me I should record audio.  Next I was encouraged to do video, then podcasts.  It has been through the encouragement of these partners that the reach of this site has grown.  It’s been one month and on average two hundred people a day are reading these thoughts.  The channels of communication are expanding, and that gives me hope.

My list of gratitude swells.  Really, it is hard to miss.  I think of these things often and the countless others that have added to it I have not even begun to name.  How did I become so privileged that this love and abundance should fall down on me?  That I get to watch my daughter grow?  That I have lived to see another day?  I don’t know.  But in the spirit of what my late-husband taught me, I will be grateful for it, even when no one is looking.

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‘Twas two days before Christmas and all through the house, not a person was stirring…because we weren’t there.  Instead we were off celebrating Hanukkah.

As a Christian, a confused, seeking, Christian who is trying to understand the context of my faith and separate fact from fiction, I’ve found my faith seemingly more relevant the more integrated in Judaism it becomes.  Jesus, the central figure of Christianity, after all, was Jewish.  Christianity, the way I see it, is Judaism extended.

So I ask myself, how can I understand the meaning of many things without first understanding their context?  I am faced with this question every day when I am tempted to simplify the situation I was in with my husband, or the final act that took his life.

This has led me to accept an invitation to any holiday or holy day, whether Jewish or otherwise.

What has stood out to me the most at each of these events is that at every gathering there is always someone, young or old, who is able to recite the meaning behind what we are celebrating.  I’m not sure I can say the same for myself at Christmas.

How did Christmas get so removed from Christmas?  I’m not out to change it for everyone else, but for my own family I do want to be able to explain why I am doing what I am doing.  I want my child to understand.

Every year my husband and I talked about what we wanted Christmas to be for our family.  Christ was likely not born on December 25^th, so the first question was whether or not to celebrate His birth on that day.  Next, what to do about a Christmas tree that was adopted from a pagan worship ritual?  Then, what do we do about Santa?  Instead of changing Christmas, can we instead shift the arrow of these ingrained cultural traditions to point once again to the Christ-child, to mean something relevant for us?

We decided to pick our battles. We were not entering the war on “Happy Holiday’s” versus “Merry Christmas”.  Or diving into the debate about which month and date of the year the Messiah was actually born in.  Instead we looked for ways to modify existing traditions to point back to the born Messiah, and discard of any other human mascots that took attention away from Him.  Santa was the first to go.

My friend handed my daughter a Christmas gift during their Hanukkah celebration.  She pointed to Santa and asked my daughter, “Who’s that?”

My daughter lit up like a menorah.  ”A snow man!” she said.

My friend looked at me puzzled.

“Oh, she doesn’t know about Santa.” I said.

The puzzled look remained on her face.  “What do you do at Christmas?”, she asked.

“We talk about Jesus.”, I answered.

She let out a thinking sound, a little “hmmm”, as in That’s interesting, and You’re a little weirder than I thought.  Then she said, “They stole Him from us you know.”

I didn’t ask who they were.  I assumed I was probably in that category.  But I was greatly intrigued by her comment.

“That’s why we love coming here.”  I responded.  “How can we understand Him without understanding your traditions?  He was born Jewish and He belongs to you too, so these events are very important to us.”

I just know my kid is going to be the child who tells the other kids there is no Santa Claus.

Saint Nicholas, who Santa was evolved from, reached out to the orphans, the widows, and the poor, spending his entire inheritance from his wealthy parents on anyone in need.  Why?  Because he was living the type of life-style Christ said to live.  He was pointing back to Christ.  Saint Nicholas pointed to Christ, and who did society point to?  Saint Nicholas.

Then, society came up with a new political tactic.  In the early 1800’s citizens were running a muck. It was then that Saint Nicholas was morphed into the image of Santa Claus, a saint who drove a sleigh and brought gifts to those who were good, instead of those who were in need.  A subtle, yet substantial humanitarian perspective shift.  And the traditions continued to evolve.

My husband and I paused to take note of what we were doing and why we were doing it.  Analyzing everything we had come to know from our Christmas celebrations.  From there we decided on the following.

Presents.  Without trying to go overboard, for the presents that are exchanged, we explain that we do this because God gave us a great gift when he sent His son into the world.  He gave us the gift of love and sacrifice.  He gave us His Son.  We remember that when the Christ-child grew He lived out this sacrifice in the greatest love offering ever made.  He gave His life for us.

Family.  Like many modern day birth’s, Jesus was born into a family made up of his Mother, his step-Father, and a bunch of other odd characters that somewhat resemble barn-yard animals.  My family of course is nothing like this.  I’m just saying, some family might be able to relate…

Stockings filled with gifts.  Originally introduced by Saint Nicholas, we now exchange stockings in remembrance of the gifts the Wise Men brought to the Christ-Child.   They may not be filled with Frankincense, Gold and Myrrh, but when the Messiah grew He called us to do more with our riches anyway than to exchange them in our stockings.

Finally, our goal was to invite anyone, the poor, the rich, the grounded, the learned, the wise, the out-casters, to join us in celebration.  As the star led the Wise Men to the Messiah, and the Angels invited the Sheppard’s to the babe, my husband and I longed to invite anyone who was willing to join our celebrations.

I know I have much to figure out.  As the days pass I realize it is all on my shoulders to do.  Maybe next Christmas will look completely different.  Whatever the case, I will, as I did this year, aim to make decisions that resonate with my deepest beliefs so, as I raise our daughter without her father, I can stand behind my actions and, when our daughter asks, use these teachable moments to explain the meaning behind our intentional acts.  They are, after all, a memorial for remembering the one we love, the one who first loved us.  A love that was placed at the center of all we were created to be.

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Last Christmas my husband and I experienced the greatest high in our marriage.  Our greatest high was proceeded by our lowest, low in Cuba.  After that trip, and my not-so-slight melt down on the plane ride home, I drew the line.  I was worn down.  I had nothing left to give.  Something had to change.

Then it did.  In the most unexpected way.  A switch went off in my husband.  He started fighting for our marriage.  He started fighting for me.

He cut out alcohol and he got serious about improving our lives.  He became committed to our daughter and me.  He did whatever it took to repair our broken marriage.

Neil did the dishes and he read bedtime stories to our daughter.  He ran errands or stayed home so I could take a break.  He worked hard and he cooked and we enjoyed his food because Neil had always been an amazing chef.  It was one of his natural abilities.  We savoured his culinary creations.  Whether it was the food, or the effort, they both feed my body.  If there had been a husband of the month award, he was gunning for it.

I started to feel stronger and I gained a little more capacity.  With capacity came vulnerability.  I forgave and I let go, and I started to let him back in.

I had put up a wall between him and I.  This wall guarded my heart.  It became my protection.  Neil wanted that wall gone.  He wanted his marriage back.  He peeked his head about the corner of my wall and he spoke with kindness, and I let him come a little closer.  He reached a hand around my guarded wall and he held it out for me to take.  He offered to help me in practical ways and he put actions behind his words.  So I took his hand and pulled him a little closer.  His foot came around the corner next.  He offered to ease my load.  He went grocery shopping, or stayed home, and he spent quality time with his family.  Whatever was best for our unit, he did it.  Next thing I know his entire body was in-between me and my wall.  He stood before me and he saw me.

Neil saw his wife. The woman who had longed for a partner.  The wife who hoped it could be possible with him.  The mother who desperately needed his help with their daughter.  He saw the need in me.   The woman who was at capacity and longed for his help.  The vulnerable individual who needed him as her protector.  The wife who knew he could be a man she could respect and trust.  He saw my starvation for practical help and respite.  He saw me and he began to nurture and safe guard my inner spirit.  I began to feel healthy again.  Capable.  For the first time in our marriage he was becoming the husband I knew he had the potential to be.  He saw me, and I saw him.

The wall of bitterness and self-guardedness began to crumble.  As it did I saw a man I was proud to call my husband.  I saw my protector who was willing to do what it took to make our marriage work.  I saw a fighter who fought for us.  I saw the good in him.  The husband who had love and compassion for his wife.  The father who adored his little girl.  The unselfish human being who put his love for others above himself.  I saw the good in him, and he saw the hope in me, and we took a leap of faith.  We put our love for one another back at the center of everything we knew.  We ignored the bruises from the past.  We forgave the hurts and let the healing in.  We saw the beauty in each other, and for the first time in our entire marriage, I fell in love.

We traveled to a chalet between Christmas and New Year’s with some other family members.  We spent quality time together.  We loved our daughter and we loved each other.

Our marriage finally looked the way I imagined marriage should be.  Last Christmas was a season of fulfillment for us.  We spoke in gentle words of gratitude, and enjoyed the pure and simple pleasures of each others company.  And we kissed.  And the kissing was good because it was full of hope, faith, and love.  Nothing was held back.

I think of last Christmas and I have a marker in our marriage to look back on and say, “Yes.  That was the way it was supposed to be and we made it happen.”

It may have been for only a season, a short season at that, but for whatever length of time it was the sweet taste of victory, and I have never forgotten how lovely, pure, and hope-filled it was.

I was given the best Christmas gift on our last Christmas.  I saw the good in Neil, and he saw the beauty in me, and we loved each other the way I imagined that love should be.

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