the many colors of grief, part 2

 

I will be here

I will be strong

I'll face my fears

When the night is long

And still go on

I will be brave

I will be bold

Follow my faith

To a higher road

And I'm not there yet

But I will be

~Wynona Judd, chorus of “I will be”

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Getting it all out doesn't mean we need to be victims. It doesn't mean we need to revel in our misery, finding status in our martyrdom. It doesn't mean we won't go on to set boundaries. It doesn't mean we won't take care of ourselves.

Sometimes, getting it all out is an essential part of taking care of ourselves. We reach a point of surrender so we can move forward.                                                                      ~Melody Beattie, from “The Language of Letting Go”

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I tend to be incredibly hard and impatient with myself.

My wise friend Pat once advised me to treat myself with the same patience, mercy, and understanding that I treated the people around me—especially when they were walking through a difficult situation.

So, as I mentioned last time, I have been deliberately giving myself time and space to find my way  -- and find my grounding and Peace – as I mourn and move forward in the new life of being a heart patient.

I’m not going to lie. It has been a lot to take in.

I dislike (aka. hate) the many colors of bruises that decorate various parts of my body each day, with no recollection about how I got them! I really dislike trying to figure out the side effects of my new meds.

As I was saying to my mother in law earlier today, I have days when I’m good, and I have days when I’m teary, and I have days when I’m pissed off, and I have days when I am so full of gratitude that I can’t help but be teary, again!  

But that sounds like living life, doesn’t it?

Today, it is okay to just say that I may not "be" where I want to be, that I’m not there yet – but I will be!

NOTE:

Here’s a song that reflects my current colors of grief, as well as all its lyrics -- words that have strengthened my heart this week!

 Video of Wynonna Judd

"I will be"

          Been caught in a downpour of a rain of stones

Felt like an exile in the world I had known 

So I sought the shelter of my own soul

And stayed inside 

I found no comfort in placing blame 

I saw the hope that lay just beyond the pain 

The past is a prison and I won't wear those chains 

And I won't hide, oh no I will be here I will be strong I'll face my fears When the night is long And still go on I will be brave I will be bold Follow my faith To a higher road And I'm not there yet But I will be I could choose to keep my feet upon the beaten path 

Never cross the open field for the one snake in the grass 

But I'd rather risk my heart then never get the chance 

To find my way, to find my way

ps. photos of permanent Chihuly exhibit at Oklahoma City Museum of Art

the many colors of grief, part 1

"The pain passes, 

but the beauty remains."

~ Artist Auguste Renoir, Artist

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“Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”~Phil 4:7

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The summer after my dad died, I found myself attracted to colors that, on the surface, did not seem to fit the somber emotions swirling inside me.

But I guess that was the point, no? 

Looking back on it now, it is rather obvious that I was looking for “color” as I walked through my grieving!

The color was this gorgeous ocean blue, which subconsciously – and then again, not so much so – clearly reflected my yearning for the setting on this earth that I naturally call home.

I painted everything. The shed door and my toenails. Some of our outdoor furniture and the hallway in my house. I bought a top, a table, and a pencil holder, then smiled and laughed realizing that they, too, were that same BLUE!

I have learned that grief can take on many colors, look different on every person – and even fluctuate and change over time as I continue to walk the pilgrimage that is grieving.

I am currently alternating between black – and red! – as I process and make peace with the reality of my heart condition.

I have also learned that, while grieving the loss of someone I love is tragic and deep, there are many other types of loss and change that I must also mourn, process, and walk through, before I find solid ground and Peace.

Most important of all, I have learned that – even when it feels so overwhelming and expansive that I find it hard to breathe – I can rest in the reality that, one day, I will make peace with my grief.

Even when I can not see it, I know that the Lord can – and always will – transform into new life… every death, every loss, every letting go, each and every ending.

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Lord, let me not run from the Love which you offer.

In each of my deaths, shed your Light and Love.

Keep calling to me!

Until that day comes, when with your saints,

I will praise you forever.

if I could tell you stories

That moment where I realize I’m at the bottom of the page, and I honestly have no idea what I just read.  Perhaps you can relate.

I have been so easily distracted lately.  Not only is my mind constantly forgetting things, even meetings or events. But it also effortlessly wanders off into meandering wonderings.

At daily Mass, for example, as I’m kneeling, preparing to go up for communion, I glance at the minister of the cup and think, “whoa, he looks like he’s gained at least 10 pounds!”—and there goes the my attention down the trail of errant thoughts.

I am aware that a lot of this is temporary. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that my mind—much like the rest of “me”—has experienced an overload of deep, intense, and life-changing moments and emotions.  How can I feel both overloaded and empty?

I know it’s going to take a while. Much like healing from a surgery, in this mourning, shifting, and grief, there is no substitute for time.

So on days like today, when it is, literally, impossible for me to remain concentrated on any one thing; I make a new plan of action.

·               I give myself a break. I begin by stopping any and all negative/dismissive/judgmental language about myself. You know the kind, those demeaning statements that always imply I should be doing better.

·               If I have an important task that must be completed, I slow down, take notice of what I’m thinking—or where I got distracted, and simply go back to the original process. As the PHOX song says, “Everything I do I do in slow motion.”

·               When possible, like at Mass!—I close my eyes. This simple act makes my other senses pay more attention.

·               At prayer, or sometimes when I’m in bed with too many things flying around inside my head, I hold a small cross or a crucifix in my hand and gently touch it with my fingers. Again, it alerts my other senses and helps me focus.

·               And did I mention I give myself a break? With temperatures and the heat index over a hundred, I can’t go outside as much as I’d like. But the Oklahoma evenings still allow me to sit under the stars, or go on a late night walk with my hubby.

Would you believe me if I told you that I sat down to write a blog post about music? 

Ah, well… maybe the next one!

holy seasons and doubt

“Our holy seasons always ought to be something special. They are really holy mysteries, and they should awaken a mystery as echo, as consideration, as prayer, in our minds and in our hearts.

The theme…is that, somehow man will be confronted with the Last Things *, will be placed in the final order, will face the definitive questions, and definitive answers will be expected of him.  Whenever the Church dons solemn purple vestments, it always means that serious questions are being set forth and we are facing the great connections, the principles of universal validity… This means that we think about man, about ourselves, from the perspective of the ultimate reality and, in so doing, become ready—really ready—to encounter and respond to Him, the Ultimate, in an appropriate way, as befits a creature encountering the [Absolute] Ultimate.”

* Note from the book’s editor: The term Last Things refers to death, particular judgment, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the Second Coming of Christ, the resurrection of the dead, the General Judgment, the end of the world, and the establishment of God’s Kingdom.

~Alfred Delp, S.J. in

“Advent of the Heart:

Seasonal Sermons and Prison Writings

1941-1944”

I am reading a collection of homilies and reflections on Advent. Yes, I said Advent—in July!

I ordered the book because its author, Jesuit priest and martyr Alfred Delp, is often quoted in the Magnificat Magazine reflections, and his insightful thoughts consistently speak to my heart.

This particular book, “Advent of the Heart,” is a collection of Father Delp’s homilies at his parish before being arrested by the Nazi, along with meditations that he wrote from prison.

I have a feeling you’ll hear me talk about this book again.

It’s a bit daring, maybe even dangerous, for me to blog about the themes I’m reading while I’m in the process of reflecting on them. I have many more questions than I have answers.!

Take the quote I cited above, for example. While the author’s statement regarding “holy seasons” is clearly meant in relation to the Church’s liturgical seasons, I am struck by the reality that the confrontation with “definitive questions” that he describes applies rather well to significant, major life events—be it the birth of a baby, a sudden crisis, or as is the case for me right now, the death of a parent.

Major life moments like these are our very own personal holy seasons, and they, too, confront us in a very private, personal way, with the ultimate questions on life and its meaning.

I would describe what I’m living right now as I mourn the death of my dad as a “holy season.” It seems a very appropriate label.

If I’m honest with myself, this “holy season” of mourning has also demanded that I confront deep questions and fears, even doubts, about death and about my certainty (or lack of?) about the meaning of life—both now and in the hereafter.

In other words, whether I admit it to myself or not, God knows that along with the sadness and grieving, my heart is full of questions. What do I really believe? Why are we here? Why death? How confident and certain am I about the “Absolute Ultimate”? Is it okay to acknowledge doubt?

More on that next time.

At the end of the day, at least today, all I can do is kneel humbly before God… right in the midst of this holy mystery that is my life.

to see original source click here 

Note: 

I did manage to keep Michael’s garden alive while he traveled on back to back work trips. But I admit I had quite a bit of help from Nature…. We’ve had rain in Oklahoma... and temperatures in the 60s and 70s. Yes, in JULY!