Let empathy inspire you

For the last several weeks, I have been feeling lost here on the Journey to Dissertation Land. You may have noticed my absence or, more specifically, my silence. I suppose part of the reason is that I have not known what I want to say.

Better to say nothing than to go on and on saying things that just don’t mean anything.

I also have been lost in the details. There have been many events of “loss” and “grief” lately, and my studies of the topic have continued to jettison me into that dark and familiar place that, frankly, can be a bit much to handle sometimes, so I choose to step away.

I’ve been wrestling with anticipatory grief because the holiday season usually triggers some of these feelings for me as I celebrate life with those that are still here, with the underlying understanding that at some point, the family dynamics inevitably will change again one day. 

It’s all about living in the now, appreciating the people who mean so much, and letting them know it while we can. 

Today, I am motivated to at least resume this conversation, since there have been some people who have been kind enough to continue sending me their thoughts, and I have been encouraged by the fact that my observations on grief, loss, current (and tragic) news events are reaching an audience that I did not realize was paying attention. 

So I’ll keep this post brief today because I really don’t know what direction I am exploring at the moment. As I mentioned, anticipatory grief has been slapping me around, but residual grief is making an appearance. Perhaps this is the idea I should expand on for a moment, since it is foremost in my mind today.

Let me say that I don’t even know if “residual grief” is an official term, but I’m guessing it is. What I mean by residual grief is that lingering sadness you feel after sharing in someone’s grief. 

You attend a wake or a funeral, extending your heart to someone who is in the early stage of dealing with the loss of a loved one. You stand on line, perhaps for hours, perhaps even in the frigid weather, because there are so many mourners, the line to the funeral home extends out the door. You want to be there for these people. This is what you need to do.

You exchange polite “hello’s” with old schoolmates or neighbors from years past who have joined you on line, looking to bring comfort to the family of the deceased.

You soak in the family’s pain: viewing their family photos arranged about the funeral home, reading (maybe discreetly, so as not to appear too interested) the small note cards on the floral arrangements sent by caring friends and family. 

Eventually, you reach the front of the line where the immediate family stands, shaken, shattered, a piece of their heart torn away. Most of us will admit that we are “not good at these things,” but we manage words to express our sympathy and offer support.

We get through it, and presumably, it helps those who are grieving. In some way, it must help us as well, for we find the strength to put ourselves through the ritual even though it can be uncomfortable to show our own humanness. 

After the wake my husband and I attended the other night, I asked him, “Why does it affect me this way?” The family we reached out to is not one that I would say is “in our close circle” but is a family we care about, respect, and love, for many reasons. We share a history that is connected to our schooling, sports activities, community life. 

That’s the obvious layer. The deeper layers are individual -- you can insert your own suggestion here, but the truth is, we understand their grief because we understand what it means to love and lose someone. 

In some small way, we feel their pain. Again, my smart husband had to remind me of the word. “That’s empathy,” he said. 

I think back over the last several months about the people I know who have suffered a death in their family this year. Their grief is fresh, and the upcoming holidays will be difficult for them, to say the least. Other people who have had a loss that is not recent also will struggle, because the loss is permanent, and the milestones in our lives can make the absence sting anew. 

Perhaps we should let our empathy motivate us. Find the time to stop in on at least one person that has had a tough year. I’ve got good intentions that I hope will manifest in my individual acts of kindness. I think I’m doing it “for them,” but I’m sure I’m also doing it for me. It isn’t the kind of thing you can separate. It is a shared experience that reveals the true spirit of the holiday season.

Look at that, a post that was not so brief after all. I guess I did have something to say. 


Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Status: Here or not, the love remains

I want to take some time to thank you all for walking with me. Some of you are silently in step, perhaps at times nodding in solidarity as you read.  Others are carrying on the conversation with me through your private emails, blog comments, or in other exchanges when our paths cross. 

Your support and interest is appreciated, affirming, and helpful. In some cases, it has also been enlightening. Thank you. I hope you will continue the journey with me. There is something comforting in the fact that others are paying attention to this discussion. Together, we are on to something.

Through Walking Distance, I am getting great suggestions from others who are watching my dissertation struggle. One thing I have mentioned are many of my observations of Facebook posts which suggest that we have a fascination or, at minimum, a healthy interest in death. 

Several weeks ago, I talked about the extraordinary surge of internet grief postings over the death of popular UMass band leader and music professor George N. Parks. A memorial wall for Parks on Facebook sparked a virtual explosion of comments from former students and others who reached out to the social network site to share their collective grief with others who obviously understood it, and anyone who may not have had the direct occasion to experience it.

Parks, 57, died September 16, and almost immediately as word spread of his passing, the public response to his death exploded on Facebook. Today, the page shows 11,666 fans connected to him and a living “wall” of memories that include video clips of the halftime event at the UMass football game on October 16 when the school held a memorial service for this legendary, award winning band leader. Other touching clips can be found on his Facebook page as well, including a link to personal tributes to him that are posted on YouTube. 

On a human level, it is awe inspiring. For my research interest, it also is fascinating. The publicly outward expressions being shared through social media seem to suggest a recognition of the value of this shared grief experience. Why else would someone take the time to post these events? 

“An inspiration,” “my hero,” “my mentor, teacher, friend.” These are such deeply sincere sentiments posted for anyone who wanders along to read them. Names attached, hearts on sleeves. George N. Parks was one life that touched many, but also was one example of the capacity each of us has to live on through those we love, inspire, and whose lives we touch. 

This interest in death is not new. It appears, however, that the practice of sharing our grief in what might be considered impersonal venues is really a new phenomenon. The World Wide Web as we know it has been around for more than 30 years, but Facebook and YouTube are in their toddler years by comparison. This sharing is different from anything we’ve ever done before, particularly when it comes to the grief experience.

We need to say these things, we need others to hear them, and short of having someone in person to directly hear them, many of us are issuing our personal memories wrapped in grief to a potentially global audience.

How on earth did we get here? Ah, interesting choice of words. I think there is something universal at work here, and my evidence today suggests this need to share is the part that has remained constant.

I recently read Geoffrey Gorer’s book, Death, grief, and mourning in contemporary Britain (London: The Cresset Press). The book was written in 1965, so the “contemporary” timeframe is long past and thus, Gorer’s findings outdated, one might presume. Nonetheless, Gorer did a quantitative study that is still worth inspection. He interviewed people about their experiences with death and mourning. 

Gorer concluded that the most reliable sign that a mourner is dealing adequately with his grief is when he or she gratefully accepts the spoken condolences of others. 

This seems to be in line with today’s grief postings in social media, or at least, it might be interpreted as such. If Gorer was right, some of us are showing the signs of healing from grief if we are expressing it in a public manner that allows for the gracious acceptance of the expressed sympathies of others. Considering some of the postings I’ve seen on social media sites, this exchange is taking place. 

Another point Gorer illuminated struck a chord with me, as it is a remark I have heard all too often in various situations. Gorer asked his survey participants about the belief that “time heals.” It is reassuring to hear that folks from the 1960s in England had the same feeling on the topic as the people I interact with today. Half of the people he surveyed rejected the notion, and so do I. When it comes to grief, what constitutes “healing”? 

Is it when you are able to get through a day without crying over the loss? Is it when you stop thinking of the person on a daily basis? Is it when you return to a “normal” routine? What is the evidence of healing when the scars are embedded in the soul?

I like the way Gorer rationalized their assessments. While many had used the phrase, “never get over it,” Gorer saw deeper into their responses. They had healed from their intense grief, but what the respondents meant was, they held an ongoing affection for their lost loved one.

George Parks’ memorial wall on Facebook sure looks like that to me.


Copyright 2010 by Marianne V. Heffernan

Celebrating with and without you

[IMAGE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF PHOTOGRAPHER]

Apologies to my readers. The cute photograph that was posted here is no longer available for you to enjoy, as it was copyright protected by its photographer. It was the perfect image to represent my blog entry nearly a year ago, but for now, I am leaving this space empty.

Please imagine if you will, a beautiful greyhound wearing large round-rimmed eyeglasses and sitting on a pile of books....

You may not recognize her, but the beauty looking back at you is no stranger. The studious appearance. A pile of books upon which to rest.

That would be me.

Funny how a few hours of sleep after a marathon day of brain work and a mini-meltdown at bedtime can change one’s perspective. I had a full blog post written yesterday in anticipation of today but as it turns out, I have decided not to share it. At least not what I had originally written.

I poured out a letter to my brother and sister yesterday because I was reflecting on my life’s juggling act and the inevitable turning of the calendar page. I’ll keep the letter between the three of us though, because there is an opportunity here to offer a shared experience.

Today is my birthday. In my distant past, that would be a big deal, a cause for lifting a glass, making plans, and generally soaking in the adoration of family and friends who always reach out to wish me well.

Instead, it has become one of those days that presents a mixed bag of emotion. This is a common issue for anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one: dealing with the special days of the year that are now different because of the “missing pieces.”

I don’t want to dwell on that but much as I will try, I will not have a choice on how the emotions will poke at me throughout the day. It’s a roll of the dice because you never know how it’s going to go.

It is what it is. You keep going.

All this writing and sharing and inspecting I’ve been doing here is stirring up a lot inside, obviously. But let me say this: Whether the topic is grief or ice cream, to me, this is what writing is. As a writer, I retreat to the inner places of myself where the real experience lies and chip away to unearth the minerals that eventually come to represent these experiences in the form of writing.

It’s what I do. When the ideas start dancing around in my mind, I will either “shake it up” with them or let them dance on their own until one of us decides to put lyrics to the music.

So this morning when I came downstairs to put on the coffee, make the lunches, and get ready for the day ahead, I was met by this cute lass you see here, elegantly staring out at me from the front of a handwritten birthday card. She was sitting on this pile of books next to the Maxwell House and surrounded by three intriguing objects: an African violet, some sort of “tropical foliage” plant, and a sweet potato, courtesy of my thoughtful husband. (As I write this, it strikes me that these things could be subject to a variety of interpretations... let’s just smile and agree that this is a sweet gesture and leave it at that.)

Of course, Michael has learned through the years that I regard birthdays as a person’s “special day,” though he regularly disagrees with me on the philosophy. Like many people, he claims to feel that birthdays are “just another day” (and yet, somehow, he is always pleased to be given the royal treatment every year when his special day rolls around).

My feeling is this: you’re supposed to celebrate because it is the one day of the year that is solely yours. Your life, tagged to the moment on that particular day when you took your first breath. It’s your special day. A day that celebrates YOU.

Every year since the death of my sister Joyce, and later since my brother John died, I have had to strap on the virtual seatbelt and hit the gas to maneuver the emotional traffic that an anniversary like one’s birthday can bring. Like I said, it is what it is. Somehow, you figure it out. Life carries you along, and the people you surround yourself with always fill in some of the missing pieces in their own unique ways.

I think that’s a blessing of grief. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.(Thank you, Mick Jagger.)

I’ve got a schedule of things to do today that “must” be done, but there is room to go withi the flow too, so that’s what I’ll do. I’m sure my mother will call at 8:19 a.m. to wish me a Happy Birthday, she being the first to do that since the day I was born at precisely that time. It’s one of the rituals I can count on. The rest will work itself out.

One thing I know for sure. I’m having lunch with Joyce and John. We’re having a tuna fish sandwich. There’s a story to that, but that’s between us.

As I mark another year in my life, I’ll look back a little to reminisce about the good days I can’t get back. I also will look ahead because I have many blessings that have come to me since J&J were here. Either way, I’ll celebrate with them. That’s just the way it is.

Copyright 2010 By Marianne V. Heffernan

That hole in your heart

I’ve felt it but it never occurred to me that someone else would use the same exact words to describe it. How could someone else know what my grief feels like?

I heard the words spoken by Dr. William Petit as he faced the media this week after a jury issued its “death penalty” verdict in the case of convicted killer Steven Hayes. 

While many people are caught up in the debate over capital punishment in this case, I am fixated on Petit’s grief and the way in which he is finding the words to express this emotion publically. 

Grief is a powerful feeling. It can control you, potentially destroy you if you allow it to. It can eat you alive. Dr. William Petit is one of those people who knows this all too well.

 

Petit lost his wife, Jennifer Hawke-Petit, 48, and daughters Hayley, 17, and Michaela, 11, in one gigantic series of escalating evil acts on July 23, 2007. The three were terrorized by Hayes and his accomplice, Joshua Komisarjevsky, for a period that lasted overnight and ended with the Petit home in Cheshire, Connecticut, engulfed in flames, and three beautiful human beings dead. 

The criminal trial and subsequent penalty phase concluded this week with a jury unanimously deciding that Hayes deserves to be executed for his role in the Petit killings. Komisarjevsky is due to stand trial next year. 

After the decision, Petit faced a mob of media outside the Superior Courthouse in New Haven to respond to questions. The death penalty judgment changes nothing for Petit in terms of healing the wounds he has suffered. The “wounds” are deeper than any physical harm that can be inflicted. 

“I don’t think there’s ever closure,” Petit said. “There’s a hole with jagged edges, and over time the edges may smooth out a little bit but the hole in your heart and the hole in your soul is still there, so there’s never closure.” 

So true. Grief is an unimaginable experience. Sometimes, it is tied to horrific events such as murder. In the Petit case, we have seen and heard about the horrors that robbed Dr. Petit of his wife and daughters for the rest of his life. 

So far, the criminal justice system has spoken, meting out “part one” of its dose of justice. It remains to be seen what “part two” will bring with the second trial. In the meantime, Petit and the extended members of his family are left to carry on. 

So how does one do that? How does one “carry on” in this life when a loved one is taken from us? Really, when life serves up “hell,” how do you go on?

Thanatologists - that is, experts on death, dying and grief - say that grief is an individual experience. By that, I mean, for each of us the death of a loved one will mean something different than what that particular person’s death will mean to someone else. That’s because our lives are unique, so each connection, each experience, each relationship, contributes to a unique personal narrative that is our individual life story.

What’s needed is “meaning reconstruction.” Life as we know it changes irrevocably when someone we love dies. Noted grief expert Dr. Robert Neimeyer says that death changes our individual life stories so that the life that we might have had, would have had, perhaps were supposed to have, can never be. 

That in itself is devastating. As if that isn’t enough, we are expected to pick up the pieces and go on, to figure out what our life means and who we are after this particular death has transformed us.

I found an interesting interview of Neimeyer in my dissertation research, and it was more validation of other research I have come across that speaks about this “relearning” that we undergo through our grief. 

Neimeyer said, “We have to relearn who we are and relearn what the world is because both are changed by the subtraction of this person from our life.” (Taylor, J., “Healing Grief,” YouTube.)

While that may sound too sterile or clinical a view, it is nonetheless the challenge that we each face when we are battling our way through personal grief.

For William Petit, grief has generated a positive initiative that epitomizes the idea of meaning making. I’m sure he found his inspiration from all three of his loved ones, but it appears he took particular direction from his younger daughter, Michaela. It was Michaela who reportedly had been inspired by the words of Mohandas Ghandi to “be the change you wish to see in the world.” 

Those words grace the web site of the Petit Family Foundation, established by Petit and others who recognized that the lives of Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela should never be forgotten. Their lives meant something when they graced this earth, and they mean something as their spirits live on. 

For Dr. William Petit, the life he had before July 23, 2007 is a memory. His home, his family, and his daily focus of career and family life as he knew it are a part of his past. As he rebuilds his life, his wife and daughters will be a part of it in a way he never would have imagined. 

The hole in his heart is a permanent condition, but as he adjusts to a life he never would have asked for, Dr. Petit is giving meaning to the tragedy. In doing so, he honors Jennifer, Hayley and Michaela, and shares them with the world. 

What an amazing gift of grief. 

For more information on the Petit Family Foundation, visit http://www.petitfamilyfoundation.org/. 

Block and tackle

Another week of “Where am I?” on the Journey to Dissertation Land. Just when I think I have a handle on it, the GPS of my scholarly exploration loses its signal. Did I miss a turn? Am I even on the right road?

I took another shot at soliciting comments from my Committee last week in an attempt to ramrod my way onto the calendar before Thanksgiving to formally present my topic and get the official “Permission granted” to continue.

“Took another shot.”

Need I say more?

Here’s how it went. I, Little Miss “I Can Do This PhD Thing,” revised my proposal yet again, incorporating what I thought were the suggestions of the three professors who are guiding my path in this pursuit. 

Those suggestions would be things like, “It needs to be more scholarly,” “Rearrange,” and “Perhaps add a whole chapter on the history of grief and maybe even on the history of privacy.”

Oh dear Lord. Add, subtract, divide, conquer. Read, read, read more and read it again. 

YES-YES-YES-YES. Thank you, sir, may I have another? Makes sense, yes. Am I ready to present my topic? Apparently not. I hate this.

One must not take it personally when those who hold the coveted Ph.D. rank push you on your back side so you can get a better view of where you need to go. It isn’t personal, but it sure can be frustrating.

However, it is as it should be. I know this, so I am back at it, trying to clear my path and think through these obstacles to get on with the progress that writing will bring. I will say this: as an academic, I am challenged. I do not profess to be professorial. I do not suggest that I am a genius-like social scientist at this stage of my dissertation journey.  

I have made it this far and I know I can do this. I am just having a little trouble getting out of the gate. I find so many facets of this grief study interesting, and each offshoot leads to other ideas. The tangents make this work unwieldy, and I need to keep pulling myself back, inward, to figure out what the most important questions are, and to only focus on those questions. Keep it manageable, keep it narrowly focused. Above all, GET IT DONE.

This is a huge challenge for anyone writing a dissertation, and for me, a nearly impossible one. I have always been one to chase down the ideas that interest me, which ultimately was what shaped my career as a journalist. One story or source would turn me on to another, and I would dig into it and follow it through to find an abundance of related “stories” or ideas that would lead to other stories. The curse of a creative mind and the burden of being a writer, I suspect. There is never a shortage of stories to write.

So for now, I am back to the drawing board, not starting from scratch but worse, taking another (not so objective) look at what I have done so far in mapping out my topic. The working title has not changed. I am still seeking to prove out: “The Evolution of the Grief Memoir; How Communication Technologies are Changing the Way We Share and Experience Grief.”

I think this is what I want and need to know, but the building blocks are still scattered about the place. I need to rearrange them and make sure they are indeed the right blocks to piece together. There are so many blocks!   

Is it grief, or something more positive?

Grief is forever. We have already established this, so pardon the repetition. It is just a broken record at the moment. Today, one of grief’s little tricks jumped all over me, so I have to hash it out.

It’s a bit like a “back burner” deal. At times, grief does a low boil or barely even simmers. Other times, it gives off a little steam or boils over violently. Regardless, it is always on that back burner, ever present, offering the potential to spill over and make a mess of things as if in defiance of being ignored.

I will get back to my dissertation torment eventually, but for the moment I need to spill my guts on the tugs of grief that keep reminding me where the research for me truly began. Besides, as I’ve said before, “It’s all connected.” This hashing it out is part of the process.

Case in point: I had a flashback to my brother John today. These are usually random images that come to mind, completely unsolicited, but occasionally, like today, they throw me for a loop. Maybe it was a little nudge from little brother to remind me that I hadn’t reminisced about him lately.

I like to think the out-of-the-blue memory flashes are messages from Heaven from him or my sister, kindof like one of the only ways they can “keep in touch.” There’s no Facebook to Heaven, so I have to use my imagination, as we all do, when we want to communicate with someone who is not “here.”

Today my mind jumped back to the day John died and my frantic drive up Route 8 to Griffin Hospital after getting the call from my mother that he had taken a turn for the worse. It is an unpleasant memory and still very vivid for me. It isn’t a memory I intentionally return to when I am thinking about my life before January 8, 2002. I have no idea where it came from or why.

That is all the flashing back that took place today. Just that instant downer that started to take me further into the memory of that day before I instinctively shut it down. Clicked the “off button” and sent it packing.

But not really. And that is my point. There is no “off button” with grief.

There is nothing new in my observation here, though for some people who have not experienced it yet, it may seem exaggerated or melodramatic. It isn’t. It’s just fact.

But the thing that I am connecting to, relating to, trying to get to, is the way other people’s grief touches ours. I’m not sure yet, but I may be saying that the grief of others somehow helps our own to heal. So now, finally, I am getting to the subject I have been meaning to speak to for a couple of weeks but perhaps subconsciously have been avoiding. I need to open a discussion about the tragic Petit case.

I say “open a discussion” because it has taken me so long to get to the topic, I will never be able to say all that is on my mind and in my heart here if I stick to my usual roughly-1,000 word limit per post. So expect that I will have more to say on the Petit case in the coming weeks. Right now, I need to share a small piece of it because it is so very important, and yes, it is an emerging theme in my dissertation journey.

You would have to be living on the Planet Jupiter to not know about the horrendous murders of Jennifer Hawke-Petit and her two beautiful daughters, Hayley and Michaela, in their family home in Cheshire, Connecticut in 2007. Dr. William A. Petit survived the nightmare of their slayings and now is bearing up to survive the court trials of the men accused -- one of whom recently was swiftly convicted by a jury and is awaiting a decision in the penalty phase of his trial; the second of whom is expected to stand trial next year.

Notice I do not mention their names. It’s my own recoiling the precludes me from assigning a human element to the beings that treated a family so inhumanly. The grief of Dr. Petit cannot be described in careful words because it is something that one can only feel, and feel to the depths of one’s very essence.

Dr. Petit was quoted in a local paper several weeks ago when the trial of the first man accused was about to begin, and media coverage again was making Dr. Petit’s private pain a public experience. A collective grief experience, at least in one sense.

His words jumped off the page and seared into my psyche because they expressed my own feelings so well. The paper recounted how, during a pretrial hearing for suspect (now convicted killer) #1, the names of Petit’s wife and daughters were read out loud in the courtroom.

Petit must have told a reporter afterward that it made him happy to hear their names. Given the circumstances, the setting, and the situation, this reaction might be hard to understand. But the partial quote in the paper spoke volumes about this man’s grief. When you add his quoted words to the context, it takes on a deeper meaning. He said it made him happy to hear their names “to show that they were people.”

To show that they were people.

To remind everyone that Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela were here once. They were living, loving, caring human beings; a wife and daughters; someone’s friends; someone’s relatives; the source of someone’s pick-me-up moment, from a smile each of them offered just because. Jennifer, Hayley, and Michaela were all of these things and more, and Petit’s verbal reminder was moving as much as it was perfect to describe why grief never leaves us.

To show that they were people. Technically, is this grief? Or is it love seeping through a memory?

Just push ‘play'

My “grief” button is apparently stuck in the “on” position.

Another family funeral this week. Dear Uncle Joe. My cousins mourning the loss of their father, and another ritual of family, tears, ceremony, and remembering.

Grief, please, give me a break. Isn’t it enough that I am drowning in the literature of death, sorting through philosophies about how human beings deal with this part of life? My intentional study of this topic is being supplemented by the real life experience of it -- and it feels like every time I turn around, someone else is enduring a loss and I am the filter through which it runs.

We are all “filters” in this sense. The grief of others touches us and we are transformed, even if it is in the tiniest way.

But this time I am having a selfish grief experience. Or maybe internalizing it in a way that is bringing up “old stuff.” Whatever it is, it is familiar to me. As I think about my cousins losing their father at the robust age of 90, I am instantly compelled to thoughts of my own father’s mortality.

This is not a new one for me, folks. I have always dreaded the death of my parents, knowing that it would happen one day and knowing that I am never going to be ready for it.

For the record, neither of my parents is going anywhere anytime soon. I am thinking about this because I am empathising with my cousins in their sadness, and relating to their experience because I know it will one day be my own.

There is a term for this, though it escapes me now. I think it is called “anticipatory grief.” For people who have experienced the loss of someone very dear and close to them, this syndrome is the dread that you carry knowing that this life is fragile and temporary.

It means that somone you love will one day not be there when you stop by for a visit, or won’t be on the other end of the phone when it rings. The laughs, the struggles, the comforting hugs, or the playful teasing will only remain in your memory, which is where you will return to frequently to soothe the pain of separation. It will require a tremendous adjustment in your mindset to move from the opportunity for direct contact and human exchange to a strictly spiritual connection.

The feeling that you live with when you begin to slip into this anticipatory grief can be painful all by itself, even though it is self-inflicted and largely within your control to dismiss.

The feeling is fear.

For me, it can reach not-quite panic proportions and I think it explains a lot about my personality and the way that I need to document every event and important person in my life. Photographs, video, jotting things down -- these are the things I resort to, no, the things that I run to, so that I can capture the tidbits of my loved ones before they disappear. I need to collect all that I can, so that I can wrap myself in those tangibles and memories when they are all that I have left.

Now before you dig out your contact list to recommend a good psychiatrist, let me just say that I am not dwelling on that which I have no control over. I simply have a keen awareness of the “life is short” concept, and have a distinct philosophy that compels me to keep my life in the “Play” position, instead of putting things on hold for a more convenient time.

Author C.S. Lewis wrote An Observed Loss about the death of his wife, and in sorting through his grief, suggested that the experience of grief is forever. Not what I want to hear at the moment, but it may be why I am feeling “stuck” in the grief mud. Lewis said, “In grief, nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?’ (Lewis, 1961: 46)

Not a happy thought, but evidence that to grieve means to hurt in our experience of love. That really is not a bad thing. If you really think about it, it is a wonderful outward expression of a deep sentiment that means we have shared life with someone, we have melded spirits with them in some way, and we have been blessed with the precious gift of love.

The fear that anticipatory grief renders is manageable. Fear suggests the absence of faith, and if I step back from the anxiety, I know that the meaningful relationships in my life will last forever. They will just move from one realm to another. Faith has shown me that.

I believe that the only way to overcome fear is to face it squarely. So the thought for today is this: In the song of life, just push play. Then dance your way through it fearlessly.