If others had access to my view of this WordPress site they’d marvel at the number of post drafts I’ve left unfinished.
As of today, it’s over a thousand.
But I won’t let them go until I feel like I’ve gotten them right. And lately I haven’t been able to do that.
It’s not traditional writer’s block because I still have lots to say, still put words on [virtual] paper and still dictate random notes onto my phone when walking or driving.
I just can’t finish the thoughts.
I’m not sure if it’s a function of the unprecedented times in which we find ourselves, the sudden and unexpected change of having my husband work from home or what I call my “season of sorrow” that lasts from the end of March through the end of May but something is definitely mucking up the works.
I hope to find a few hours soon to sit down in silence with my own thoughts and my computer and finish up new posts I’ve started.
Not because I don’t have anything to say but because I can’t find ways to say it that might make sense to anyone else.
So much is jumbled up inside me, so much is wrapped around itself and I can’t find the end of the string to unravel it.
Ever since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, writing has been my refuge. First in my journals and now in this space.
I depend on words on the page to tell me what I think and feel.
Lately my trusty tool has let me down.
I’m sure part of it is the abrupt end to silent days and virtually unlimited alone time since the coronavirus crisis upended my routine.
Now when I come in from my walk I’m greeted by my husband (a good thing!) instead of only cats. I spend more time making meals and cleaning up after them. I don’t have the quiet moments watching the sun sink down behind the trees and dark reclaim the living room as I peck away at my keyboard.
Dominic was so full of life, it’s impossible to think of him breathless and still.
Part of it is the time of year.
Sunday will be six years since Dominic left us and each passing day brings me closer and closer to that milestone. I should be better at facing it by now.
But I’m not.
Last year my faithful companion animal died around this time too. His death didn’t hold a candle to the death of my son but any death-every death-pricks that deep wound and reminds me the world is not as it should be.
Roosevelt, my faithful companion for over a decade. ❤
Last year’s Facebook post:
2:53 4/7/2019 ••UPDATE•• Roosevelt died in my arms without suffering. I am so thankful for the years I had with him. ❤️.
I’m holding my precious companion animal as he dies. I want him to know that he is loved and the last thing he feels to be my hand on his fur.
So today, breathing is enough.
2:53 April 7, 2019
And this year-well-this year death is the headline everywhere.
Actual death, impending death, anticipated death. Numbers, numbers, numbers that represent real people, real lives, real families left behind.
How my heart hurts!
I try to stay away from too much news, too much social media, too much of anything besides family and close friends.
I’m still up before sunrise and spend time reading, praying, researching, thinking, waiting to hear from my heart.
The world is upside down and inside out and hearts are hurting.
Suddenly everyone knows what it’s like to be stuck in an alternate reality, hoping, hoping, hoping that one morning they will wake up and find it untrue.
When the sun rises day after day after day and nothing changes, it’s oh, so easy to give up hope. And when unhelpful words are tossed at fragile hearts it adds to the burden.
What I say and how I say it (especially NOW) makes a difference. It can be the difference between going on or letting go.
❤ Melanie
I didn’t realize until I was the person who needed comforting how unhelpful and sometimes painful my own past comments were to my suffering friends and family.
There are many important and necessary conversations going on right now about how we talk to and talk about our fellow humans. I’m thankful folks are learning that words are rarely (ever?) neutral.
The morning Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, after I made the awful phone calls I reached for my journal.
I knew if I didn’t start spilling the grief onto paper my heart would explode with sorrow.
Since I learned to hold a pencil I’ve been writing.
It’s how I sort my thoughts, figure out my feelings and express my heart.
A few months after and I found several online support groups.
There I learned a whole other Language of Grief and Loss. The more I read what others shared, the better I understood my own experience and understood how to communicate that truth to others.
You might not keep a journal or write poetry or craft lengthy essays about your pain and that’s just fine. There’s no magic in written words.
There may be some mamas that don’t drill this into their children but if there are, they don’t live south of the Mason-Dixon line.
Every time there was back and forth in the back seat or on the front porch and Mama overheard, we were told, “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”
Parents weren’t interested in policing every errant word out of the under 18 crowd’s mouth back in the day.
It was a simple (and effective!) rule: If what you want to say does not meet the criteria of T.H.I.N. K. (true, helpful, inspiring, necessary, kind) then
As a counterweight to yesterday’s post, I wanted to share this one.
While I am a huge advocate for not flying off the handle (I repeat that here), I am also an advocate for speaking aloud things that need to be said.
I want to create a safe space where friends and family can share what’s on their hearts without fear of my reaction or recrimination. ❤
Someone commented the other day on my post, Shadows and Celebrations, that they thought my child’s remark was selfish.
I countered that I didn’t think so.
Instead, I thought it was honest.
Of course my heart hurts any time I’m unable to meet my family’s expectations, but that doesn’t mean they should refrain from sharing them with me.
One of the things I’m learning in this Valley is that I must make room for observations, for sharing, for venting and for genuine conversation. It’s the only way any of us are going to survive.
I can’t pass judgement on every word spoken.
I needn’t assume responsibility for every unmet expectation.
I don’t have to fix every situation.
I can’t.
Sometimes we just need to give voice to something. Because when we name it, when we share it, when we speak it aloud, it often ceases to have power over us.
This time of year all the package handlers are busy dropping off the bounty of online shoppers’ purchases to millions of doorsteps around the world.
It’s a wonder that most of it arrives on time and in good condition.
I suspect though, that you, like me, have gotten one or two boxes over the years that arrived dinged and damaged, battered and broken.
While it can be a real hassle to get the product replaced, it’s usually only a matter of time before a brand new “whatever” arrives.
People aren’t so easily mended, though.
And I think we forget that.
People are more fragile than they appear. Words are more piercing than we realize. We should add in an extra notch of kindness and gentleness whenever we can.
~Gavin Ortlund
I have friends that take more care with their smartphone than with their spouse or children or parents.
Things can be replaced. People can’t.
Mass produced consumer goods-no matter how expensive or treasured-are worthless compared to a heart.
In an age where clicks and phone calls make it possible to fix so many things, they are rarely helpful in fixing relationships.
“Special Handling Required!” should be plastered across every human’s forehead.
People are irreplaceable, fragile, beautiful gifts.
In this journey of loss I have been blessed and wounded by words.
I have been encouraged and disheartened by stray comments. I’ve been thrown a lifeline and pushed under the raging waves of grief by friends, family and acquaintances who often had no clue they were doing either.
thelifeididntchoose 