It took nearly two years for me to find the courage, but yesterday my family and I went through my daughter Jessica’s clothes and belongings. Since she had lived at both her father’s and my homes, her father had already gone through several bags and boxes of clothes, shoes, and mementos, but I had six or seven huge boxes of tightly packed clothes that had arrived from LA after Jess passed. Plus, so much of her life had been stored in her old bedroom at my house where I still have my mother’s things. Needless to say, that’s not a room I choose to spend time in as the memories are too overbearing and the sadness of loss overwhelms me.

Jess’ dad, her stepmom, sister, younger half-sister, and I went through enough clothing to cover a small village (or surely to fill a garment store). Jess loved fashion and thrift-store shopping and was a model for several years. She had no “off” button for clothes and shoe shopping! And each piece of clothing, including an entire box of underwear and bras, had to be sorted one-by-one with everyone looking on to see who would claim what. OK, I was the only one unable to part with my baby’s underwear. You have to be a mom who has lost a child to understand. There were some worn-out shoes that could not be trashed as well, as they were my girl’s favorites. And aside from her little sister, all of us found loads of our own clothes in Jessie’s things. Jess was definitely a bit of a magpie.

I held each item to my nose trying to get a whiff of Jess, and sometimes I could, just a drifting scent of her choice of soap or perfume or maybe just the smell of her skin. I cried. No I sobbed. Everyone else held it together, but I couldn’t help feeling that we were deconstructing my dear daughter’s life, taking it apart stitch-by-stitch, attaching value as we saw fit and deciding what should be kept and what should go. Her life—her living—was strewn across the hardwood floor as each piece of her was added to one or another pile. I felt Jessie with us, looking on, wanting to caress the things she had loved. And I wanted in some ways to keep it all, to cling to each piece of her and never let go, hoping that somehow I could have my child back alive with many years of living ahead of her.

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But I’ve at least initially made it through this huge hurdle. There are still numerous boxes of clothes and shoes that none of us chose to keep (mainly because most of her clothes wouldn’t fit us—lots of “too bigs” and “too smalls” but not many “just rights.”) Jess was about 5 foot 10 and wore something like a size 2 in pants! Tall and narrow like Olive Oil, her personal cartoon character. So now, I’m going to invite all her friends to look through the boxes and take whatever they’d like. I would love for Jess’ things to be kept by those who knew and loved her. The final stop for most of what’s left will be WEAVE’s (Women Escaping A Violent Environment) clothing store for women who need professional clothes to enter the job field. Jess would love to know that she was helping women in this way.

I’m hoping someday to have cleared out everything in my home that needs sorting and to have a treasure chest filled with Jessica’s things, the pieces of her life that I want to hold onto to remember the special moments. I deeply desire to be able to move though my whole house without feeling oppressed by the external reminders of my losses. I want to repaint both of the girls’ rooms with lighter colors that will uplift my soul, and replace the boxes with art and comfortable furniture. These are my hopes and desires. Like everything else in this grief, it will take time to accomplish, but at least there is now some light to move toward in the future. I know my girl will be there with me.

July is Bereaved Parents Awareness month, a time for most folks to thank God, I guess, that they still have all their children living and breathing. Yes, I’m being cynical. I’m in that kind of mood. But I appreciate when those who haven’t lost children are interested to hear from those of us who have what we need, what works for us, and what doesn’t help. So here’s my personal offering of education for those interested in listening.

First, I’ve been living this nightmare since November 2013. Before then, I used to wake up each morning aware that I was one day closer to death. Yes, I had an unusual sense of my own mortality, but having been born to older parents, having been told as a young child that I better appreciate my dad since he wouldn’t be around long, and having attended many more funerals than weddings, death was always in my peripheral vision. Perhaps, that’s why I was always so terrified that my children would die. I’ve always been acutely aware that everyone does. Anyway, until Nov. 11, 2013, the first day I woke after Jess died, I always began the day rather anxious that my clock was ticking away, not that I feared death, but rather that I dreaded its arrival.

Now, I wake each day and pray for the years to pass quickly. I believe that only time will deaden the pain of loss and make it bearable for however long I must endure. Five years from now, I will have longer stretches of time when my mind isn’t possessed with thoughts of my daughter’s death. I hope to have found my all-but-lost capacity for laughter. And I no longer dread the idea of being at the end of life, no, quite the opposite. Like the runner who completes the long-distance marathon, I too will stagger emotionally if not physically exhausted across the finish line.

Time is my friend and my enemy. The more time passes, the more I can look back and see that I have healed some, that I have changed in some ways, that I no longer am as raw as I initially was. I can stand crowds now without having panic attacks. I can enjoy certain things such as eating and physical activity. My brain recall has returned to some degree, and thinking isn’t as maddening as it was when I still felt shell-shocked. These are all good things.

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But time is still my enemy too. The past haunts me. I see my babies, my little girls, and I long to hold them again. Sarah is now 28, healthy and alive, but I still long for my little blond girlie who needed her mommy but is now grown up. And that longing for both Jess and Sarah would be just as real if Jessie were still here with me. I mourn the loss of being a mom to my babies and young children. That part of my life is behind me, but it’s still an ache in my hollow heart, a heart that hasn’t yet found another meaning for being.

Time in the present means living through the minutes and hours of endless questioning if anything anyone could have done would have saved my daughter’s life. If only she hadn’t broken up with her boyfriend. If only her girlfriend had moved down like they had planned, and the two of them had gotten an apartment together. If only Jess had followed through with her plans to have her friends pick her up from the bus station that evening. If only I hadn’t been so consumed with my mother’s funeral and could have noticed how pale and tired Jess was. If only, if only, if only. There are a million challenges to her death that I’ve come up with, and not one of them will bring back my girl. I hit the replay button over and over again, and yet I still get that phone call from her dad telling me my beautiful crazy daughter is dead.

I believe that everyone who experiences the loss of a child is like a lost soul wandering endlessly through a desert, looking for an oasis or village with water, comfort, a place to find peace. We talk to each other, to those further along in the process, hoping to be given a map to quicken the journey, a potion to quench our horrible thirst for answers. I sense that if you really look at us you’ll see the deadness of sharks’ eyes, the spark of life absent if we let down the pretense. We still love passionately, if not fearfully, but the fire has gone out. I know there are those who have made it back to the land of the living, those who had to show up for their other young children, or those who are graced with the gift of acceptance of what is. I’m not there yet. I think I’m on the right road, but as Frost wrote, there are “miles to go before I sleep.”

So as you move forward in your daily living, with all your dreams, goals, complaints, and meaningful and meaningless ways of being, know that we who are bereaved live dual lives. On the outside, we can appear to fit in. It’s just the suit of clothes we’ve managed to squeeze into that creates the image of normality. But the conversation in our minds, the constant background noise of our daily living is the symphony of loss we continue to endure. Don’t ever suggest that we should “get over it,” “move on” because our children want to see us happy, or offer that we should “volunteer at something to help others so you can get your mind off your own problems.” These “caring” suggestions will fill us with rage and strengthen the sense that we are a people set apart, no longer members of normal society, perhaps no longer human. And in the end, what these suggestions really say to us is that “normal” people aren’t comfortable with our grief, with the people we’ve become, and care not so much for the end of our suffering as they do the end of their personal discomfort at watching us grieve. Harsh words, perhaps. But the truth is we are forced to wake up every day at the bottom of the hill with the huge boulder of our grief and the endless uphill trek. You can choose to journey with us, or you can turn and walk away.

When you lose a child, birthdays and death-days are normally the two hardest points in the year to get through. The day your child came into this life, and the day she left. Whether your child had three minutes of living or 64 years, you, the parent, bear the loss of her throughout your life, feeling the wrongness of outliving your offspring.

Tuesday was Jessica’s birthday. She would have been 27, and I can’t help but wonder about the “Jess” she would have morphed into in the year and a half since she died. Jessie inherited from me the tendency toward change. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been working at the same place for 15 years, and I’ve always been in long-term relationships. But internally, spiritually, I have always allowed myself the space to grow and evolve into other versions of me. I think my core has remained the same, but the external attributes—beliefs, goals, the way I “move” in the world—have all continually transformed into new, and hopefully improved, manifestations of Bernie. I’m certainly not the person I was at 19—a very conservative born-again Christian, depressed, fearful, with very low self-esteem. I outgrew that person and, fortunately, embraced other ways of being that provided me more freedom. And yet I know so many people who have remained basically the same as they were way back when. No problem with version-control for them! I really can’t imagine a life without growth and change. I keep what works and embrace new ideas and ways of being if I believe they will benefit me.

Jess was like me in this way. She was always trying on new ideas and roles. She was, in fact, a bit of a chameleon. She could choose who to be, applying different aspects of her many selves, in order to adapt comfortably to most situations. So who would she have been now? I’ll never know, and this hurts me deeply, recognizing that her infinite potential slammed against a solid wall the moment she died.

But while Jessie no longer has the ability to grow and change, I do. It’s interesting for me to stand back emotionally and look at how I’ve changed during the year. I have more peace this year. I cry less often. I have longer periods of grace during which I can smile, behave normally, maybe even experience enjoyment and laughter. I can accept that the future holds possibilities even though at this point I have no idea what those might be and no belief that I can ever be a truly happy person. When people ask me how I am, I have actually answered, “Good!” a few times. These are huge gains!

So I realize that while I can never bring my daughter back, that my old life was destroyed, that who I was I’ll never again be, I can accept that with time I will grow even more accustomed to this new life with its loss. In a much smaller way, imagine having badly broken your leg in your youth. Perhaps being a very physical person, an athlete, defined who you were, and so you suffered more than just the physical leg breakage. Some days, the bone aches so much you can barely stand, and you have to take medication to help you bear the pain. You know that you need to keep moving, so your leg won’t stiffen from disuse. Then on other days, you get up, feel the twinge of pain, but go through your day able to accomplish your tasks with minimal discomfort, although you unknowingly favor your whole leg and tend to walk with a bit of a limp.

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The scarred bone will always be there, the compensation for the pain always a necessity. You will never be the star athlete you were. Others who haven’t experienced such a loss suggest you take up another sport. Will the pain lessen in time? Or will you spend your life having to compensate for the breakage you experienced at 17? Some people live their whole lives looking back at the glory years before the breakage. Some use the experience of loss to help others in similar situations. Some use the pain to push them to living their greatest potential in life. And some just sit down and wallow in beer and pills.

It’s easy to feel “Poor me” no matter what the loss. Poor Jess. She made an unknowing choice that cost her everything. Poor us, her family, whose lives have been irrevocably derailed by her death. Poor world, which will never benefit from the presence and energy of my incredible daughter. But here we all are, and while we might not be able to embrace change, we can still choose to remain open to the possibility of it and grateful for the changes that help us to continue on our paths, scars and all.

Chris and I have abandoned the farm to a caretaker and are in Costa Rica for two weeks. The trip has been magnificent (except for driving in San Jose–thank goodness for GPS!), filled with challenging activities ranging from zip-lining 328 feet in the air of the cloud forest, traveling up to 45 mph for a half mile, to SCUBA diving 70 feet under the sea, to rafting down the class 3-4 Pacuare River. I will be 56 next week but am amazed at what my body can still manage with little more than aches, bruises, and blisters resulting.

When focusing on a challenge, be it mental or physical, I can relax that part of my mind that remains in constant anguish and pain since my concentration is needed for the task ahead of me. In theory, anyway. But Jessica is wily and manages to intrude even when I should be totally in the moment. Because I know that she would love to do the things I’m doing. She’d be yelling, “Bring it on!” volunteering to be the first to zip-line above the cloud forest canopy, or as the front paddler of the raft, taking on white water plunges. She would be awed at the huge spiders, beetles, and cockroaches on the night hike (not so much, Sarah…). Jess would be the extreme adventurer because that was part of her attitude toward life: try everything, experience it all, don’t think of the risks or consequences. That was my girl, and that’s why she’s not here anymore, because she didn’t count the risks or understand her body’s limitations.

I keep telling myself I’m getting better. Chris told me the same thing last night over drinks and dinner. I don’t feel it in my heart much of the time. I feel like a great pretender, an actress supreme: “Look at that older woman, laughing, taking on the white water, fearless, living life to the full!” Fearless, yes. I’ve experienced my worst fear and am having to live with it daily. What’s my old fear of heights compared to having lost one of my dears? But I laugh at myself when I think, “Falling while zip-lining would be a quick and easy death” because I know I would not be that lucky. My fall would be softened by the fern branches, so I would arrive at the bottom broken but alive. I hear this voice laughing at me, “I’m not letting you off that easy.”
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But the pretence of wholeness seems required. No one wants to listen to me talk about my daughter (especially on vacation), moan about the things she’ll never get to do or enjoy. My tears are for the most part silent and private, which means that while I’m putting on my great act, I’m actually somewhere on the outside of reality critiquing the show and living my counter-life of grief. If you’re living this nightmare life, you’ll understand what I mean. If you’re lucky to have been spared this pain, you probably won’t get it. Meanwhile, the pressure builds, and I know if I can’t find an outlet to express my pain, I will blow. I don’t even know what I need most of the time. To talk or not to talk, that is the question. To cry, to scream, to wail. Nothing will bring her back. The real question is, “What will bring me back?”

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. And tomorrow marks one and a half years since Jess died. Yes, died. She didn’t leave or pass away or move on. She died. If you don’t say the word, you don’t have to accept the truth, it doesn’t have to be real. That’s why we use all the other softer terms, so as not to cause more pain about the reality or finality of the act.

There’s something stuck in my gut. It feels like a bad case of indigestion. Or a knife. I’ve been talking to myself this evening, telling myself it’s just another marker, another number. It doesn’t really mean anything. I shouldn’t feel any worse. If anything, I should be relieved. I’m halfway to the three-year mark, the time it took me to think about my father without crying after he died. Yes, it’s a blessing–if you believe in such things (I don’t think I do right now)–to be further away from the event, from the phone call, the hearing of the words, “Jessica’s dead,” like the sound of a guillotine blade before it makes its slice. I’m grateful to be this far.

I think I’m getting more used to my new life, the new me. I’m not as often shocked by the thought of my daughter being gone. Only now and then does the reality come at me like I’ve never experienced it before. I remember waking every morning without the heart-knowledge of my loss and having to re-experience the shock and horror anew at the beginning of each new day. I’m not sure if I’m improving or if the numbness is just more absolute.

Poor blood buy viagra from canada flow to the genital organs, it turns the sexual act exciting. All the other branded companies like Kamagra, Silagra is also very effective for ED treatment. try that buy cheap cialis Tadalista is one of price tadalafil tablets the medications for treating erectile dysfunction like exercising, stop smoking, weight loss and curbing alcohol intake. Sexual disorder is like human beings, it cialis ordering comes in all forms, sizes and kinds. I looked at my hands tonight and saw my mother’s elderly hands with paper-thin skin and age marks. I’m certainly not wearing as well as she did. She would always brag that at 50 she was told she still looked 30. When she died at almost 96, she still had naturally brown hair with only streaks of gray. I know that I won’t match her in her youthful aging. But, funny, tonight when I saw the age before me, I was glad. I’m growing old, older yes, but old too. In a few years, I’ll be 60 (I know, 60 is the new 40 or some such nonsense). I’m still very fit and strong compared to most my age, but my bones ache, and my soul is weary of this life. Chris hollered for me from the garden this afternoon. He was just trying to get my attention to tell me something mundane, but I went running, yelling at him, “WHAT???” In terror. All I could think–feel–was that something else was dead or perishing, some other catastrophe was hitting. This is what we do, we who have experienced traumatic loss. I don’t know how long, if ever, it will take to not react in terror to hearing my name yelled. I still hate to answer the phone. I’m just terrified of what else there may be to hear.

But tomorrow is Mother’s Day. And I’m still the mother of two daughters. And I still have one very brilliant, fantastic, wonderful, gorgeous child who is the delight of my heart. And tomorrow, she and I will spend the day together cooking breakfast, sitting by the pool, drinking mimosas and enjoying each other’s company. When asked what I wanted to do, I had originally said let’s go to brunch and then for a hike. But this morning, when I really thought about what I WANTED, I realized that I very simply want to spend time with my girls, and knowing that I couldn’t be with both of them, that just relaxing with Sarah and enjoying her presence was all I need or want. And so tomorrow, I will with full knowledge of what I have enjoy time with Sarah just being in the moment and loving.

For all my women friends who have lost children, happy Mother’s Day! No matter what, we are all still mothers. If your child isn’t here to share the day with you, please honor yourself for them. They would never have had the chance to live–for however long they had–if it hadn’t been for us, their mothers, and within our hearts they will always be alive.

Part of my grief process has been a continued sense of detachment from life, including relationships, activities, and objects. At times, I’ve been overwhelmed with a sense of claustrophobia at being surrounding with so much stuff, most of which is pretty much meaningless to me now. While things can be beautiful, they often just don’t touch me in any deep or meaningful way and have become little more than dust-collectors in my estimation. Thus, I’ve felt an internal pressure to divest myself of the clutter surrounding me that takes up high-value space in my emotional atmosphere and causes me unease.

On Wednesday after work, I came home and without thought of what I was taking on began my de-cluttering efforts en force (I had already taken a first step this weekend with the office, which houses some high-emotion objects). Before realizing what I was starting, I cleaned out (OK, no cleansers or wet rags involved, I confess) my over-crowded and maddening triple-shelf spice cupboard and a very deep cupboard above my oven that stores sugar, flours, oils, and other cooking ingredients. Being on a farm, we deal with a moth-infestation every year. Happy are the fowl when they receive full bags of crackers, chips, cereals, and other delicacies filled with high-protein creepy-crawlies! Fortunately, I’ve learned over the years, and although I did find a moth flying around the cupboard, all of my food stuffs were contained uninfested in airtight, insect-proof containers. I left the kitchen amazed that I had accomplished tasks that brought me such relief without causing any real suffering.

I headed to the den to relax and read my book but as I walked to the couch was distracted by the book shelf. This is one of those “build-it-yourself,” six-by-nine foot pine wood shelves from Home Depot with a total of 11 shelves, most of which housed two rows of books. Did I mention I’ve always loved reading, have an MA in English, and taught college English? So I have BOOKS. I had already set the goal of sorting through these treasures and getting rid of any that I didn’t feel a compulsion to keep and in fact had asked my husband to bring me boxes from his work to pack up the giveaways. Drink and book in hand, I stared at the shelves and thought, “I’ll just go through one shelf to ease into the process.” Three hours and four crammed boxes of books later, I was covered in a thick layer of gray dust, and my shelves were virtually breathing with the freedom of release. Talk about a feeling of accomplishment! I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Nonetheless, this is not a decluttering blog. This is my story or shall I say stories? While looking at each and every book and deciding between the “keep-it” or “lose-it” pile, I dealt with all the emotional triggers remembering will bring…and some triggers came from things I hadn’t known were there. Photos of our dog Lily who died in spring 2013, just a puppy when we moved to the farm in 2001, with our original “Moose-the-mini-Dachshund,” a puppy herself.  Snapshots of Sarah and her date before her Junior Prom. A book about a Mexican volcano my ex-husband Pablo’s ex-girlfriend had given him one year for his birthday. And a mostly unused journal.

I set aside the photos to share with my family and decided to give away Pablo’s book since my ex-husband is no longer living, and I couldn’t think of anyone else who would want the book inscribed by his girlfriend. I didn’t look at the journal until I had sorted through the books. Then I picked it up and opened it to the first and only page with writing. It read:

“Dear Mom,
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‘Heart,’ (in a symbol for love)
Jessica Kelly 12-27-2000”

My child was just 12 1/2 when she wrote this. She couldn’t know the future (could she?), but maybe she saw her sister, who was 14 at the time, exhibiting those lovely teenage outrages toward her parents. Jess told me when she was older (in her early 20s) that before puberty she had thought “she could never be mean to her mommy,” but then, of course, she became a teenager, and the hormones reared their ugly horns, and next thing she knew she was outdoing her sister in pushing Mom away. But how in the world, why in the world, did she write these exact words that I wouldn’t find until a year and a half after her leaving me?  In the space of a handwritten page, she managed to assure me that she would always love and like me, that I wouldn’t be to blame for her adult choices, and that she would always carry me in her heart. I am left with tears, heartbreak, gratitude, questions, and amazement at the wisdom and foresight of my little Jessie Bear.

If you’ve read my previous post “My Spiritual Journey,” you’ll know that I’ve put aside all of my lifetime spiritual beliefs including that we are eternal, that we exist here and on the eternal plain at the same time, that I have the ability to communicate and experience my daughter even though she has passed from this life. I want to believe in all these things, but since I realized that believing she was just a breath away from me and all I had to do was finely attune myself to experience her seemed to bring me such pain, I decided that without real proof I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell in the world of “make-believe” any more. So what should I think of this message that came out of nowhere, that so spoke to my heart’s need, that ironically appeared the Wednesday before Mother’s Day? I just don’t know. Before, I would have known that this was Jessie reaching out to me now, not 15 years ago. But for the present I will sit with the gift of her precious words and take them for what they meant when she wrote them and what they mean to me now that I’ve read them.

This morning I came across a quote that I know she would love:

“If there ever comes a day we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.  Winnie the Pooh”

You will always be in my heart too, Little Bear.

If I’ve learned anything about grief so far it’s that each day brings a new feeling, a new challenge, perhaps a little resolve if I’m lucky (although just as easily, I can lose some peace I thought I had gained). I can’t tell how I’m going to feel tomorrow or even this evening. All it takes is a memory trigger–a song we shared, passing by a restaurant we enjoyed, seeing a photo–and I can be racing down Misery Road. My physical condition can also shove me toward despair. If I haven’t slept well or if my body is aching, I’m less able to keep the grief in lock-down.

Just as strangely, I have had days when I wake up and for awhile anyway, I feel almost normal. Or at least my “new normal,” which is a much flatter, shorter-on-the-joy-spectrum experience of life. Some days, I find myself beginning to consider plans for the future, thinking about possibly taking an herbal medicine class or learning to play the guitar. I let myself imagine retiring and waking up in the morning not having to race out the door to work. I actually let myself experience for a moment what that attitude of relaxed being would feel like. This is new. I didn’t, couldn’t conjure any picture of the future a month or two ago. There just wasn’t anything but darkness. But while there now appear to be pinpricks of light, what has “remained” (ironic, really) within me is a vacant lack of desire. While I may want to be rid of something that’s part of my current life, I don’t want anything new added. Although I might consider taking a class or trying a new hobby, my mind’s default answer is, “Why bother?”

Doctors always prescribe viagra pills for sale as the best and effective disease to ensure a complete cure of this disease. When your liver is failing, your doctor may prescribe you different solutions such as cialis tadalafil uk, cialis- the branded and effective medications for dealing with the impotence issues in men. Powerful herbs in this herbal supplement also boost vigor and regain lost youthfulness. see to find out more women viagra Kamagra 100 mg benefits one by causing enhancement of the erection and it is highly recommended that you consult the related doctor at the earliest in order to avoid escalating confrontation. generico cialis on line Think about how necessary positive emotions are to your success at any new adventure. Desire leads to excitement, which leads to anticipation, which added to effort, equals potential success. Now, remove desire. I don’t want anything. Well, I do, but the things I want, I can’t control or create. I can’t protect my daughter Sarah or my husband, guaranteeing they’ll outlive me. I can’t bring back Jessica. I know that all the living things in my life that I love, be they people, animals, plants, will all die, sooner in some cases, later in others, and I can’t even control the timing. As for “stuff,” nothing really matters to me. Clothes? Jewels? A new home or car? Knickknacks and collectors items? I don’t want, really want, anything. I don’t need anything more than I have. In fact, I need less not more. Money is certainly required for living, and as is said, “Money can’t buy you happiness, but you can be miserable in a better part of town.” Or, for that matter, on a tropical beach. But I feel toward money what I feel toward a hammer or saw. It’s just a means to an end, an end I have to desire to reach. No thing is going to give me my heart’s desire, and my vision is expansive enough to know that things do not take away your soul pain.

I’ve heard well-intending friends and family members try to “fix” my grief with suggestions such as finding a cause to support or volunteering to help others (to take my mind off my own problems). I know some people who’ve worked through their grief this way by pouring their energy into something they want to change, correct, or create. More power to them! For me, my lack of desire has to work itself out before I can invest myself in anything. I don’t need or want a distraction. Nor do I believe that any distraction could possibly heal the pain of losing my daughter. I don’t really believe that time heals grief either. I just think that over time I’ll adjust to this new life that Jessica’s death created. I can feel that adjustment beginning, but right now, it feels more like resignation than embracing a change. I’m hoping that somewhere, sometime I’ll actually want something new in my life, that I’ll set and attain goals, with the resultant satisfaction of having achieved a dream. But I don’t think that dreams or desires are possible until the wound of losing what I have loved is scarred over enough to bear the possibility of reinvestment of myself and potential further loss. If and until that time comes, I’m grateful that I can simply stand back in my safe space and acknowledge the beauty that still exists out there in the world, a world that refused to shrivel up and die along with me and my old life.

By my nature, I’ve always been a spiritual person. My earliest thought of God (I must have been all of 3) was of a gigantic hand reaching down out of the clouds to pull stitches from my life as if it were a tapestry. My mother always told me that if I told a lie, God would do that, and she obviously made quite an impression on my very young mind. I was never much of a liar, and I had a firm fear of consequences and what God could do to shorten my life. Nonetheless, somehow, my soul felt an affinity for this God who could do me so much harm. I went occasionally to an Episcopalian Sunday school and listened to Bible stories (and afterward, at my sister’s prodding, stole the cookies that were stored at the top of a cabinet–she was the real culprit being 10, while I a mere 5). My parents were definitely NOT religious. My father, an agnostic, for personal reasons strongly disliked the Catholic Church. My mother, resolutely pronouncing herself a Catholic, could be seen at BINGO, but never at Mass. I had watched movies, and all godly people were personified as Catholic. My favorite was “The Song of Bernadette” (my patron saint and the origin of my name-of-choice, Bernie). What really sank home was when the Virgin Mary told young Bernadette, “I cannot promise you happiness in this life, only in the next.” That resonated with me, and so I went to my parents and asked that they allow me to become Catholic (the Catholics don’t actually baptize you again but merely do something mysterious that transforms you into a TRUE Believer). I was allowed to go to Catechism classes (I loved them, and the nuns and priests loved me!) and made my First Communion shortly thereafter with the younger children (I was 10, they, 7).

All I can say is that I truly loved everything about church and Catechism, the nuns and the priests. I would take the bus to attend Mass at St. Jarlath’s Church in Oakland every Sunday I could. I loved the dark, stoney cold and incense of St. Jarlath’s with its beautiful stained glass and baby crying room. Here, alone, I could feel God, the mysticism, the divine energy, the peace of simply being. I was a very strange child.

I remained Catholic into my high school years when I was invited to a Presbyterian youth group. I asked my priest for permission to attend, and he agreed, stipulating only that I not end up leaving the church, which, quite quickly, I did. Nothing like Born Agains to let you know that you’re part of the Anti-Christ’s church and are going to Hell. I had six months earlier received a Bible from an older sister and had read the entire New Testament. Spiritually reinforced, I embraced everything from fundamentalism to evangelism and back. I loved God and wanted nothing more than to live my life dedicated to Him. Somewhere in the midst of all this fervent worship, I also was introduced to Mormonism, which was quickly disposed of despite my affinity for that church’s commitment to large families and the concept of pre-existence with God. I wanted to be a Mormon, but the teachings didn’t jive with my Born-Again doctrine.

To sum up the next 20 years or so of my Christian life, I moved to Ireland, joined a Baptist Church (baptized again by total immersion), reached out to an American evangelical group that had Bible study and prayer meetings for college students (I met my first husband, the father of my girls, at one such meeting), and later embraced an ecumenical charismatic group dedicated to prayer and the Gifts of the Spirit–yes, “tongues,” prophecy, healing, all the things I felt should be available to the truly devoted Christian. I wholeheartedly believed that if you claimed to be a Christian and followed God’s teachings, then your life, your thoughts, your actions should swim in the pool of spirituality. That said, one would never look at me and think, “Oh, she’s an uptight, rigid, religious nut.” I knew a lot of those folks who fell on their knees, begging for God’s forgiveness every single time they came together to worship. My belief was we were redeemed, forgiven, and ready for action. To stay on one’s knees crying for what was already given was a wasteful use of time and energy (and pretty repulsive).

I was very happy with our charismatic prayer group. Although mainly Catholic, we didn’t rigidly follow doctrine (which I wouldn’t have bought into), but really were centered on love and joy, singing, supporting each other, “going for a pint,” or sharing hospitality with each other, and generally being great friends. We were Community. I met many of my best friends there, one being a Catholic priest from Belfast (who flew out the moment he heard about my daughter and led the funeral service). And then the Recession brought us all to our knees in a way God’s power never required. Our friends left Ireland to find work in England, on the Continent, in Canada, and the States. We ourselves ultimately emigrated to California. With 22 percent unemployment in Cork City and no jobs anywhere in Ireland, we had to build a life somewhere to support our family even if it meant leaving the people we loved behind. It was heartbreaking.

Even the most focused and driven individuals will hesitate to challenge their peers on counterproductive actions and behaviours if they believe those actions and behaviours were never agreed levitra on line sale upon in the first place. The drug will be delivered to you in your presence only that is the reason; a lot of medicine producing order levitra on line why not try here company has come to the forefront in the last 10 years or so. Only disability downtownsault.org online prescription viagra due to arthritis or rheumatism is more common. Alcohol has deep and tragic effects on both physical and mental activities among discount levitra here weak and tired people. And what followed perhaps was worse. I saw what right-wing Christianity was about in America and retched. The fundamentalist and evangelical hypocrisy, the hatred, the perpetual focus thrown on sexual “sins” and abortion. Where was the love??? Where was the support? I sought out and found one Catholic Church that was quite liberal and tried to fit in, and did for the most part, until the Bishop took offense at the too-liberal priest and moved him out of the area. After that, I wasn’t interested. My husband was a Catholic School teacher (ultimately more ammo against the Church), and my girls were educated at his school, but I found myself rejecting any paternalistic religion, especially after making the terribly wrenching decision to split from my husband. I found my soul still loved Jesus, but my mind and heart sought the Mother.

Although I had always been a Christian, my heart belonged to the Earth, to magic, to mystery, to the Feminine. Somehow, I never stopped believing in the possibility of the unseen world around me, of fairies and nymphs, of elves and spirits, the things you glance at out of the corner of your eye, the whispers in the wind. I believed in the energectic power to change outcomes and even matter. I knew I was being ridiculous by the world’s standards, but I never gave up on the possibility of the unknown. Though “The Song of Bernadette” may have been my early life’s theme, “Finian’s Rainbow,” “Brigadoon,” and “Practical Magic” were my dreams. So, here I was in my late thirties, suddenly rejecting Sunday worship for Wiccan classes and clairvoyant readings, for meditation and pendulum work. While my religious practices provided structured meaning and purpose for my mind, body, and spirit, my pagan beliefs set me free from the rules, restrictions, and judgments. I learned to embrace myself as wise woman and guide, to forgive my imperfections, to trust my inner voice rather than the man (or woman) behind the pulpit. I looked inside and found untapped power to manifest my desires and dreams on earth. And I could embrace all of my beliefs, including those involving Jesus, as long as they rang true for me and didn’t contradict my personal ethics and values. While my life wasn’t suddenly transformed into some gloriously happy journey, at least more interesting opportunities presented themselves.

And now, here I am, many, many years later, having lost one of my beloved daughters and wanting more than anything to retain the experience and presence of her in my life. My single goal since she left has been to maintain open communication channels and do the work that would allow me to experience her on whatever level she is available. And so it has been. Yes, I have heard her voice very clearly, I have experienced her presence around me guiding me, supporting me in this huge loss. Every day I have woken and reached out to her, listened for her whisper, her laughter, looked for signs of her being near me (shiny dimes, lost items reappearing, funny coincidences that would leave me momentarily smiling). And I’ve found that this very craving to keep Jess with me has perhaps been the root of much of my suffering and paralyzing despair. I lay awake one night after dreaming that I paid a trillion dollars at a Sotheby’s auction for a black t-shirt belonging to Jessie and realized that because I believe she is still here, albeit in a different dimension, I seek her constantly and cannot let go (not that you ever really let go of someone you love, especially your child).

I began contemplating what it would feel like to believe in nothing beyond this physical plain. What if there is no spirit? What if there is no afterlife? What if we just die and go “Poof!”? What if my dear Jessica Ellen Marie is gone from me forever? As I ruminated on these ifs I faced the “truth” that I have no physical proof for any of my spiritual beliefs, be they Christian or pagan. I have incredible stories of how I prayed or did a spell for something, and within hours my prayer or conjuring was fulfilled. But that’s not proof. I “know” things about people, have “read” people until they were shocked at what I knew but shouldn’t know. But perhaps given our incredible brains, all of this clairvoyance is actually a normal human skill I’ve managed to develop? I have manifested all that I really wanted in life…but at what cost?

I decided then that I would put on, at least temporarily, a coat of atheism if possible, agnosticism if nothing else fit, and judge for myself if this would ease my pain and make this loss bearable. After all, if Jess is gone–totally gone–than I will be too, poof! And sooner than later in the scheme of things. Now, when she comes tiptoeing into my heart, I don’t speak to her. I tell myself, “Jess is gone forever. Get over it.” I don’t allow her memories to dwell in my mind. I’ve shut the door, added double chains and deadbolts. And the pain has decreased…a lot. The pain is under lock and key, and I’ve found that it still can explode free, but much less frequently. Of course, my life feels very flat, two-dimensional now without spirit, without magic, without possibility. But without Jessie, my life, the person I was, is gone anyway. What matter this? The judge is out though on if I can maintain this way of being. I’ve a lifetime of muscle memory reinforcing my beliefs that the true reality is beyond our physical perception. It will take conscious work to rid myself of such knowing. And the whispering voice of my inner child longingly puts out the challenge to prove me wrong. “Jessie, come show Mom you aren’t gone.”

In 2001 my ex-husband Pablo and I bought a two-acre farm in Sacramento County. For me, this was a dream come true. Even though I was born in Oakland, I’ve always been a country-girl at heart, and for as long as I can remember I’ve maintained a garden of some sort in which to find peace, contentment, and a sense of accomplishment (at least some of the time!). There’s nothing quite like stepping outside to pick some veggies for your dinner or grab a peach off your tree, and the feeling of rich, well-worked soil in my hands literally grounds me when my head and heart are spinning.

I’ve endless stories to tell about my gardening experiences, but since I’ve just spent four hours weeding yet another garden row that was inundated with invaders and my arch-nemesis Bermuda grass, I have weeds on my mind.

Experience has taught me that weeds thrive in poor, dry soil that lacks organic matter and living creatures (worms are the surest sign of healthy dirt) and thus would be unlikely to support other more desirable plants in a robust manner. Bermuda grass is a prime example. Its roots run very deep (at least a foot) and spread so quickly and so far that it’s virtually impossible to exterminate without extremely strong and harmful chemicals that would kill everything green within range. Miss one small root while weeding, and the damn stuff will be back with a vengeance in no time. There have been times when I’ve been ready to throw in the trowel and take up soap operas!

While weeding is without a doubt a necessity, as painful as it can be, equally important is adequate water and mulching with rich organic matter (amazing how weeds thrive in pavement cracks where no water or nutrients reach). As we have sheep, goats, llamas, and poultry, this organic “gold” is readily at hand. And the manure of the before mentioned animals is “cool” enough to put directly around growing plants without harm, unlike steer manure, which is initially too “hot” and would burn and possibly destroy young plants.

Of course, I’m not attempting to provide gardening lessons here (though if you gain some insight, no harm), but the metaphors are too obvious to ignore. Perhaps our very lives are our personal gardens. We have the potential to bear fruit, vegetables, and the most beautiful and exotic plants and flowers, and we can equally bear nothing but scraggly tufts and invasive, creeping weeds such as Bermuda and crab grass. While weeds are living things in their own right (they are, in fact, plants you haven’t invited into your garden), they do little to nothing to feed your soul if you’re trying to grow beautiful flowers and food for your table. They are, in fact, the gardener’s enemy that must be constantly attacked to keep at bay.
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Let’s face it, water is beautiful as long as it’s not inappropriately extreme (constantly soggy ground will kill new plants as sure as dried-out, “dead” soil), and watering is easy enough even though it can be a major chore in Sacramento summer heat. I would compare watering to providing the peace, nurturance, and restfulness that our bodies and souls need to survive. Although this sounds like a no-brainer, how many of us regularly take the time to truly relax and renew? We have a million excuses involving the endless list of chores that consume us, but truthfully, we simply are not our own priority.

So if we provide the water, where does the mulch come from? I can’t help but compare manure to the bullshit of life, (as I warned earlier, I’m not all about the flowery language of a demure lady) that causes us so much grief and pain, and the decomposing leaves, the memories, once so vivid and beautiful, that are slowly fading to dust. Yet, this very fertilizer is the stuff that makes us strong when we absorb the goodness and learn to glean the richness from the experience. All we have to do is look at the people around us. Although easy to envy, those folks who appear to have never suffered challenges or loss tend to be incredibly shallow people who lack understanding or empathy for others. This is, of course, a sweeping generalization, yet one that I have found to be true in my life. The most generous people I’ve met are those who have known lack, even poverty. And the friends I hold dearest have all experienced loss and suffering yet have beautiful compassion, loyalty, and understanding. I can be jealous of the peace and prosperity of those with easy lives, but I don’t think I’d trade most of the experiences that have molded me into the person I am.

And the weeding? For me, it means digging into the pain and ugliness and extracting it by any means possible without destroying the health of the surrounding soil (and the squiggly creatures). Sometimes, I think I’ve reached the root, but on closer inspection, I find that I’ve merely broken it, and the source is far deeper than I anticipated. Reaching the origin of the root takes a sharp shovel, fit legs, elbow grease, and a strong grip.

I would liken losing my daughter to having a heap of steer manure dumped on me (strange allusion, isn’t it?). The heat has threatened to destroy the essence of my life. I can only hope that my roots run deep, and that as the manure cools and nutrients sink in, shoots will once again appear above ground, reaching for the sun and bearing beautiful, nurturing fruit. I owe this to my beloved daughter, and to my daughter and husband who still live, to not allow her death to totally destroy me. My aim has been to never impart that level of guilt to my children or make them responsible for my emotional wellbeing. Yet, only time will tell, as the seasons move on, whether I learn again to thrive.

Grocery shopping has never been my favorite chore. I’m not into crowds, aisles, a million choices and brands, or buying 15 items when my intention was to purchase two. However, nowadays, going shopping is more of an emotional challenge than just another thing I’d rather avoid. Nowadays, the triggers abound.

I shopped for or with my mother for years (until she could no longer walk the aisles or understand what she was looking at). She died one month short of her 96th birthday, and her food choices largely remained the same until the end. While she still cooked: enchilada sauce and long tubes of high-fat hamburger for when she made several dozen enchiladas (and then gave them away to anyone who would take them); chicken thighs and hot dogs for both herself and her extremely overweight dog; 10-pound bags of potatoes and two-quart jars of mayonaise for when she made potato salad (see enchilada comment above); Lay’s Potato Chips, fillet mignon steak, thick lamb chops, and the makings of her famous rum cakes (she would make nine at a time to take to her quarterly visits with her doctor). During the last few years of her life, she developed a sweet tooth:. Add to the list cookies of all kinds involving chocolate, chocolate candy bars, ice cream drumsticks, and her passion–Entenmann’s Donuts. Her favorite store was the Grocery Outlet or the Dollar Store–her idea of Heaven, no doubt–where she could buy innumerable items at a cheap price.

While I haven’t food-shopped too often for my girls since they left home, I still know their tastes and preferences. Memories are constant as I push the cart up aisles where arguments over sweet vs. healthy cereals held court. I was always strict with what my girls were allowed–fresh fruit and veg, meats, dairy, healthy carbs, all homemade foods–though certainly they were never deprived. As long as they consumed a suitable amount of their dinner, they were allowed dessert (“Mom, I’m full,” one girl would say. I would reply, “How old are you?” “Six (or 14!).” Eat six (or 14) more bites then.”) My system worked. When they were at their dad’s house, they were allowed much more lattitude, but I was the one saying “no.”
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A couple months after Jess passed, I was nearing the check-out and saw a stand of individual-sized bottles of Sunny Delight, something I have never purchased, though I’m sure my girls have drunk. I stood staring at the sugary sweet offending items with one thought stuck in my mind: “All the things I denied my girls to keep them healthy, intelligent (only one hour of TV a night), strong, and Jessie is still dead. All the heartaches and arguments didn’t keep my girl alive.” Enter another wave of despair.

I still have those moments of overwhelming regret, but nowadays, when I shop, I’m simply struck by the bittersweet memories of my mother and daughter (I do shop with Sarah sometimes, always watching closely what she picks and still encouraging healthy choices…I simply can’t help myself). Last week, I was doing a quick search for Perrier and saw the cans of coconut milk Jess so loved yet would never again drink, just as my mother will never again have her donuts or cookies. I believe they know no lack where they now reside–hunger and taste are for the living–and as for shopping for my mother, I can’t forget the many times I complained about the chore (she’d send me out every other day to pick up something she “needed”). Who knew I’d end up standing in the aisle holding sweet cereal, pop tarts, or coconut water, tears running down my face, wishing that I could make a simple purchase, see my mother’s smile, or be blessed to hear “Thanks, Mom!”