Is Grief the Price We Pay for Love?

I think a lot of us have probably heard that saying. Something along the lines of "grief is our proof that we loved." For me, that saying ranks right up there with "everything happens for a reason."

I'm not a fan. Personally, I'd rather have my husband here and just tell everyone I love him. That seems much easier.

This was the subject of a recent podcast I was listening to with Glennon Doyle. To be honest, I haven't read any of her books and when I first started listening to her I wondered if I would have anything in common with her. But she was one of the first adults I'd ever heard speak about how she was a sensitive child and how that always made her feel like the black sheep in her family. And that I understood, but didn't realize anyone else felt that way.

So, she got my attention.

In the podcast I was listening to she said this:

"Grief is love's souvenir. It's our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I love well. Here is my proof that I paid the price."

Again, if I'm going to have a souvenir, I'd really rather my husband be here and for us to be wearing "I'm with stupid" sweatshirts or something. 

Later in the podcast she started talking about embracing pain. Seriously? If I could, I would run from it as fast as I could - and I'm not a runner. This body was not built for speed. But pain is something that I fear in myself and, even more, I fear witnessing in other people (especially my children). I want to fix whatever is happening and move forward as quickly as possible. And if I can't fix, I want to numb.

But she brought up a good point. I'm going to paraphrase here, so if you want to listen to what she really said, click here for the podcast. When talking to a mother who expressed her wish to keep her son from feeling pain, Glennon asked her, "What kind of person do you want your son to be?"

"I want him to be kind and wise," said the mother.

"How do you think he gets that way? From experiencing pain." 

Hmmmm. That's a thinker.

Solomon Says

Yesterday I was at church and the pastor was talking about the many devastating things that have been happening - especially here in Colorado in the last month or so. He quoted Ecclesiastes and said, "For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."

In other words, the more experience you have, the more sorrow you'll experience.

But, sorry Solomon, I just have to reverse this for a minute. Because I believe that "with much sorrow comes much wisdom." I would say that the people who participate and follow the Widow Chick page are some of the kindest and wisest people I know. And while I know we all wish we could have gained that wisdom by wearing that "I'm with stupid" sweatshirt while standing next to our spouses, at least wisdom is something we can get out of this sorrow.

I would say that if you refuse to learn something from this pain, if you refuse to allow it to make you a kinder, wiser person, then you never got your souvenir - you've left the experience empty-handed. Our stories and the stories of our loved ones are our legacies. 

And as Glennon Doyle said, "Grief and pain are like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. They're sacred. they are part of each person's journey. All we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am all alone. That's the one fear you can alleviate."

Not Winning Today (?)

I'm going to be completely upfront: this blog might not make any sense to anyone else but me. But because writing is part of how I process things, I'm doing this for myself. So if I lose you somewhere in here, that's totally fine. I just need to work through my day.

The reason why there is a question mark in parenthesis in the title is because I've had an extremely heavy day - actually a pretty heavy week - and right now I'm feeling completely drained, weepy, nauseous, and like I just want to crawl in a hole. But I'm hoping that because of what I'm going through it's actually leading me toward the greater good.

I've always been upfront about my love of therapy, but this week I embarked on a different journey and today it brought me back to a place I wasn't expecting to visit again. A few weeks ago, I went to a workshop that focused on scientific hand analysis and energy work. I was so impressed with how I felt that day that I signed up for continuing work - at one point, during a visualization exercise I felt so euphoric that I wanted to do what I could to feel that way as much as possible.

Even though I invest in therapy, investing in myself is something I don't often do. In fact, I never do it. After I paid for the ongoing program, I actually devoted an entire therapy session to the fact that I'd spent the money on this new program. Ironically, one of the reasons why I signed up for it was to address my issues surrounding my fear of money. But that will have to wait.

I realize that scientific hand analysis sounds a lot like palm reading, but it's not. To take the verbiage from the woman who worked on mine, Jayne Sanders, it's like this:

The lines in your hands mimic the neural pathways in your brain. Consistent thought and behavior patterns not only mark your brain but also your hands. The more frequent and/or intense the thoughts and behaviors, the more defined the lines in your hands. Therefore…

Your hands contain information about your physical, emotional, and spiritual selves. Whether you are aware of them or not, your behavior patterns, challenges, personality elements, approach to work, and innate talents are shown in the lines in your hands.

There's a lot more info and if you're still with me, click here and you can read more. 

Given the fact that I feel a little out of alignment with my purpose right now, I was hoping this might help move me in a certain direction. It's too early to tell, but the process was really interesting. Some of it I knew about myself. Some of it I didn't. Some of it I think I knew, but I needed someone else to tell me. Most of all, it was interesting to know why I sometimes feel out of alignment and gain tools to regain balance. I'm really excited about working on that part.

Today I met with the woman who does the energy work, Michelle Wilson. I've been excited about this appointment, again, hoping to gain more clarity. I went in feeling optimistic and thought I had this. I mean, I spend a LOT of time in reflection, trying to be more self-aware, more conscious, so I thought I was about to be an energy superstar.

The energy work begins by seeing if there are any energy blocks - and that was the moment I realized that I'm not as far along as I thought I was. In doing muscle testing (here's a little more about that) we immediately started realizing that I had blocks that, frankly, I thought I had overcome years ago - most of it surrounding trauma and the fear of despair. Yes, I realize that most people don't want to feel despair, but until today I didn't realize that I actually fear it.

It makes sense. I still fight my grief and any other unpleasant feelings as much as I can, but I didn't realize how much that was still damaging me. After all, I literally wrote a book about grief. Am I a fraud? God, I hope not. I just think that I've probably dealt with everything on a more surface level (because I'm scared) and my body is telling me I'm not done.

I won't lie. This is a terrible feeling. But I'm also wondering what the outcome will be and what would have happened if I hadn't realized this. While I don't feel great, I also feel hopeful.

Since I now know from my hand analysis that one of my master paths is as a "successful spiritual teacher helping people through crises of meaning and radical transformation" (I cried when she said "crises of meaning"), I thought I would write about this for myself and maybe for the one person who might read it.

And for those of you who are still in the very raw stages of grief, I hope you don't read this and think, "SHIT. I'm going to still be feeling this way after 13 years?"

I can't say whether you will or you won't. All I know is that it's worth it to me to figure out who I am and how I can be my best self for me. And apparently I still have work to do.

Winning at Coping

I have been dreading this month, this summer, for years.

Next week my oldest will be graduating from high school and in the fall I'll be making the long trip across the country to bring her to school.

I wrote about this months ago. I sat at my computer in tears, wondering how in the world I was going to get through it. Yes, I have two more children at home, but this marks the beginning of a new chapter for our family and the start of all my little chickadees leaving the nest.

I'll be honest - there have been moments when I don't mind the thought of it so much. When the trash can is overflowing because no one but me takes it out or when it's so noisy I can't concentrate, I envision a future me in a quiet house working only with my own schedule instead of waking up in the morning wondering how it's all going to get done.

Months ago I was sitting in a therapy session, crying about what was coming up and my therapist said something very helpful. "I once had a client who cried for two years before her daughter graduated and then when it happened she came in and she'd never been happier."

I was hopeful when she said that because that's typically what happens to me. I'll cry for the two weeks leading up to my deceased husband's birthday and then on the actual day, I'm completely fine. Sure enough, at my daughter's senior field hockey banquet, an event I'd been dreading since she was a freshman, I sat there with dry eyes. (It helped that most of the girls were fighting by then, so we were pretty happy to let it go.)

In the last few weeks I've attended senior awards ceremonies, her last choir concert, and other events that have had me crying for three years, anticipating the LAST ONE. And at each of the events, I might have had a short teary moment, but for the most part. I've felt okay. I'd even say I was happy.

"What's changed?" my therapist asked.

My secret

Living in the present is not so much as secret as it is an impossible goal - or at least I've always thought of it that way. I'm a worrier and a regretter. I've battled anxiety and depression. And all of those things mean that I've either been living in the past or worried about the future.

But again, to actually think about the present was something I have never been capable of doing - until I had an epiphany.

I was sitting in bed one night, crying over what was to come, when I realized that I was wasting valuable time. Instead of enjoying the time I have with my daughter, I was dreading the future that was months away. I was missing out.

I had FOMO.

If I sat and cried through that choir concert, that would mean I was thinking about either the baby she was or the fact that she's leaving. I wasn't in the moment, soaking it in, remembering every detail as much as possible, enjoying that time and being happy for her. I was ruining the time I had left with her.

And that scared me more than her leaving.

I've started a little exercise that's helped me greatly when it comes to her leaving and calming down my anxiety in general. When I start feeling those tears or start worrying about something that likely won't happen I ask myself this question:

Are you okay right now?

I mean that in a very literal sense. Are you breathing? Is it a beautiful day outside? Are you sitting in a home that you're grateful for? Are you spending time with family you love? Can you feel the chair underneath you? What are the words the choir is singing? What is happening right now in this moment?

Notice I'm not asking if my credit cards are paid off or if everything on my work to-do list is done. I mean very literally WHAT IS HAPPENING?

I'm not saying that there won't be any tears leading up to the fall or sadness when she goes, but I know I'm doing my very best to soak up each moment as it comes right now. I don't want to think back on these milestones and realized that I missed a moment with her, thinking about what she needs to pack in two months or the moment we will finally say goodbye.

I know I can choose to worry and dread or I can choose her.