Cocoon of Chaos

We are all just a mix of light and dark

The past few weeks have been chock full of graduations, one being Oliver's graduation from preschool. Still a bit weepy over that one, but so excited for him to enter the world of "big school" as he calls it. After Oliver's ceremony, we had a nice afternoon, just him and I. We spent it at the book store and Target, per his request. It was so lovely. On the way home, Oliver said, "Y'know Mummy, I was a bit sad today because it was a happy day but it was also sad because when I'm happy, I'm kinda sad because I can't tell Andrew. But it's okay to be happy and sad, Mummy."

Now, for those who know me well, know I am a crier. I cry at everything, the beautiful and the heart breaking. However, I did not shed a single tear at his graduation. It was this moment, when he said the exact thing my heart was telling me that the tears began to fall. In that moment, I was so sad that my kids carry this insurmountable grief with them, but also elated that they have all, in their own way, learned to live with the sadness and have each found their own way to happiness. Some days are harder than others, for sure, but we are slowly learning that we must live. We must smile. We must celebrate, even if sorrow has come to the party. It is, by no means, ignoring that sadness, but rather learning how to balance it with joy. The more we talk about the love that surrounds us in my brother's absence, the more our love and healing begins. Yes, I know this sounds so cheesy or corny, whatever, but I'm just so amazed at how my kids have handled all of this. They've shown me that we are all just a mix of light and dark, "kinda like the sky, Mummy" as Oliver explained. We are indeed. 

Leaning out the window, into the sorrow

A few days ago, winter briefly disappeared and Spring came in for a little teaser. We were in the car, with the windows down for the first time in months. We drove by the high school and the field was full of lacrosse players. Oliver leaned his head out of the car, shouting, "Yeah, go! Go for it! Keep it up! Woo hoo!"

We all started laughing hysterically, until our bellies hurt and then a wave of sorrow entered the car. We were all thinking the same thing, cherishing some memories of Andrew screaming out the window some ridiculous phrase or just screaming "Hey there!" to a passerby just to get a laugh. We sat in the sorrow for a few minutes, let it wash over us. The ache of missing him silenced us for a brief minute.  

I'm adamant about celebrating my brother's life, keeping him alive with memories, and leaning in to the unbearable tsunami of longing that comes with doing so; they are mutually exclusive. Where there is laughter, there is pain. Where there is sorrow, there is joy. However, there is never avoidance, silencing, or shame. There is only love, even when it hurts like hell. 

My son leaning out of the window, emulating his uncle, is both comforting and painful. But, mostly, it is beautiful. My kids talk alot about where they think Andrew is now and we encourage them to find their own understanding. Oliver believes he is hanging out with dead movie stars, Ava believes he is still with us, and Lily keeps her thoughts in her heart. And me, well I'm just not so sure, a combination of their ideas, I suppose. However, while reading my new library pick, Orphan Trian, a passage resonated with me so much:

"I've come to think that's what heaven is--a place in the memory of others where our best selves live." ~Christina Baker Kline in Orphan Train

For my family and I, Andrew brought us such intense joy, laughter and love. We are finding as time goes on, the memories outweigh his tragic exit. His life was so much more than his death. 

In the Waiting Room...

 

Yesterday was a day of waiting. Waiting at the doctor for a same day appointment. Waiting at the hospital for a chest xray. Waiting at home for the phone call from the doctor about the chest xray. Waiting at the orthodontist for the eldest to get off her braces. All this waiting exhausted me. I sat in silence, unplugged from my phone, disengaged from the fluff magazines, wrapped in silence. I perused each waiting room and I was the only one waiting. Everyone was on their phone or some device. I was so tired of waiting, I didn't have the energy to engage with anything other than stillness. In all of this quiet waiting, my mind wandered. In all the waiting for the next moment, I rarely stop to appreciate the present moment. Rather than dig out my phone, I dug out my notebook, played hangman with a sick chicklet (who I'm happy to report had clear lungs, woo hoo!), and sat in the moment. 

Sitting in the orthodontist's office, I watched a three year old stand in front of the camera, so proud, so nervous for her first dentist visit. I remembered my girl, now getting her braces removed, doing the exact same thing. My eyes filled not with tears of sadness, but rather, of joy. I just feel so damn lucky to witness these little beings blossom into amazing people. It goes without saying that time flies, but it doesn't have to; if you stop and savor the small moments, like in the waiting rooms, life has a way of handing you golden nuggets in those mundane, ordinary moments. Don't get me wrong, I'm not on a no phone high horse here, believe me. I just had one of those moments where life freezes, zooms in on what you need, and captures a bit of your heart, exposes a treasure snapshot of brilliance. My party of five has learned alot this year, but  more than anything, we've learned life is short, it is beautiful, it is hard, but it is such a gift, sometimes wrapped in the dull paper of everyday.

This Writing Gig...

Writing is who I am, how I express myself, and how my heart heals. It is as necessary to my day as a cup of tea in the morning. When I don't write, I ache for it. But here is a little secret: I rarely share what I write. It is hard to share, difficult to overcome doubt, and not let my insecurities silence me. With the loss of my brother, I promised to let all this go and put myself out there, the good and the bad. Swallow the inevitable rejection and let it feed celebrated successes. It is hard to determine what success is, really, with writing. Most people think publication, and I agree a bit, but it is more than that. If my writing can touch someone, make someone think, cry, laugh, scream, pound their fists, then that is success. Yes, since I was six years old, I've dreamed of sitting in a stuffy, yet funky bookstore launching a book tour, I'm not going to lie. However, I'm learning that just sitting here every single day, in front of my computer or scribbling in my journal, is a small measure of success. Things are happening, my friends. I'm sending stuff out and people are sharing. I'm writing for a start up lifestyle magazine. I'm teaching writing again. I'm opening rejection letters with a smile. I'm writing what hurts and throwing myself out there. Funny thing is, things are happening. 

If you'd like, a very personal piece is at The Ma Books.

Some fun reads are over at Reveal Her Magazine, of which I am a monthly contributor. 

Following my other passion, styling, things are slowly stirring at Recycled or Redline Rags

 

A Birthday Celebration, of sorts

 

 

Seventeen years ago today, my brother was born. He was the first baby my  husband held, the first time I ever burned with unconditional love for a sibling, and the years that followed were filled with love and laughter. Last year, I wrote this poem for him and I never imagined I'd be celebrating this year without him. 

The past few days, sleep is non existent, tears constant. The anticipation of this day ate me alive inside and out. I woke this morning in tears, looked outside, and the sun shone through my curtains. I didn't think I could make it to work, but I stood in that sunshine and soaked up the light. So much of this grieving process is stepping out of the darkness, not being consumed by it, and letting in the light. Today was not easy, I'm not going to lie, but there was a surprise in it for me, the joy. The joy of having this boy in my life and my childrens' lives. All day, they retold their favorite memories and although I did cry at Five Guys over my burger, most of the day was filled with laughter remembering what a funny, charismatic, and witty guy Andrew was and there is really no better way to honor his life than see my children laugh on this day. 

We went back and forth on what to do to celebrate his life and decided on a flower float. With 5 red roses in hand, we walked the beach in silence, held the roses tight in our hands, and threw them in the water. For five seconds, my heart was at peace, my soul floating along those roses, untethered by grief, propelled only by love. At the end of every day and the start of every morning, love courses through me. There are things I will never understand, questions I will always have, but there are two things I am certain of: Andrew died knowing how much I loved him and now he is at peace. 

These milestones are hard because there is no denying his absence. This was his day and it will always be for us. We will always celebrate his life and how he made ours so much better. Celebrating does not come easy, grief is overpowering. And to be frank, it is hard to let go of grief. At times, it feels like it is the only connection with the departed and is just too unbearable to let them go. I find myself holding onto this sorrow with clenched fists because I'm terrified of letting my little brother go but today, seeing my kids laugh telling stories of Andrew made me realize it is okay to let all this sorrow go. It is okay to let the joy in. It is the love, the memories that connect us with him, not the sadness.

We ended the night with cupcakes and candles. The kids each silently said something to Andrew or made a wish for him before blowing out the candles. As they hung their heads over the candles in the dark kitchen, their faces cupped in the candlelight, eyes closed, I realized, they, too, were letting in the light. Like I stood before my window this morning, they too, were soaking in the warmth and the love in all of this darkness. 

And to keep with my tradition, I wrote Andrew a poem for his birthday.

Afterglow

Four months ago

moments before sunset

your light disappeared

leaving me in darkness.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months 

a complete blackout

stripping me of direction

slowly padding my way 

without you by my side

living in obscurity.

My eyes gradually adjust

to the blackness,

slivers of light seep 

through my curtains

into my chipped heart

bust through the cracks:

A glow remains

softening the darkness

to a faint dim.

"And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie

The grass below;

above, the vaulted sky" ~John Clare

Happy Birthday, sweet boy. May your big heart be at peace. I love you so very much.

 

New Project: Young Writer's Workshop

 

Young Writer’s Workshop

A six week creative writing workshop

exploring many forms of poetry for writers in grades 3-5.

Wednesdays 3:30-4:30

March 18-April 29

Eastern Point Lit House

261 Main Street

Gloucester, Ma

$40 for the 6 week session, with a celebratory Open Mic upon completion

Please contact Meg Grant at [email protected] to sign up

 

 

 

 

Promise of a Coffee Break

I'm not going to lie, the days are hard for me as of late. Not sure if it is this never ending snow, the lack of sunlight, stress, grief, or all of them combined but at about 3 pm, a grave grayness washes over me. I've tried everything, Vitamin D, exercise, water, stepping outside, you name it, but this inevitable down approaches every single day. One day I was perusing Instagram and saw someone post a picture of a book and a cup of coffee, caption reading, "Just need a damn coffee break". This then sparked an idea for me: every day for a week, I gave myself a little 15 minute tea break (I don't drink coffee) to sit down, read, and enjoy a cuppa. Let me tell you, it works. Just pausing, even in the madness of the day, and letting myself relax for 15 minutes makes all the difference. It's only 15 minutes and let me tell you, rather than dread 3 pm, I now look forward to it. 

Surviving Multiple Snow Days

So, we are now on our sixth snow day and I've come out alive. Thought I'd share how I survived:

1. Don't try to do anything. When I get that call, my immediate reaction is to start planning some house projects, like cleaning closets or finally filing the bills that I've been staring at for months. And then, just when I sit down to do this said chore, reality hits: everyone is fighting, everyone is bored, everyone just wants to watch one more show. Naturally. I've learned having zero plans means zero expectations thus zero let down.

2. Pinterest. Gather some ideas, nothing elaborate. Simple, fun activities that are not overwhelming and are realistic. If your kids are old enough, have them look up some activities, but for the love of crafty gods and your patience, give them some parameters or you will be bedazzling their shoelaces.

3. Embrace the liquid lunch. Of course, don't overdo it, but indulge in a bloody mary with lunch or a glass of bubbly with your leftover grilled cheese crusts. Embrace your inner Betty or Don Draper.

4. Kick 'em out! Assuming it is safe, kick those little monsters outside. Just give yourself three hours for the tantrums and hassle of dressing them in their snow gear. 

5. Indulge in something, preferably with chocolate. I'm quite certain my kids will remember snow days filled with hot cocoa and amazement at how many chocolate chip cookies their mother can put down. 

6.Put on some music and let go. Dance your stir crazy away, maybe after your liquid lunch?! Let go of your expectations and enjoy the few moments in life when you are all stuck inside together. Have a movie marathon (a.k.a Mum's cat nap time), stay in your pajamas, and drink hot cocoa. 

Yes, winter blows. Yes, I'm an optimist. Yes, I nearly lost my mind yesterday when I felt like a short order cook, maid, personal snow suit dresser, and snow shoveler, but at the end of the day when my shoulders and legs ached, my heart was full. In all seasons of our life, this one is when we needed these snow days to hunker down together. Now, pass me that bubbly because today I'm home AGAIN with a snotty monster.

Bidding 35 Adieu

Clearing the blogging spiderwebs in this little space of mine with an update, of sorts. Yesterday I kicked 35 out the door and welcomed 36 with open arms. My thirty fifth year was my hardest yet with tragedy, loss, and tough decisions but there was also beauty in the fact that all of this pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me realize life can change in the matter of a second. My year was defined by two seconds, one a heart attack, the other a tragic end both resulting in losing two people that defined unconditional love for me. One, who delivered it my way, the other, whom I loved unconditionally; both of these losses are something I will carry with me, with both sadness and joy. I was so very lucky to have these two people in my life and I'm no longer wasting my life on insecurities, heartache, or pain. As I was blowing out my candles last night, I promised myself to continue living as I have been for the past month or so, even when it can be really hard to do so. 

As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. It is my therapy, my expression, my love. It has become my only way to communicate the complex feelings of these losses in my life. It has also allowed me to let go of some things that have always held me back, like severe insecurity. I've always questioned my abilities as a writer, but my brother's death destroyed those, as writing was and is the only way I know how to heal. In forcing myself to write, I've also forced myself to kick my doubts in the ass. I've submitted some pieces to various venues, resulting in some exciting opportunities varying from a publication with Monkey Star Press coming out in late Winter/early Spring and a spot in a speaking series, Listen to Your Mother. I've also started a new blog, Recyled or Redline Rags which allows me to show my other passion, styling, and has landed me a chance to become a fashion writer in a new magazine out of Boston for real women, no photoshop allowed. I can't even begin to tell you how thrilled I am for this opportunity. I'm not bragging here, by any means, but just trying to express how when you throw yourself out there, when you go for it, when you tell the evil things holding you back to f*** off, good things come, they really do. 

So, yes, I'm ready to kick 35 out the door and welcome 36 with open arms. Good things are on the horizons, I'm in good company, and my heart is humble and grateful. My wonderful husband said to me last night, "Thanks so much for being born." I laughed and said, "that wasn't really up to me, its the surviving and thriving part that we should be grateful for." That being said, I couldn't survive or thrive, especially this past year, without the love that surrounds me, whether it be in the love of family, the smiles of my students, or the tissue passing of friends. Those in my life, thank you for your love, I'll never have the adequate words to express my gratitude. 

 

 

Bathing in the Pink Light

Last night's sunset was breathtaking, this grainy picture from my phone does it absolutely no justice. I stepped outside in the quiet of the afternoon, the neighborhood kids reveling in the unseasonably warm weather in the distance, echoes of little boy's voices carried on the wings of the wind. For a second, time froze, and the pink seemed to fill the entire sky in an instant. I let the pink seep in, and with it came a memory...

A few summers ago, in the Outer Banks, after taking so many photos, I looked up from the sand to see my brother standing at the top of the stairs against the backdrop of a descending sun. My camera battery was nearly dead, but I desperately wanted to capture him against that sky, bathed in the rosy hue of the sunset, by himself, in the moment. Although that moment was two summers ago, yesterday standing in my driveway, I closed my eyes and savored this photo, this second of time in a different locale and a different place, but the memory brought him back. 

Thanksgiving is a day away and my heart is heavy. I miss this boy so much but more than anything, I'm so grateful I had him for 16 years. Yes, it was too short, but dammit, I'm so grateful for what he gave me. His love, his life, his entire being is pushing me through this right now. It is my rosy light in the winter sky. 

 Tears just would not stop yesterday. Oliver asked if I was hurt and I told him kind of, my heart was just hurting a bit because I missed Andrew so much. He cocked his head and said, "Like it has a crack or something?" I smiled and said yes, exactly like a crack. His tiny arms wrapped around my neck, his embrace the glue putting it back together.

Bea asked the other day if our family will ever be the same again. I had to be honest and tell her no, no it won't. Like my old monkey mug, there will always be a little crack in us, but that sliver of brokenness is what binds us together. 

 "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." -Leonard Cohen