Chains That Bind You

Photo by mconners.

In 2011, I posted about grief--to help me move through mine and hopefully help someone else move through theirs. Then I trumpeted 2012 with a January prescription to Take Joy. And fell silent for 11 months.

What happened? March came, and I meant to post about a lovely silver-headed woman I met in the Chicago airport. Her hair was so stunning that I spent 15 minutes of my layover trying to find her so I could tell her how beautiful her natural silver was. When I found her, she answered all my questions and graciously gave her permission for me to write about her on my blog.

Which I never did. Never even posted her picture.

Big deal, right? It's not like anyone died because of my procrastination or fear or busy-ness or whatever it was. Right? Right.

But this did happen: In the crack of that broken promise, something sneaky and life-sucking (shame and disappointment in myself) wormed its way in and rendered me motionless. 

So I've decided to fight back. I'm taking up the banner of Better Late Than Never and am going to tell you in my next post about Ruth. She'll probably never see I kept my promise to her, and for that I'm sorry. But I'm keeping my promise to me, and that's a big matter.

Are you blocked in your life somewhere? My experimental recipe might help you: Think back to right before you encountered that block. Did you promise something to yourself or someone else and fail to follow through? Go back and do it. No matter how stupid you feel or how much time has passed or how little you think it matters. And if you can't do it and it involves another person, swallow your pride and apologize to that person if you can. 

Unless you enjoy having a blockage you can't get around.

I'm cheering for you from over here. Let me know how it goes.

Take Joy

Photo by @jbtaylor

A year and a day ago, I had just stepped into the fresh and unsullied landscape of 2011. Being an ardent supporter and lover of All Things New and Beginning-like, my heart swelled with excitement. And I had plans. PLANS, I tell you!

But January 3, 2011, brought the shocking news of my brother's unexpected death. The world suddenly went grey. My excitement and plans vanished in a wisp of smoke, and I was shoved unceremoniously onto the HMS Uncertainty for my cruise down the Grief Canal.

Exactly twelve months later, I'm standing on the banks again. My legs wobble beneath me; having traveled so long by ship, the memory of land is a distant one for them. What to do now?

When you spend a year keeping company with grief or with some other heavy burden, a dull emotional landscape seems quite normal. You forget what fun is---what it looks like and how it feels. Answering a simple question like "What would you like to do?" might feel like an enormous tax on your brain. Or, at the very least, like a trick. "What do you mean what would I like to do?" The problem doesn't lie in the fact that you have suddenly started keeping company with practical jokers. The problem is simply that you have been piled high with life-suckers such as worry, fear, sorrow, or even over-busyness and that you have become a stranger to your own heart.

If you find yourself in similar emotional circumstances, I urge you to try this remedy: Take joy. Just as you might take two aspirin for a headache or take a nap to revive your tired body, joy is something you must take. On occasion, it might be offered to you through the kindness of friends and strangers. At some point, however, you must learn to take it for yourself.

I learned this only recently for myself. In fact, I still don't have it all figured out, this taking joy business. But I'd like to share with you a few steps I've taken that have helped me. Try them yourself. You deserve to have your joy back.

1. Spend time every day soaking in some peace and quiet. Even if it's only five minutes. Your nerves might be shell-shocked, and your heart deserves the quiet to refresh itself. I spend my time intentionally focusing on God and reading the bible. I've found the book of Psalms most helpful.
2. Say no to things that suck the life out of you--even things you used to like very much. Maybe you used to enjoy a weekly book club, but now it feels like so much work to get out the door and go. Say no to it for now. And don't worry about disappointing people or leaving more work for someone else to do. If the people you are saying no to are your friends or if they are the least bit understanding, they will cheer you on your way to finding joy. If they don't, you don't need to spend time with them right now, anyway. And vacating your position gives others who have more enthusiasm and energy to join in and offer their gifts and talents. Tip: Spending time doing Step 1 will help you learn which things you need to say no to.
3. Bless your heart--take joy--every single day. Not sure what gives you joy? Go on frequent Joy Hunts. Pay attention to what, exactly, catches your interest. What textures, tastes, sounds, colors, or objects lighten your mood? I found out that I love red and purple, candles, hot tea, birds, skeleton keys, antique architectural details, and period movies (Pride and Prejudice, Downton Abbey, Cranford, and Return to Cranford, for example). If I am short on time, but I need to take a dose of joy, I might close my eyes and inhale the scent of a favorite candle. If I have more time, I might go to a yarn store and handle all the soft red and purple yarns. Whatever gives you joy, try to do some of it every day.

Proverbs 17:22 in the New American Standard Bible says this: "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones."

In this new year of 2012--whatever 2011 brought your way--I urge you treat yourself well, my friend. Whatever your ailment, take your medicine. Take joy.

My Brother's Birthday

May 11, 1958, fell on Mother's Day that year. And that's the day my brother showed up. Mom lost so much blood, the doctors thought they were going to lose her.

Mom always told us that Greg was 6 years, 7 months, and 11 days older than me. Even though he was so much older, he was a great brother. Not perfect, but perfect for me. Greg always took time to play with me, he was an amazing artist and taught me some of his secrets, and he always let me tag along with him and his friends. As adults, he always called me on my birthday, and he always ended our calls with, "I love you."

Happy Birthday, Greg. I love you and I miss you.

Grief Dreams

Photo by marykbaird.

Last night I dreamed I was on a cruise ship, and we were sinking. I wasn't scared, though. Just trying to get to higher ground.

A Side Note

Here I sit at my computer, reading your kind comments in response to my grief journey and posting my replies. I thought just this morning how I feel so much better and how writing about my loss helps me heal. Maybe even faster than normal. And maybe it helps you, too.

Then I opened my email. The Mail Delivery Subsystem wrote me to say, "Delivery to the following mail recipient has been delayed." You guessed it: my brother's email.

The lump is back again and the tear ducts are working just fine. I hate this.

As I Travel Down the Grief Canal (Part 1)

Photo by hotblack.

Within five minutes of receiving the shocking news of my brother's sudden death, I found myself--without a suitcase or itinerary--standing on the deck of HMS Uncertainty, cruising through the waters of the Grief Canal.

Six minutes earlier, I had been talking to my visiting uncle, who sat just ten feet from me in our den. Immediately after The Call, I stood waving in confusion to my uncle, who now watched me from the banks of the Grief Canal.

Of course, I didn't know I was on the Grief Canal and that someone else had booked passage for me. I only knew I was alone, the skies were dark and threatening, and a painful lump had replaced my heart and was pressuring on my tear ducts.

Soon, someone--I don't know who--steered me to my room. People walked past and smiled, their faces fuzzy and out of focus. People I knew from home--my husband and children, friends, other family members--called to check on me. But their voices--though thick like peanut butter with concern and love for me--sounded distant, like I had slipped down a tin tunnel, far out of their reach. I slept. I cried. I felt the aching lump in my chest and wondered if my eyelids would ever return to their normal, smaller size.

Stewards left food for me. Sometimes I ate. Mostly, I pushed the food from one side of the plate to the other. I slept again. After several days, I opened my door and looked down the long hallway. There on the floor outside my door, was a pair of slippers in my size.

I slid my feet inside the slippers and stepped into the hallway. Stewards passed me, smiling and nodding. Can I get you anything? How are you doing today, Mrs. Beers? I don't need anything, but thank you. I think I'm doing better. Thank you for asking.

Shuffling down the hallway, the warm breezes beckoned from the deck. I breathed deeply. My shoulders relaxed, and I closed my eyes in the sunshine. When I returned to my room, I called my husband and said, "I feel better. I think I'm okay now!"

That's what I get for doing my own thinking.

Ignorance is Bliss

Between January 2 and 3, there was a space of about 22 hours when I didn't know. I was blissfully unaware of the fact. But, being unaware, was I really in a state of bliss? If you'd asked me---in my pre-knowing state---"Are you blissful?" I would have snorted. "What? Are you trying to accuse me of ignorance?" You would have chuckled.


I would have served you coffee. We would have chatted, and I would have told you my grand plans for the coming New Year. Some of my hopes would have included him.


"I'm going to uncork my courage and talk to him about his drinking," I would have told you. "I want to prod him out of his apathy and get him drawing again." I would sip my coffee, thinking. "I want to have a deeper and more meaningful friendship with my brother."


"When will you do all this?" you would ask, adding two lumps and a splash of cream.


My heart would flutter; my palms would sweat. "Maybe this week."


Then we would drink our coffees, dreaming of our big plans in those last 45 seconds before my 22 hours were up. But the phone would ring. The news would be delivered: "Your brother died about this time yesterday."

Hindsight is 20/20: Ignorance was bliss.

All my future chances--my "next weeks"--to talk to my brother are gone. Forever.

But there are other beating hearts I love, other encouragement I can offer, and maybe even a lovingly applied kick-in-the-pants or two.

I should act now and be afraid later.