On May 29Th my little girl graduated from High School. The ceremony took place in a beautiful garden with an audience full of proud family and friends and an air of hope for the future all around. My mind drifted back to a time in my own life when naivety and optimism were companions I knew well.

As with most milestones that we have experienced since the death of my husband on 8/31/05 there was a bittersweet quality to our celebration. Phil is a regular topic of conversation in our home, and we welcome him to our family gatherings now by commenting on what he would do if he were here, things we remember about past celebrations, and the ways we still miss him today. We tend to do this instinctively, and often separately. Our remembrances create a space for Phil to join us on our continuing life path.

As I listened to the speakers at the commencement ceremony I thought back to my own high school graduation and the ways that my view of the impact one person makes on the world has changed since that day many years ago. I remember being encouraged to work hard, discover and follow a dream, set ever higher standards, and live a responsible life. All good advice; yet I can’t help but feel that collectively we often fail to remind our graduates (and ourselves too) of a few essential components of determining a life well lived. But graduates who have lost someone they love have achieved a distinction that others their age have not, and have learned lessons that they will carry with them throughout their lives. My daughter knows some things that I did not when I entered the adult world. Continue reading »

 

My husband LOVED shoes.  Phillip owned shoes for all occasions and athletic events—some were kept only for their sentimental value.  To him, each pair either served a purpose or told a story, so there was no getting rid of them.  This caused a serious storage issue.  In addition to his side of the closet, he claimed the entire space under our bed. According to my husband, shoes could not be stacked, which meant the entire perimeter of the bed was lined with shoes.  My shoes were piled in the closet in order to make more room for his.

When Phillip died, each pair of shoes became a reminder of something about him or about us that I missed.  His favorite pair of trail shoes, still covered with dust from his last run, recalled the happy hours we shared running together on mountain trails.  I missed the time we spent exercising together and enjoying the beauty of the outdoors.  Racing flats brought memories of him crossing one of many finish lines, sometimes with a smile of triumph, other times with a look of disbelief, always with the determination of a person who loved to run. I missed his competitive spirit, and the surprising heights to which he regularly pushed me.  A pair of vintage Nike’s were a particular favorite of his—causing more than one heated discussion when he pulled them out with his party attire.  The despised dress shoes always made me smile, because they required dusting before being worn.  Still, they were a necessity, and they had their place in the line up under our bed.

How could I part with all those shoes?  I knew it had to be done, but just moving them to a new location required baby steps.  Each time I picked up a pair, I relived the story they told and put them right back where they were with tears in my eyes.  This dilemma felt like an unsolvable puzzle: to not only let go of the shoes, but to do it in a way that would exemplify my husband’s love for them. The shoes became memory keepers and I feared that letting go of the shoes would also mean letting go of the memories. Continue reading »

 

Love X3

Motherhood brings out the lioness in me. No task is too small or sacrifice too great to ensure the well being of my three children. In my mind’s eye I can see myself jumping in front of an on-coming train to save their lives; feeding them first from my last ration of bread; offering myself as a meal for the hungry bear that is chasing them—and in every one of these imaginings I manage to save the day.

In the normal course of life parents feed, bathe, clothe, soothe, encourage, celebrate, hold, hug, and protect their little ones through the bumps and bruises associated with living, learning and loving. Sometimes I think of my love for them as a protective cloak that serves the double purpose of reminding them of their innate value and also guarding them from the many perils that threaten to harm them as they walk this journey of life. But when death came knocking, I could not protect them. Continue reading »