Laughter Opens the Door to Joy

Laughter Opens the Door

And Joy Comes Inside

“Don’t be concerned about being disloyal to your pain

by being joyous.” ~ Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan

The first time it happened, I was confused—a stranger in an unknown land. I stepped off the plane of sorrow and into a foreign place, one where I didn’t know the language and was unfamiliar with the customs. But I knew that language at one time in my past. I had practiced that custom—often.

Where had I journeyed? Into the land of laughter, into the presence of joy.

Four weeks of soul-deadening grief had stripped my defenses bare. My husband, my fourteen-year-old daughter, and I mourned with unceasing tears the death of our child, the death of her sister. It was fitting that even in South Florida, those November and December pre-solstice days were dark, not only in our psyches, but also in the days that had so little sunlight. That lack of light mirrored how we felt as we trudged through the short days and longer nights that signal the most profound grief.

Nowhere was laughter present. Nowhere did joy show its face . . . until one evening at the dinner table. My daughter Vee said or did something zany and laughter seized the three of us. It grabbed us by the collars and refused to let go until its joyous peals rang through the house and echoed from the walls that had been painted with sorrow.

Laughter erupted from deep within each of us, released from that which had bound it for weeks.

Tears of mirth trickled down our cheeks, our noses ran, and we shook with glee. When my laughter faded, it struck me that it was the first time I had experienced joy since Alexa died. I felt no guilt. Never before or since have I been so aware of laughter—so aware of joy.

I welcomed the joy as I might a new friend into my life. My grief wasn’t over; it never will be over, but that laughter opened the door and let joy return to my life.

Often, after profound loss, we take on the cloak of grief as if it’s our new responsibility to wear it for the rest of our lives. We fear that if our sorrow leaves, our love for the one we lost also will leave.

Joy cannot and will not diminish the love we have for those we now grieve. Our pain and loss are not nullified when we once again seek, find, and welcome joy into our lives.

The joy that returns is the same joy that our loved ones brought to us during their lives—or we wouldn’t grieve them. It is the same joy that leads us to live meaningful lives in spite of loss—and sometimes even because of loss.

Laughter and joy bring light and even more love into our lives, and for that we should never grieve, but rather be grateful. Laughter and joy are the healing balm that mends our hearts.

In this holiday season and every season, remember to open yourself to joy, to open yourself to laughter, and to open yourself to love.

Just Desserts Leave a Bitter, Burning Taste

He Is Dead

Compassion:

Lost and Found Among the “Hurting”

I lost my compassion last week. I misplaced it at CNN.com, MSNBC.com, HuffingtonPost.com, Facebook.com, or Slate.com. My compassion disappeared as Ferguson was set afire in response to “Burn this bitch down.” The flames, looting, fists, and fury set my own psyche afire. Because I had watched the video of the store manager roughed up when he protested the theft of Cigarillos, I decided that the gunshots that rang out a short while later were just desserts. I pooh-poohed the “gentle giant” quote when I saw a man get shoved by someone who was for sure a giant, and for sure not “gentle.”

I was angry and I still am. I don’t know what happened the night in Ferguson when Michael Brown died. I don’t know what evidence the grand jury heard. I don’t think anyone knows for sure what took place, except two people: Michael Brown and Darren Wilson. Only one lives to tell his story.

I’m angry that Ferguson burned. I’m angry that racism continues. I’m angry that being a young black male is so dangerous. I’m angry that young black men are feared and accused far too often because of who they are: young black men. I’m angry that the societal pressures they endure reinforce and perpetuate so many negative stereotypes.

I was so angry last week. Of course, I was certain my anger was righteous. I felt the keen edge of crime and punishment and was judge and jury all on my own. I was disgusted by what I saw, what I read, what I heard.

In my anger, dismay, and disgust, I became someone “other” than my real self. Anger, righteous or not, indignation, righteous or not, does that. Being jury and judge and determining just desserts does that.

I maintained that anger, dismay, and disgust for several hours Monday and into Tuesday. Midday on Tuesday, at a tea shop in town, where I met some friends, I found what I had lost: my compassion. One woman teaches biology at a local college. Earlier that day, she deviated from her lesson plan and showed videos. She asked the students why she was showing videos (other than being the coolest teacher ever). She told them she knew they were hurting that Tuesday morning after the Ferguson decision, the Ferguson burning. They needed something to lighten their day. She didn’t specify for what reason they were hurting. She didn’t specify on which side of the decision any of them sat. She simply noted that they were hurting. She also wanted them to know that although the world can be quite dark at times, some really, nice, cool folks are doing creative, fun things, and they can, too.

She also shared with me that she knows a relative of someone who was murdered a few weeks ago in our area. Some have surmised that he was a drug dealer who was shot for owing money. The facts aren’t all in and the details of the crime aren’t known, but one thing is known: He is dead. Regardless of on what side the victim sat or on which side his relative sits, he’s dead and she’s hurting.

My missing compassion showed up when I heard “She’s hurting.” I realized I had forgotten something more important than Ferguson burning, the looting, the grand jury, or Officer Wilson’s claim that he acted in self-defense. I forgot about people hurting. I forgot that Michael Brown is dead. I forgot that his mother buried her son. I forgot that his father and stepfather buried their son. I forgot that parents, relatives, friends, teachers, neighbors were hurting. I forgot that they buried Michael Brown. I forgot that regardless of what happened on that night in Ferguson, it ended with a young black man bleeding and dead in the street.

Just desserts don’t mean a thing when that dessert leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth.

“They’re hurting.” “She’s hurting.”

Hearing those words erased the images of fires and broken glass, the words decrying the decision, the anger, and the despair.

A son, a relative, a friend, a student: He’s dead. And he is mourned because he was loved.

I have loved less-than-perfect people, and so have you. I have mourned less-than-perfect people, and so have you. When I lost my compassion for those few days, I also lost a bit of my humanity. I lost a bit of my heart.

I am grateful for the words that helped me find my compassion and my heart: “She’s hurting.” “They’re hurting.”

When people are hurting, rather than sit in judgment, rather than decry their actions, wouldn’t it be better for everyone if we could step up and do whatever we can to stop the pain, stop the hurting?

The following links are to some of the videos my friend showed post-Ferguson—to help ease the “hurting.”

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10152253352393546&set=vb.225046513545&type=2&theater

http://www.ted.com/talks/theo_jansen_creates_new_creatures

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uT3SBzmDxGk

Life Gets in the Way of Mourning

Life Gets in the Way of Mourning

Days Pass By in What Once
Was a Long, Sad Month

October 14, 2014

Loss never ends, but we still must wash the dishes.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

October once was my longest, saddest month. On October 1, I wrote about the challenges we face during anniversary days, weeks, and months that mark extreme loss—or any intense, emotional life events. My child spent her last days on Earth in October of 1986. Remembering that time affected not only October, but much of life since my seven-year-old Alexa died.

Because such anniversaries are difficult, I decided to focus on healing this October in hopes of furthering the healing of others—not only those who have lost a child, but also those who have lost anyone they loved.

Loss comes to all of us, but we still can experience beauty and joy.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

In the 28 years since Alexa died, the face of my mourning has changed, as well it should. Early on, when dealing with profound loss, our hearts are tender; grief—day in and out—wears on us. Our nerve endings are sensitive. On this day, October 14, 2014, I have tender spots, scars that mark those places of fragility, but they are not apparent to others—and even I sometimes am unaware of them. Fourteen days into what once was a month of mourning, I note that I am not mourning. I think of Alexa several times as day, as I do all my children, but the raw spots have healed as much as they probably ever will. Life gets in the way of mourning with the passage of time. That’s a good thing.

In some ways, I liken early mourning to an illness that is virulent, all-encompassing in its early phases. As a young adult, I had hepatitis. My liver isn’t damaged and I made a complete recovery. However, a blood test will reveal that I had the disease. I cannot donate blood or organs. I’m not sick, but it’s there.

I’m not actively mourning most days, but the pain of loss is there. Like the hepatitis marker in my blood, the pain of child death is a marker in my heart. I don’t often think of the hepatitis, except when a too-persistent blood drive volunteer tries to badger me into giving. I say, “You don’t want my blood.” I can also say, “You don’t want this low-level ache in my heart.”

Like the minute quantities of virus in my blood, I’m grateful that my mourning has reached a level where, for the most part, I live without deep grief, as I live without liver disease.

I’m also grateful, these 28 years later, that I’m not crippled with grief. I’m grateful that life gets in the way of mourning—that most of my days are filled with the ordinariness of life—work, dishes, laundry, carpet cleaning, gardening.

Loss comes to all of us but we still must do the laundry.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

Early on, when suffering extreme loss, mourning gets in the way of life. Those of us who have reached the phase in which life gets in the way of mourning have a responsibility to other mourners. My responsibility is lending an ear, lending time, lending heart to those currently living the deepest days of mourning. By doing so, I show gratitude for the child who gave so much love during her short life. It’s my turn to help those who are hurting get to the point in their lives that life gets in the way of mourning.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Grief has no time table. However, deep daily grieving several months after a loss might indicate a need for help stepping toward life. Please consult a trained counselor, spiritual advisor, or bereavement group if you need such help. Google bereavement or grief counseling for resources in your area.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Loss will touch each of us. That touch can sear our souls. As a healing balm, I present a new October. Rather than become snared in the dread of loss, I intend to spin a circle of compassion. I loved Alexa. I lost her. What did I love that made the loss so keen? What do I do, and what will I do to keep from stumbling—through October and every day, week, month? By sharing my journey, I hope to make yours easier, to offer a hand when you stumble, to keep you from falling. If you fall, I want my hand to be there to help you up and back into life.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Do you have a “long, sad, month” or do you know of someone who is stuck in the depths of grief? Please feel free to share your concerns, struggles, victories in the comments. I welcome private correspondence at mysistersgarden@gmail.com.