I
go to bed at 9:00 pm. That’s usual.
I
wake several times, restless during the night. That’s unusual.
The
first time, it’s just after midnight. A
full moon lights the darkness, and I get out of bed and quietly slip out onto the
porch. Thin cloud wisps play hide and seek, with the moon transforming its white
light into pink and yellow emanators. I
smile and think of my son Michael who continued on. I can feel
his presence.
I
wake again at 2:15, 3:33 and at about 4:30 am, I get out of bed. I have a thought
that Michael’s trying to get me up! I’m
a solid sleeper and wonder what’s
up. And then I remember. Oh! On a walk two days ago, I asked, “Hey Michael, will
you let me know you’re around?”
I’ve
been missing his physical presence and processed a little more grief this past
week. It’s my first time in 18 years living where I raised my kids, which
means that emotional hooks are here to be acknowledged. And today
is Michael’s birthday.
I’m celebrating by talking about him (here) and with friends and family recalling his lively, outrageous at times, bright-light personality. Oh my gosh,
the stories!
Michael’s
unexpected passing has helped me, unlike anything else in my life, to live with
presence, lightness, and fullness. I am grateful to maintain and grow a
relationship with him, even now. I
believe I am at a peaceful place because I’ve mourned and
continue to honor my grief whenever it arises. I've learned how to do that from others who know about loss. Like Tom Zuba.
Tom
has
been learning to live with the death of
his 18 month-old daughter Erin in 1990, his 43 year-old wife Trici in 1999, and his 13 year-old son Rory in 2005. He says, “If you want to heal, you must mourn.” And on his blog, he offers ideas on ways to do that:
Talk about it. Over and over and over.
Paint it. Draw it. Form it in clay. Art is a wonderful, healing way to express what you might
not be able to express through words.
Dance it. Move it. Release grief by shaking your body.
Beat it out on a drum.
Write it out. In a journal. In a poem. In your blog. In a letter to yourself. In a letter to your beloved,
the one who has died.
Sing it out. Compose your own song.
Play it out. On an instrument. Guitar. Flute. Violin.
Exercise it out. Cross fit. Zumba. At your gym. On a stationary bike. A Stairmaster. In a pool.
Run it out; jog it out; walk it out.
Yoga it out.
Meditate it out.
Scream, shout, wail it out.
I’ve done a lot of these things, and they have helped so much.
Just after Michael passed, I started running. It took a
while to work up to daily three-mile runs and an occasional five miles, but I did
it and continued every day for almost four years. Like Forrest Gump, I ran until I didn't run anymore.
Well, just before I wrote this, I ran a mile in the rain in honor of Michael’s birthday. And tomorrow, I’ll do
it again.
