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Please check back often as I fill these pages
with inspirational thoughts, quotes and poems, and I hope
something you read here will touch you as so often words can... |
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In
addition to the wonderful thoughts and poems presented here, you'll find links to these special writings below. |
| This is a letter my sister found, tucked carefully inside her baby book: A Baby's First Love Letter |
| To My Baby Anne by Anna C. Gibbs |
| This loving eulogy was written by Kathy Kobberger and delivered at her father's funeral at St. Rose of Lima Church, Short Hills, New Jersey, on September 13, 2000. A Tribute to My Father |
| Kathy Kobberger also wrote and delivered this beautiful eulogy for her beloved sister Joan O'Brien, who died on January 14, 2003. A Tribute to My Sister |
| In her true story about the special bond between a young girl and a puppy, author Lynelle Dawson poignantly describes the healing effects our animal companions can have, both on those who are seriously ill and on those who are left behind after the death of their loved ones. A Bond, for Life |
| During the Civil War, a week before the first Battle of Bull Run (a battle in which he would be killed), Major Sullivan Ballou of the 2nd Rhode Island Unit wrote this touching letter to his wife. My Very Dear Sarah |
| Writer Mike Kleiman describes the difficulty he faces as he selects an appropriate Valentine's Day gift for his eight-year-old son in How the Gifts Arrive |
| After Grandy suffers a major loss, she cooks up her own unique batch of "tear soup". Richly illustrated in full color, this marvelous book gives both adults and children a thorough understanding of grief, along with a glimpse into Grandy's life as she blends various ingredients into her own mourning process. Tear Soup: Recipe for Healing after Loss |
| I wrote this in honor of my mother and read it as our family gathered for her memorial service on her birthday, March 27, 1994. In Loving Memory of My Mother |
| In loving tribute to her lifelong friend, Lucy Linder wrote this moving poem and read it at her memorial service on May 23, 2003. When You See |
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It is very tempting to want to
'hate' grief, to see it as the enemy, the unwelcome guest. Instead, try opening yourself to grief . . . ask it what it has to teach you. Ask it what it is training you to do, to be. Ask this uninvited teacher into your life and notice how things begin to shift. Remember that grief never asks you to let go of love. -- Ashley Davis Prend |
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Grief is
neither an illness nor a pathological condition, but rather a highly personal and normal response to life-changing events, a natural process that can lead to healing and personal growth. The transition through this difficult time is the courageous journey.
--
Sandi Caplan and Gordon Lang, in |
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Tears have a wisdom all their own.
They come when a person has relaxed enough to let go and to work through his (her) sorrow. They are the natural bleeding of an emotional wound, carrying the poison out of the system. Here lies the road to recovery. ~ F. Alexander Magoun |
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I do not
believe that sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise, since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness and the willingness to remain vulnerable. ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh |
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Real grief is not healed by time.
If time does anything, it deepens our grief. The longer we live, the more fully we become aware of who she was for us, and the more intimately we experience what her love meant to us. Real, deep love is, as you know, very unobtrusive, seemingly easy and obvious, and so present that we take it for granted. Therefore, it is only in retrospect—or better, in memory— that we fully realize its power and depth. Yes, indeed, love often makes itself visible in pain. ~ Henri Nouwen |
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Not all those
who wander are lost. -- J.R.R. Tolkien |
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How We Survive
If we are
fortunate,
Copyright © 2009 by
Mark Rickerby |
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Remembering is an act of
resurrection, each repetition a vital layer of mourning, in memory of those we are sure to meet again. ~ Nancy Cobb |
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Grief still has to be worked
through. It is like walking through water. Sometimes there are little waves lapping about my feet. Sometimes there is an enormous breaker that knocks me down. Sometimes there is a sudden and fierce squall. But I know that many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. We are not good about admitting grief, we Americans. It is embarrassing. We turn away, afraid that it might happen to us. But it is part of life, and it has to be gone through. – Madeleine L’Engle, in Two-Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage |
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Understand
that your family, friends and support group may help get you on the right path, but very early in the process you have to get behind the wheel. Only you can complete the road to recovery. -- From a Friend at GriefHelp.org, in The Road to Recovery |
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Broken Chain
We little knew the day that It broke our hearts to lose you You left us peaceful memories. Our family chain is broken -- ©
2010 by Ron Tranmer |
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When a loss
hits us, we have not only the particular loss to mourn but also the shattered beliefs and assumptions of what life should be. These life beliefs must be mourned separately. Sometimes we must grieve for them first. We can't grieve the loss if we are in the midst of "It's not supposed to happen this way" . . . We intellectually know that bad things happen ~ but to other people, not us, and certainly not in the world we assumed we were living in . . . Your belief system needs to heal and regroup as much as your soul does. You must start to rebuild a new belief system from the foundation up, one that has room for the realities of life and still offers safety and hope for a different life: a belief system that will ultimately have a beauty of its own to be discovered with life and loss. Think of a lifeless forest in which a small plant pushes its head upward, out of the ruin. In our grief process, we are moving into life from death, without denying the devastation that came before. -- Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, in On Grief and Grieving : Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss 
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Man
cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor. -- Alexis Carre |
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I Believe
Every now and then, soft as breath upon my skin,
Now when you die your life goes on ~
There are more than angels watching over me
– Performed by Diamond Rio |
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There’s music
in a well-lived life, and melodies remain each time a loving memory repeats the sweet refrain. The song that lingers in our hearts becomes our legacy ~ its beauty gently echoing through all eternity. © Hallmark Cards, Inc. |
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| It is love, not time, that heals all wounds. |
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A name shattered to pieces A name shattered in the void A name that never replies A name that I'll die calling The one word left in the soul To the last I couldn't pronounce My Beloved My Beloved The red sun hovers over the hill And the deer moan woefully I'm calling your name On a lonely hill I call your name in great sorrow I call your name in deep sorrow My voice reaches toward the sky But the sky is too far from the earth Turn me into stone I'll call your name till I die My beloved My beloved -- Sol-Wol Kim, Korean Poet (1902-1934) |
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It doesn’t matter who my father
was; it matters who I remember he was. ~ Anne Sexton |
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This is for
someone I will always admire
But from the
moment you held me in your arms
You held my
hand when I was afraid
I believe the
greatest gift I have ever received Thanks Mum xx
--
Sallie Manship |
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Life isn't about waiting for the
storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain. -- Unknown |
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Grieving
allows us to heal, to remember with love rather than pain. It is a sorting process. One by one you let go of the things that are gone and you mourn for them. One by one you take hold of the things that have become a part of who you are and build again.
--
Rachel Naomi Remen |
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In loving remembrance of Lisa Elaine Mewbourne 9/23/65 - 4/23/91 whose memory will never fade with time. The Death of a Flower Since childhood I have loved the
fragrance of honeysuckle. He reached down from on high
and took hold of me; 2nd Samuel 22:17 and 20 -- Faye Mewbourne Martin |
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A brook would lose its song if God removed the rocks. ~ Unknown |
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What I Meant
I never meant to make springtime I never meant to make springtime Did you know that I grieve for
you too? I meant to make the springtime I wish you could rejoice for me
on April 23rd Breathe in the sweet breath of
spring! Ah, could you but see through my
eyes now -- Denise Lynn Mewbourne |
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Grief never
ends, but it changes. It is a passage, not a place to stay. The sense of loss must give way if we are to value the life that was lived. – Author unknown |
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Goodnight,
my angel, time to close your eyes — Billy Joel |
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The
greatest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude. -- Thornton Wilder |
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I am a
parent twice bereaved. In one thirteen-month period I lost my oldest son to suicide and my youngest son to leukemia. Grief has taught me many things about the fragility of life and the finality of death. To lose that which means the most to us is a lesson in helplessness and humility and survival. After being stripped of any illusions of control I might have harbored, I had to decide what questions were still worth asking. I quickly realized that the most obvious ones -- Why my sons? Why me? -- were as pointless as they were inevitable. Any appeal to fairness was absurd. I was led by my fellow sufferers, those I loved and those who had also endured irredeemable losses, to find reasons to go on. Like all who mourn I learned an abiding hatred for the word "closure," with its comforting implications that grief is a time-limited process from which we will all recover. The idea that I could reach a point when I would no longer miss my children was obscene to me and I dismissed it. I had to accept the reality that I would never be the same person, that some part of my heart, perhaps the best part, had been cut out and buried with my sons. What was left? Now there was a question worth contemplating.
--
Gordon Livingston, MD, in |
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The span
between life and death can be as quick and sudden as a puff of wind that blows out a candle. But the candle does not suffer after darkness comes. It is the person left in the dark room who gropes and stumbles.
--
Helen Duke Fike,
Interregnum |
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About his poem the author writes, My daughter died at the age of twenty, having succumbed to the temptation of drink and drugs. In the eyes of the world she was an adult, but to me she was still my precious little girl. During that first year following her death, I wrote almost forty poems, which describe my attempt at coming to terms with her loss through the medium of poetry. This is one of them: How Do You Do?
How do you describe an empty heart
-- David T. Kerry |
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When I
let go of what I am, I become what I might be. -- Lao Tzu |
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We must
learn the hard lesson that without the pain of inner irritation, the pearls of wisdom will not be produced in us. I lovingly call this The Pearl Principle: no pain, no transformative gain. Inside an oyster, it takes an irritant – like a grain of sand or a bit of shell – to produce the mucous juices that engulf and surround the irritant, eventually hardening into a precious pearl. It is the same for us, regardless of how much we wish it to be otherwise. Difficulties and suffering produce the aspiration for spiritual enlightenment, and it is this aspiration which is needed to motivate us along the path of awakening and liberation. There is no growth without growing pains– and the labor pains of giving birth to a new world and a new way of being can be the most painful yet rewarding of all.
–
Lama Surya Das, in |
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Grief
comes in one size, Extra Large. If we tuck it away in the bottom drawer where it never sees the light of day, it remains exactly the same. On the other hand, if we wear it, feel it, talk about it, and share it with others, it is likely that it will become faded, shrunk and worn, or will simply no longer fit. When grief has served its purpose, we are able to recognize the many gifts we have gained.
--
Dianne Arcangel, in |
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If you
truly want to grow as a person and learn, you should realize that the universe has enrolled you in the graduate program of life, called loss. -- Elisabeth Kübler-Ross |
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As We Look
Back
~
Lliam Tipton and Kyle Perry |
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God, Speak
to Me
The man
whispered,
The
man looked around and said,
And
the man shouted,
So
the man cried out in despair, -- Author unknown |
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Only he
who suffers can be the guide and healer of the suffering. -- Thomas Mann |
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A shadow
of joy flickered; it is me. I told you I wouldn't leave. My memories, my thoughts are imbedded deep in your heart. I still love you. Do not for one moment think that you have been abandoned. I am in the Light. In the corner, in the hall, the car, the yard ~ these are the places I stay with you. My spirit rises every time you pray for me, but my energy comes closer to you. Love does not diminish; it grows stronger. I am the feather that finds you in the yard, the dimmed light that grows brighter in your mind, I place our memories for you to see. We lived in our special way, a way that now has its focus changed. I still crave your understanding and long for the many words of prayer and good fortune for my soul. I am in the Light. As you struggle to adjust without me, I watch silently. Sometimes I summon up all the strength of my new world to make you notice me. Impressed by your grief, I try to impress my love deeper into your consciousness. As you should, I call out to the Heavens for help. You should know that the fountain of youth does exist. My soul is now healthy. Your love sends me new found energy. I am adjusting to this new world. I am with you and I am in the Light. Please don't feel bad that you can't see me. I am with you wherever you go. I protect you, just as you protected me so many times. Talk to me and somehow I will find a way to answer you. Mother, Father, son or daughter, it makes no difference. Brother, sister, lover, husband or wife, it makes no difference. Whatever our connection ~ friend or even foe ~ I see you with my new eyes. I am learning to help wherever you are, wherever I am needed. This can be done because I am in the Light. When you feel despair, reach out to me. I will come. My love for you truly does transcend from Heaven to Earth. Finish your life with the enthusiasm and zest that you had when we were together in the physical sense. You owe this to me, but more importantly, you owe it to yourself. Life continues for both of us. I am with you because I love you and I am in the Light. -- Author Unknown |
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Deep
peace of the running wave to you. Deep peace of the flowing air to you. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. Deep peace of the shining stars to you. Deep peace of the infinite peace to you. -- Gaelic Blessing |
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Loneliness
is too close a companion for me to be objective. It has gone home with me on long walks, sat with me on numerous silent evenings, stood with me in the middle of a group of laughing people, and lay across the bed with me as I cried because I didn’t know what else to do. It seems that even when I escape it for a while, it is waiting not too far away. We have had long talks, loneliness and I, and I have to say that I have learned much more from our journeying together. We have become friends. But the friendship was a long time in coming. Loneliness did not just come into my life with the accident that left me a widow but it did become immensely intensified then . . . Could it be that loneliness is given to us as a reminder that this world was never intended to be our home and the things of this world were never intended to satisfy us? – Verdell Davis, in Riches Stored in Secret Places |
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With one
more look at you I could learn to time the clouds And let the sunshine through ~ Leave a troubled past And I might start anew Or solve the mysteries If you're the prize Refresh these tired eyes With one more look at you I might overcome the anger That I've learned to know ~ Find the peace of mind I lost so long ago Your gentle touch Has made me strong again ~ And I'll belong again, For when you look at me I'm everything and more That I had dreamed I'd be. My spirit feels a promise: I won't be alone We'll live and love forever With one more look at you I'd learn to change the stars And change our fortunes, too ~ I'd have the constellations Paint your portrait, too So all the world Might share this wondrous sight: The world would end each night With one more look at you. -- Written and sung by Barbra Streisand in A Star Is Born |
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Six months, but the grief is still raw, open to the bone. In the most unlikely places -- the dentist's, restaurants, creative meetings, sitting on the john -- I can still be engulfed in sobs. In public I have to excuse myself or pretend something's gone down the wrong pipe. Once, in L.A., a guy actually gave me the Heimlich maneuver. I could hardly tell him it was okay, I was only choking on grief.
--
Tony Hendra, in |
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"I don't
think of him every day; I think of him every hour of every day."
-- Gregory Peck, in an interview |
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Sisters If you are ever going to love me, love me now, while I can know the sweet and tender feelings which from true affection flow. Love me now while I am living. Do not wait until I am gone and then have it chiseled in marble, sweet words in cold stone. If you have tender thoughts of me, please tell me now. If you wait until I'm sleeping, never to awaken, there will be death between us, and I won't hear you then. So if you love me, even a little bit, let me know it while I'm living so I can treasure it.
Copyright © 1998 - 2005 by
Julia Napier |
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Please
forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.
These four simple statements are powerful tools
-- from
The Four Things That Matter Most : A Book About Living
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Sweet
Remembrance
Let
fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, -- T. Moore |
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To Where
You Are Who can say for certain, maybe you're still here ~ I feel you all around me, your memory so clear. Deep within the stillness I can hear you speak. You're still an inspiration ~ Can it be that you are mine forever, love and you are watching over me from up above? Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star ~ I wish upon tonight to see you smile, if only for awhile to know you're there ~ A breath away's not far to where you are. Are you gently sleeping here inside my dream ~ And isn't faith believing all power can't be seen? As my heart holds you just one beat away, I cherish all you gave me everyday ~ 'Cause you are mine forever, love watching me from up above. And I believethat angels breathe and that love will live on and never leave. Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star ~ I wish upon tonight to see you smile, if only for awhile to know you're there ~ A breath away's not far to where you are. I know you're there ~ A breath away's not far to where you are – Performed byJosh Groban, Composed by Richard Marx Listen to this song here |
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"If
their song is to continue, then we must do the singing."
We have to find that special way that will allow us to sing our loved one’s song loud and clear . . . Knowing you are doing something to keep your loved one's memory alive keeps you passionately busy, allows you to tell your sacred story, adds joy to your heart, brings an array of beautiful, loving people into your life, and rewards you with a meaningful life again. Your loud voice will echo in many hearts making sure your loved one is never erased from memory.
-- Elaine Stillwell, in |
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When I
come to the end of my journey and I travel my last weary mile, just forget, if you can, that I ever frowned and remember only the smile. Forget unkind words I have spoken; remember some good I have done. Forget that I've stumbled and blundered and sometimes fell by the way. Remember I have fought some hard battles and won, ere the close of the day. Then forget to grieve for my going; I would not have you sad for a day, but in summer just gather some flowers and remember the place where I lay, and come in the shade of the evening when the sun paints the sky in the west. Stand for a few moments beside me and remember only my best. -- Author unknown |
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His
father had been dead for fifty-three years. Since then, Marshall had lost his wife, two siblings, and son-in-law, as well as many friends and colleagues. Even at his advanced age walking with two canes and battling cancer, he was sought after in his community for his wisdom and good humor. He was glad to give advice to others. Yet, he told me, when he faced tough decisions himself, he’d often sit quietly in his easy chair, close his eyes, and conjure up an image of his own father. Then he’d ask the dead man for advice. He heard no actual voices from beyond, but when he emerged from his meditation, he’d usually have something of an answer. Marshall explained: "The loss of cherished persons is never completely overcome. The relationships continue. They are always with us. . . . I have my father’s value system, his frame of reference. I have preserved the father-space inside me." -- Neil Chethik, in FatherLoss : How Sons of All Ages Come to Terms with the Deaths of Their Dads |
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All the hardships that you face in life, all the tests and tribulations, all the nightmares, and all the losses, most people still view as curses, as punishments by God, as something negative. If you would only know that nothing that comes to you is negative. I mean nothing. All the trials and tribulations, and the biggest losses that you ever experience, things that make you say, "If I had known about this, I would never have been able to make it through," are gifts to you, opportunities that you are given to grow. That is the sole purpose of existence on this planet Earth. You will not grow if you sit in a beautiful flower garden and somebody brings you gorgeous food on a silver platter. But you will grow if you are sick, if you are in pain, if you experience losses, and if you do not put your head in the sand, but take the pain and learn to accept it, not as a curse or punishment, but as a gift to you with a very, very specific purpose.
--
Elisabeth
Kübler-Ross, in |
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To
everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. -- Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8 |
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Perhaps,
for some people, the reason prayer works is because God is mute and doesn't give advice or try to fix things. He just listens and lets you work it out for yourself. -- Author unknown |
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Religion
is not a shield from pain, but a mechanism for dealing with it effectively. Effectively: not hiding from pain, not eliminating it, not denying it, not continuing it -- but working through it and getting past it through very practical methods. -- Dorian Scott Cole |
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Grief
remains one of the few things that has the power to
silence us. It is a whisper in the world and a clamor within. More than sex, more than faith, even more than its usher death, grief is unspoken, publicly ignored except for those few moments at the funeral that are over too quickly, or the conversations among the cognoscenti, those of us who recognize in one another a kindred chasm deep in the center of who we are. Maybe we do not speak of it because death will mark all of us, sooner or later. Or maybe it is unspoken because grief is only the first part of it. After a time it becomes something less sharp but larger, too, a more enduring thing called loss. Perhaps that is why this is the least explored passage: because it has no end. The world loves closure, loves a thing that can, as they say, be gotten through. This is why it comes as a great surprise to find that loss is forever, that two decades after the event there are those occasions when something in you cries out at the continual presence of an absence. -- Anna Quindlen |
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I have
been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. -- Abraham Lincoln |
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The days
and nights when I miss my father most are not these big-ticket events, which tend to buzz and flush with their own excitement and stand so far outside normal time as to defy any expected family context. I miss him more, I find, in the unexpected moments that remind me of how he was in day-to-day life. The discovery of a volume on maritime history at a used-book sale, for example, can make my throat close up momentarily as I recall how he'd settle in after dinner with just such a treasure . . . These are the details that bring my father back to me, and also remind me of my loss. -- Clea Simon, in Fatherless Women: How We Change After We Lose Our Dads |
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When we
walk to the edge of all the light we have and take a step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe one of two things will happen ~ there will be something solid for us to stand upon, or we will be taught to fly. --Anonymous |
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Instead of
letting go of our attachment as we grieve, we can make the mistake of grasping on to the deceased person even more strongly. Halfway through the second year after my husband's death, the cycles of intense pain and sadness were continuing, and I felt a fresh fear that my grief would never finish. Part of me wanted to ignore this intense pain returning month after month, to push it down and avoid it all together. Yet I suspected that repressing my own pain would not help in the long run either, so I decided to bring more awareness to my situation. I asked myself if I was doing anything that might be prolonging the mourning process. Then I uncovered the secret thoughts I was generating each time I felt deep sadness and pain: I can't live without you. I hate being alone. I want you back. There was so much grasping in my mind, so many wishes that could never be satisfied! If I continued to think and feel this way, I realized, there would be no end to my grief and despair. It was clear that I needed to replace my grasping with a new way of thinking: I am letting you go and wishing you well. I am going to survive and be strong. I am going to make a new life for myself. When I felt the deep pain and sadness rising again, I began practicing letting go in this way. After a few months of taking this approach, my process of mourning finished.
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Christine Longaker, in |
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. . Vulnerability to death is one of the given conditions of life. We can't explain it any more than we can explain life itself. We can't control it, or sometimes even postpone it. All we can do is try to rise beyond the question, "Why did it happen?" and begin to ask the question, "What do I do now that it has happened?" -- Harold S. Kushner, in When Bad Things Happen to Good People |
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It may be
quite possible that we are not necessarily undergoing 'unresolved loss' when a past death comes up for us. Instead, this could be our opportunity to experience the older loss in a different light, one with some perspective and yes, even wisdom. Even if the feelings that come up are quite painful, this may not mean that you didn't do 'grief work' right the first time! It may just be that now is the time for you to experience that loss and your current one at a deeper level, given who you are today and what you now know about yourself. Many of us still have parts of our losses that may remain on some level 'unresolved.' However, a more empowering notion is to recognize that triggers of prior losses may mean that we can re-grieve, healthily and holistically. We may still be asking sometimes unanswerable questions about older losses, but perhaps how we ask them has changed significantly. And perhaps we have a greater comfort level for these questions being unanswered. And perhaps, we have a greater tolerance for ourselves in not having all the answers. -- Joan Hummel, Bereavement Magazine , March/April 2004 Reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publishing, Inc. (888-604-4673) |
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Grief
knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys. -- Alphonse de Lamartine |
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For a long
time I was obsessed with why Mitch had ended his life. I thought that I needed to discover the real cause of his hopelessness. I studied and analyzed what I believed to be his suicide note . . . Finally, I perceived that a death by suicide is a result of factors too numerous to count. I wanted to know why, but I didn't have to have an answer in order to go on living my own life. Even the most experienced and astute investigators are finally forced to make what at best is only an educated guess. It is important, however, to ask why. It is important to worry about why, because one finally exhausts possibility after possibility and ultimately one tires of the fruitless search. Then it is time to let it go and to start healing.
-- Iris Bolton |
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it seems
odd that time does not put distance between us, but there is no distance, no space, no place that you are not. your presence fills my emptiness . . . but still i miss you -- the you I thought you were -- the you who left that warm july morning while we sat crying and begging for miracles. i didn't know then that you were so much more than that which died and i didn't understand that miracles sometimes come in disguise. you have taught me lessons of the soul and given me reasons to stay . . . but still i miss you -- the you i thought you were.
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© 2004 by Sandy Goodman |
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What does
"letting go" mean? This phrase is often misunderstood. Does it mean forgetting, letting go of our memories? Not at all. Does it mean letting go of a relationship with our deceased loved ones? No! Our relationship is changed, not ended. "Letting go" refers to the time in our healing journey when we are ready to gently open our tightly closed fists. In doing so we let go of our pain. We do not need it anymore.
--
Sandi Caplan and Gordon Lang, |
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People's
voices continue to be heard after death in the traces of their utterances, in other people's speaking, and in ongoing responses to their words. For the living, this means that, to the degree that we continue to respond to the meanings generated in conversation with someone before they died, those meanings continue to live on. In a quite tangible sense, people can live on after death in and through words and our relationships with the dead need not be considered closed with the nailing down of the lid of a coffin.
-- Lorraine Hedtke and John Winslade, in |
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If
closure means moving on and leaving the memory of [my granddaughter] behind, then I will never have closure. Maddy is a very significant part of me, and I will carry her along for the rest of my life journey. She resides within my heart, and as such she will never be "gotten over." Maddy’s death cannot be resolved, nor can my grief over the void in my family. To resolve, to let go, to move on, means denying my family history. Not only does that diminish Maddy, it diminishes who I am and my place in the world . . . It is perfectly normal to search for a continued connection with my granddaughter. It is neither pathological nor dysfunctional to think about her, to miss her, and to talk about her . . . Once I started thinking about the word renewal and all its implications, I felt a sense of calm. I was able to cease my internal struggle over our society’s perception that death is something to be gotten over. I could invest my energy in discovering not only how to incorporate the stillbirth experience into my being, but also the life lessons. I could actively look for ways to honor and memorialize Maddy. She had no visible presence in the world, but I do. My thoughts, my actions, and my words can ensure that she will not be forgotten. I am able to explore and appreciate things in a new way and no longer believe in coincidence . . . It wasn’t until I finally stopped intellectualizing and questioning the possibility of a spiritual connection with Maddy that I was able to accept the warm certainty of her presence.
--
Nina Bennett, in |
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Playing
with Three Strings
We
have seen Yitzhak Perlman
He
takes his seat, unhinges the clasps of his legs,
On
one occasion one of his violin strings broke.
With
three strings, he modulated, changed and
The
audience screamed with delight,
A
legacy mightier than a concert. -- Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis |
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You cannot
prevent the birds of sorrow from
flying overhead, but you can prevent them from making nests in your hair. -- Chinese Proverb |
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Hold on to
what is good even if it is a handful of earth. Hold on to what you believe even if it is a tree which stands by itself. Hold on to what you must do even if it is a long way from here. Hold on to life even when it is easier letting go. Hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you. -- Pueblo Blessing |
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Widow
Watching Widow "Fine," I hear her say. "I'm just fine." And mourners hug her shoulders, Pat her hand. I stand near the coffee and watch the gathering. Her smile falters; Her composure is complete, A feat, I think, of fear and fatigue. How can I warn her That the numbness leaves And agony becomes one's bedfellow As anger roosts in the breast? Now is not the best Time for reality. But when the friends and family Have all gone away, And her house is naked In its emptiness, Then, then I'll visit -- For tea, and trust, and truthtelling.
--
Janet Muller Benway,
Bereavement Magazine
, March/April 2003 |
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Please See
Me Through My Tears
You
asked, "How are you doing?" – Kelly Osmont, MSW,
LCSW, CGP, in Reprinted with permission of the publisher. |
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Whether
they are the result of joy or sorrow, tears are a response to emotions for which we can find no words. They reveal our most vulnerable self. When we cry we are releasing the pain of the loss, not the memory of the one we cherish. The most dramatic rainbows seem to follow the most severe storms. Now when my eyes overflow, I use a guided imagery technique to visualize my tears washing away the pain that I carry inside my heart and soul. And when they finally stop, I look for the brilliant rainbow of love and hope.
–
Nina Bennett, in |
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Author Jane Howard Samuels describing the agonizing pain of grief:
And right
now,
--
Jane Howard Samuels, in Wombmates |
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In our
circle, we noticed that the temptation can exist for Christians to sugarcoat everything and act like bad things are really good things in disguise. "Gifts come in all kinds of packages," someone said to me recently in reference to the painful things we face in life. I don't think I will ever reach a place where I could consider [my son] Seth's death a "gift" any more than I consider rape or child abductions, terrorist attacks, murder, genocide, or famine "gifts." While it is true that the strength or the insight we gain from God to get through these times could be considered as gifts, the event itself is not, and I believe that God grieves just as much as we do. Why can't we just admit that painful things are painful? Why can't we just sit down with people and cry along with them as we admit that what happened is cause for tears? We don't need people to rush in and frantically try to wrap it all up pretty with a bow, like it is something we should savor. In time, we may see goodness that seeped out of badness, but we should leave it to God to show us that, when our eyes are not so full of tears and we can see more clearly.
--
Elizabeth A. Price, in "Helping the Bereaved: A Few Basic
Rules" |
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When
we’ve changed our religious views or political convictions,
— Robert Fulghum, in From Beginning to End |
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Regardless of the reason or the cause, a terminated pregnancy leaves forever more an empty place in the heart and life of a mother. This poem was written by Lorraine in 1998, in loving and everlasting memory of her beloved unborn son Damien: It
swims around in your head |
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When we
bury the old, we bury the known past, the past we imagine sometimes better than it was, but the past all the same, a portion of which we inhabited. Memory is the overwhelming theme, the eventual comfort. But burying infants, we bury the future, unwieldy and unknown, full of promise and possibilities, outcomes punctuated by our rosy hopes. The grief has no borders, no limits, no known ends and the little infant graves that edge the corners and fencerows of every cemetery are never quite big enough to contain that grief. Some sadnesses are permanent. Dead babies do not give us memories. They give us dreams.
--
Thomas Lynch, in
The
Compassionate Friends |
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Fingerprints Your fingerprints are on my heart. Fingerprints that teach me about caring. Fingerprints that teach me about love. Fingerprints that teach me about courage. Fingerprints that teach me about hope. Fingerprints that bring me closer to my loved ones. Fingerprints that bring me closer to myself. In the time I cared for you my whole life changed -- never to be the same again All this from tiny fingerprints that touch my heart. You will live in my heart forever - never to be forgotten. I will always love you. You are my child. -- Copyright © 2001 by Tom Krause www.coachkrause.com Used with permission of the author |
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After a
while you learn the subtle differences between holding a hand and chaining a soul. And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and company doesn't always mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure that you really are strong and you really do have worth. And you learn and you learn with every goodbye you learn . . .
--
Veronica A. Shoffstall |
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Apparently, the messages that come from beyond can be swift and delicate and if we are not open and receptive they will fly by unseen and unheard, and will fall to earth, we know not where. If we can catch them in their flight, we will find that peace descends upon us and we will feel the breeze of an angel's wing as it gently reaches out and touches us.
-- Linda Pendleton, in
A Walk Through Grief : Crossing the Bridge Between Worlds |
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When
asked to share her beauty tips with fans, the beloved actress and humanitarian offered this response, which was read at her funeral several years later:
For
attractive lips, speak words of kindness. |
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Now that I
am gone, remember me with smiles and laughter. And if you need to cry, cry with your brother or sister who walks in grief beside you. And when you need me, put your arms around anyone and give to them what you need to give to me. There are so many who need so much. I want to leave you something -- something much better than words or sounds. Look for me in the people I've known or helped in some special way. Let me live in your heart as well as in your mind. You can love me most by letting your love reach out to our loved ones, by embracing them and living in their love. Love does not die, people do. So, when all that's left of me is love, give me away as best you can.
-- Author unknown |
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Grief ebbs
but grief never ends. Death ends a life but death does not end a relationship. If we allow ourselves to be still and if we take responsibility for our grief, the grief becomes as polished and luminous and mysterious as death itself. When it does, we learn to love anew, not only the one who has died. We learn to love anew those who yet live. -- Julius Lester |
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The heart
of grief, its most difficult challenge, is not "letting go" of those who have died but instead making the transition from loving in presence to loving in separation. -- Thomas Attig, in The Heart of Grief: Death and the Search for Lasting Love |
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The Lord
is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and they staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. [Click here to see Psalm 23 Flash Animation] |
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Son by My
Side
Early each morning,
-- Copyright
© 2003 by Mike Kleiman |
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Old Irish
Blessing of Peace
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To shirk
pain, bearable pain, altogether is not only to be less real than one might have been; it is to isolate oneself from the common lot of pain, from the pain of humanity and the world. It is to blunt or cut off or withdraw one's antennae; it is to play only such notes as one chooses in the universal symphony, which is a symphony of suffering as well as joy. -- Victor Gollancz |
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Oh Danny
boy, The pipes, the pipes are calling from glen to glen and down the mountain side. The summer's gone and all the leaves are falling ~ 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow And I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow ~ Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy ~ I love you so. But if he come and all the roses dying And I am dead, as dead I well may be, He'll come here and find the place I'm lying And kneel and say an Ave there for me. And I shall feel, oh soft you tread above me ~ And then my grave will richer, sweeter be For you will bend, and tell me that you love me And I shall rest in peace until you come to me. -- The Beloved Irish Ballad |
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At times,
grief is like a hurricane meandering in its path but nevertheless picking up strength; eventually it will come ashore with perhaps devastating consequences. -- Harold Ivan Smith |
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God grant
me Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as the pathway to peace. Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His will; that I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next. Amen. |
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Although
the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it. -- Helen Keller |
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I have a
confession to make. I hate the word closure when connected with the loss of a loved one. You know what I mean -- a spouse, a sibling, a friend dies. Weeks later there are those who want to know when the bereaved will find closure. The dictionary defines closure as '. . . to be imperious to . . . to choke off . . . to constrict . . . to bolt . . . to bar . . . to end.' For survivors, the word closure often connotes that the bereaved are underachievers who flunked a grief course. Though the intention is meant to be sympathetic, there is evoked a note of chastisement for failing to end the mourning process. In the eloquent words of Dr. Jimmy Holland at New York's Sloan-Kettering Hospital: 'We create a sense of failure as if the bereaved is not doing it fast enough.' For grief work takes more time and effort than most people ever anticipate. And even after weeks, months, and years later, grief may ebb, but never ends . . . The Song of Songs has an insightful perspective on the death of a beloved. Instead of a word like closure ('to end'), are the thoughts of never forgetting, always remembering. The final day of Passover . . . is a Service of Yizkor ('Remembrance') for those whose memories will never die. In the synagogue is a 'wall of remembrance' of past members who are recalled with lights lit by their names. There is no closure. The beauty of their lives never ends. The life of the dead is now placed in the memory of the living. For 'love is strong as death' (8:6). -- Rabbi Dr. Earl Grollman, in "Closure and the Song of Songs," Bereavement Magazine , March/April 2003 Reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publishing, Inc. (888-604-4673) |
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As she was sorting through his belongings at the 6-month anniversary of his death, Barbara Ennis discovered this poem tucked inside her father's Bible. It was given to him by the minister who read it at her sister's funeral 47 years ago: Safely Home I am home in Heaven, dear ones Oh so happy and so bright There is perfect joy and beauty In this everlasting light All the grief and pain are over Every restless tossing passed I am now at peace forever Safely home in Heaven at last Did you wonder how I so calmly Trod the valley of the shade? Ah but the love of God illumined Every dark and fearful glade And He came Himself to meet me In the way so hard to tread And with His arm to lean on Could I have one doubt or dread? Then you must not grieve so sorely For I love you dearly still Try to look beyond Earth's shadows Pray to trust our Father's will There is work still waiting for you So you must not idly stand Do it now while life remaineth You shall rest in our Father's land When the work is all completed He will gently call you home Oh the rapture of that meeting Oh the joy to see you come!
--
Author unknown |
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Prayer of
St. Francis of Assisi
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. |
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If we are
loved and remembered, then we live on forever in the hearts of those who love us.
-- Ted Menten |
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To
Remember Me
The
day will come when my body will lie upon a white sheet -- Robert N. Test |
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Noted
author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia
tells of a four-year-old boy who lived next door to an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. One day the child saw the man sitting on his porch in a rocking chair, and noticed that he was crying. The little boy walked over to the man’s porch, made his way up the steps and climbed onto the old gentleman’s lap. Without saying a word, he just sat there. Later, when his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy answered, "Nothing, I just helped him cry." |
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Don't cry
because it's over. Smile because it happened. -- Ted Geisel (Dr. Seuss) |
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I never
thought I could go on living when you died, but ~ I did. I never thought I would survive after burying you, but ~ I did. I never thought I'd get through those first days, weeks and months, but ~ I did. I never thought I would be able to endure the first anniversary of your death, but ~ I did. I never thought I would let myself love my new grandchild, but ~ I did. I never thought tomorrow would be different, but ~ it was. I never thought I would stop crying for you, but ~ I have. I never thought that I would ever sing again, but ~ I have. I never thought the pain would "soften," but ~ it has. I never thought I would care if the sun shone again, but ~ I do. I never thought I would be able to entertain again, but ~ I have. I never thought I would be able to control my grief, but ~ I can. I never thought I could function without medication again, but ~ I can. I never thought I'd smile again, but ~ I do. I never thought I would laugh out loud again, but ~ I do. I never thought I would look forward to tomorrow, but ~ I do. I never thought I'd reconcile your death, but ~ I have. I never thought I would be able to create that "new normal," but ~ I have. I never thought I'd want to go on living after you died, but ~ I do. Always missing you, always loving you, and thinking of you daily, with a smile on my face ~ and tears in my heart. -- Author Unknown |
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My Heart
Will Go On Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you
That
is how I know you go on. -- Celine Dion, My Heart Will Go On |
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People
don't leave life until you stop thinking about them. -- Larry McMurtry, in The Late Child : A Novel |
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Sometimes
our light goes out but it is blown again into flame by an encounter with another human being. Each of us owes the deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this inner light. -- Albert Schweitzer |
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When we
honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief or bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face us with the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.
-- Henri J. M. Nouwen |
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Death is
not the extinguishing of the light, but the putting out of the lamps because the dawn has come. -- Rabindranath Tagore |
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There are
only two faces to existence - birth and death - and life survives them both, just so sunrise and sunset are not essentially different: it all depends on whether one is facing east or west. -- Joy Mills |
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If wishing
makes it so won't you let me know that life is eternal and love is immortal and death is only a horizon Life is eternal as we move into the light and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight -- from the song, Life is Eternal by Carly Simon and Teesa Gohl |
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Sometimes
we can find respite with
others. When I work with bereaved people I ask them to make a list of their support system. Once they do that I ask them to tell me who are the good listeners, who are the doers. But I also have them identify their respite people. These are the people who are friends even though they are uncomfortable with pain and grief. I remind bereaved people that these persons can help, too. They are often good people to go with to get away from grief. They are unlikely to ask about the loss. But they have a valued role in providing diversion.
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Kenneth J. Doka, Ph.D., |
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The
bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. -- Harriet Beecher Stowe |
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How Well
Are You Doing with Your Grief?
"If
I were doing well with my grief,
--
Doug Manning We are
doing well with our grief when we are grieving.
--
from HOPE Line Newsletter, August 2002 |
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But there
was no need to be ashamed of tears for tears bore witness that a man had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer. -- Viktor E. Frankl |
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You have
to take responsibility for how you feel . . . When you make loss totally responsible for your pain, you make replacement of the loss your only hope for ending the pain. -- Pat Schwiebert, R.N. |
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We can use
our creativity to give expression to our grief . . . Poetry, painting, dance, storytelling, [music], sculpture or any of the various creative arts can be effective outlets . . . [and using them] has much value. First, they give expression to our deepest experiences. Sometimes there are no words. More than that, creative arts are suited for every individual. Each of us has unique talents or abilities, our own interests, levels, and our own preferences. Some may use the creative arts to express feelings while others will use it to share fond memories or thoughts. Still, for others, the very act of doing something is therapeutic . . . Producing or experiencing the productions of others gives a visual reminder that sometimes the worst experiences of life can be transformed into a tragic beauty. In its own way, that offers continued hope.
-- Kenneth J. Doka, Ph.D., |
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Somehow we
must reach a place
where our love and memories are liberated from the painful emotions linked with the death of our loved ones. It is in that liberation that we find an awakening to new possibilities, to new understanding and to growth.
--
Roy P. Peterson, Ph.D., in "Memories of Loved Ones," |
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And now
we've grown older (and maybe a little wiser) and we've learned that love isn't something you toss out, bury, pack away, or forget. Love isn't something that ends with death. Life can become good and whole and complete once again . . . not when we try to fill up the empty spaces left by loved ones no longer within hug's reach, but when we realize that love creates new spaces in the heart and expands the spirit and deepens the joy of simply being alive.
--
Darcie Sims, Ph.D., in "Christmas is the Hardest Holiday!"
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When Does Grief End? Grief hits us like a ton of bricks, flattens us like a steamroller, hurls us into the depths of despair. We know in a flash when grief hits, but when does it end? Like the month of March, grief rushes in like a lion and tiptoes out like a lamb. Sometimes, we don't know when grief leaves, because we won't let go of the lion's tail. Why do we hold on so long? Grief offers us safety, protection from the world. We don't want to let go because we secretly fear that we'll forget our loved ones, and we don't want to forget – ever. We don't want to let go because we fear the future and having to face life without our loved ones. We don't want to let go because we make the mistake of measuring our grief with the depth of our love – when neither has anything to do with the other. How do we know when grief has run its course? How do we know when we've grieved enough? Cried enough? "Died" enough? How do we know when it's time to let go of the tail? We know when we feel joy again, in something or someone. Joy in living. Joy in life. We know when we wake up in the morning and our first thought is on something other than our loss. We know when we look ahead with a smile and back with fond memories, and when we no longer dread the nights. We know when our life starts filling up with new interests and people, and we start reaching for the stars Grief ends when we let go of the tail. Margareet Brownley, "When Does Grief End?" Bereavement Magazine , January/February 2002 Reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publishing, Inc. (888-604-4673) |
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I have found in the years that have passed
that I am most vulnerable at times of remembrance. The word "anniversary" no longer holds a promise of celebration. Instead, holidays and birthdays, family gatherings and otherwise joyous occasions contain an undertow of sorrow. If I get caught up in it, I quickly get pulled under and wind up gasping for breath. It is ironic that the presence of an absence can be so emotionally devastating. – Bill Jenkins in What to Do When the Police Leave: A Guide to the First Days of Traumatic Loss (3rd Edition) www.willsworld.com |
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When we travel the journey of grief,
the familiar can become unfamiliar, even unrecognizable. Relationships can be put on hold (though sometimes because we don't recognize the love that surrounds us), our bodies respond differently than before (energy levels, appetite, sleep, general health) and our emotions often become, at best, a wild ride through some very dark and gloomy waters. Even God (our beliefs, values and sources of strength) is different. For some, even the ability to believe in anyone or anything is stretched to impossibility, for a long time, maybe even forever. Sorrow can be a very deep hole, deepened by our perceived loss of that sense of connection. For many it is about despair, fear and hopelessness. For others, a sense of sadness and futility. It may be less severe for many, but it is still there. For all of us still wrestle with the essential questions of life and meaning. Why did this happen? Why did this happen now? What will happen to me? How will I live now? Do I want to go on living? What do I need to do now? These are the questions of life and grief, as old as the ancient psalms and as fresh as this morning's first cup of coffee. What does all of this mean for you and me? The answer (and it isn't really an answer, but a choice, a hunch, a moving through the journeys of grief and of faith all twisted and turned together) is in connecting to myself, my story and my God . . . it is faith, our ability to believe and trust in the outcomes or blessings of even one's suffering, that brings us through our sorrow to a renewed sense of hope. My beliefs help me identify where I am, who I am, where I am going, and how I will get there. Healthy spirituality never dodges the tough bullets of grief. It never diminishes my worth and never dismisses my feelings. My relationship with God leaves me plenty of time and space to wander and to ponder. There is room to be angry, with the encouragement to receive anger's gift rather than be seduced by its rage. I can connect with my guilt, yet welcome forgiveness that restores. My loneliness is embraced through religious community or context, ritual, sacrament and prayer (or whatever fits with your traditions). Grief's anonymity ("Doesn't anyone understand?") is embraced by a God sometimes perceived to be distant and inaccessible, who still knows me by name! -- Reverend Richard Gilbert, M.Div. in "Like Connecting with an Old Friend" Bereavement Magazine, January/February 2002 Reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publishing, Inc. (888-604-4673) |
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How to Help a Friend in Grief As much as we would like to avoid unpleasantness in our lives, sometimes it is inescapable. Instead, we must learn how to grieve in healthy ways and work through our difficulties. If you are wondering what you can do to help a friend who is in intense mourning, here are some suggestions: Recognize that everyone grieves at their own pace. Some progress rather quickly, some move very slowly. We never move at the speed that others think we should. Help us take one day at a time. Keep us company and be there for us. You don't need to say anything profound or do anything earthshaking. Often, your greatest help is your quiet presence and simplest deeds. Make suggestions and initiate contact and activities. It is important for you to respect our privacy and give us some time alone, but we also may not have the energy to structure our lives right after a traumatic loss. We may have to rely on others to think of things that we don't know to ask for.
Provide a safe environment for us to show
strong emotions.
Be on the lookout for destructive
behaviors.
Help us find ways to bring good things out
of the bad.
We will experience some level of grief over our loved
one's loss |
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People are
often unreasonable and self-centered. Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway. If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway. If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway. The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway. For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It never was between you and them anyway. -- Mother Teresa |
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While the experience of grief work is difficult and slow and wearing, it also is enriching and fulfilling. The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep, loving concern. -- Roy and Jane Nichols, "Funerals: A Time for Grief and Growth" in The Hope Line Newsletter, July 2001, Syracuse, NY Hope for Bereaved, Inc. hopeforbereaved@cynmail.com |
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A nation
that does not honor its dead will ultimately lose its reverence for life. If the dead do not matter, it will not be long until the living don't matter either.
--
Doug Manning
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People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light from within. -- Elisabeth Kubler-Ross |
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There is but one freedom. To put oneself right with death. After that, everything is possible. I cannot force you to believe in God. Believing in God amounts to coming to terms with death. When you have accepted death, the problem of God will be solved -- and not the reverse. -- Albert Camus |
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Dear Survivor: A Letter to You |
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Courage
doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow." — Anonymous |
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I
would maintain the sanctity of human joy and human
grief. I bow in reverence before the emotions of every melted heart. We have a human right to our sorrow. To blame the deep grief which bereavement awakens, is to censure all strong human attachments. The more intense the delight in their presence, the more poignant the impression of their absence; and you cannot destroy the anguish unless you forbid the joy. A morality which rebukes sorrow rebukes love. When the tears of bereavement have had their natural flow, they lead us again to life and love's generous joy. — James Martineau, Endeavors After the Christian Life |
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Music
I Heard with You Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread; Now that I am without you, all is desolate; All that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass, These things do not remember you, beloved — And yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes; And in my heart they will remember always — They knew you once, O beautiful and wise. — Conrad Aiken |
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What
Grief Represents to Me by Tina Creswell Grief is a strange phenomenon -- it's like going through a storm with sheets of rain flowing from your heart and stumbling to find your way out only to realize that to heal you have to go through it and not around it -- There is no escaping it; it is part of living and acceptance of your grief. |
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There
is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than 10,000 tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. — Washington Irving |
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When
you grow weary of the boasts of men, go to a tree, my friend — one that has stood long patient years within a silent wood. Beneath its branches you will find again a thing long lost. Trees are content to be as God created them. No bough that turns its golden thoughts to autumn ever yearns beyond a hillside's immortality. Go to a tree in silence, you will find in the soft eloquence of bud and leaf serenity beyond the voice of grief and faith beyond the reach of humankind. Man spends his noisy days in search of gain while trees find God in sunlight, soil and rain. — Anonymous |
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Alas,
poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? What canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim; But true sweet beauty liv'd and died with him. . — William Shakespeare, in Venus and Adonis |
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When
you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you will find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater," But I say unto you they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at a standstill and balanced. — Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet |
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Looking
back on the memory of the dance we shared, beneath the stars above, for a moment all the world was right. How was I to know that you'd ever say goodbye? And now I'm glad I didn't know the way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance. — Garth Brooks, The Dance |
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Never
bear more than one kind of trouble at a time. Some people bear three: all they have had, all they have now, and all they expect to have. — Edward Everett Hale |
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Coming to Terms with God . . . Months ago I was angry at what I thought was the sheeplike stupidity of people who believed in a God who cared about them. Enraged by Gretchen's death, I could not understand how people, especially those whose children had died, could believe they were loved by God. Having myself grown up with that image of the fatherly taskmaster, I needed something to blame, something to hate for what had happened; and there He was, still present in my memory, somehow alive under layers of consciousness. Shortly after Gretchen died I saw a woman driving a car with a bumper sticker saying GOD LOVES YOU, and I felt like running her off the road. I saw the same message the other day and shrugged. Now that my anger is subsiding, I see Him and all the other gods as not unlike my own "pathetic fallacies," the fantasies of minds and hearts unhinged by grief. I may not believe what others do, but I have experienced the desperate longing to understand, and I know I, too, am one of the sheep. So I don't begrudge anyone a belief that can help them get through the day. — Tom Crider, in Give Sorrow Words: A Father's Passage Through Grief |
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Undo it, take it back, make every day the previous one until I am returned to the day before the one that made you gone. Or set me on an airplane traveling west, crossing the date line again and again, losing this day, then that, until the day of loss still lies ahead, and you are here instead of sorrow. — Nessa Rapoport, in A Woman's Book of Grieving |
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I have discovered that, in my opinion, grief often inspires creativity. When everything is hunky-dory, you just don't have the same compelling need to express yourself creatively, nor to do all the hard work it requires. That is probably why so much of the world's great literature is about grief and loss. — Mary Semel, in A Broken Heart Still Beats: After Your Child Dies |
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The End It is time for me to go, Mother; I am going. When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not there!" — Mother, I am going. I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again. In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room. If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep." On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbors' children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. Dear Auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, "Where is our baby, Sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in the pupil of my eyes, he is in my body and my soul." — Rabindranath Tagore, in Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore |
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This prayer, or some variation of it, is said on Yom Kippur, when Jews take special time to remember the dead. It is hard to sing of oneness when our world is not complete, when those who once brought wholeness to our life have gone, and naught but memory can fill the emptiness their passing leaves behind. But memory can tell us only what we were, in company with those we loved; it cannot help us find what each of us, alone, must now become. Yet no one is really alone; those who live no more echo still within our thoughts and words, and what they did is part of what we have become. We do best homage to our dead when we live our lives more fully, even in the shadow of our loss. — Jewish Prayer for High Holydays in A Broken Heart Still Beats: After Your Child Dies |
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Some survivors try to think their way through grief. That doesn't work. Grief is a releasing process, a discovery process, a healing process. We cannot release or discover or heal by the use of our minds alone. The brain must follow the heart at a respectful distance. It is our hearts that ache when a loved one dies. It is our emotions that are most drastically affected. Certainly the mind suffers, the mind recalls, the mind may plot and plan and wish, but it is the heart that will blaze the trail through the thicket of grief. — Carol Staudacher in A Time to Grieve : Meditations for Healing After the Death of a Loved One |
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As the months pass and the seasons change, something of tranquility descends, and although the well-remembered footstep does not sound again, nor the voice call from the room beyond, there seems to be about one in the air an atmosphere of love, a living presence. I say this in no haunting sense; ghosts and phantoms are far from my mind. It is as though one shared, in some indefinable manner, the freedom and the peace, even at times the joy, of another world where there is no more pain. It is not a question of faith or of belief. It is not necessary to be a follower of any religious doctrine to become aware of what I mean. It is not the prerogative of the devout. The feeling is simply there, pervading all thought, all action. When Christ the healer said, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," he must have meant just this. Later, if you go away, if you travel, even if you decide to make your home elsewhere, the spirit of tenderness, of love, will not desert you. You will find that it has become part of you, rising from within yourself; and because of it you are no longer fearful of loneliness, of the dark, because death, the last enemy, has been overcome. — Daphne du Maurier |
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It is the image in the mind that links us to our lost treasures; but it is the loss that shapes the image, gathers the flowers, weaves the garland. — Colette, in My Mother's House |
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The loss of a dream is yet another kind of death. After Emily Perl Kingsley's child was born with Down syndrome, she was asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability. This essay was her effort to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it and imagine how it would feel. But her words speak just as well to any of us who've lost our dream of how we expected our lives to be. ___________________________________________ Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip — to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. Michelangelo's David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting. After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes and says, "Welcome to Holland." "Holland?!" you say. "What do you mean, Holland? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy." But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay. The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guidebooks. You must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met. It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around, and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills, Holland has tulips, Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say, "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned." And the pain of that will never, ever, ever go away, because the loss of that dream is a significant loss. But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland. — Reprinted in Abigail Van Buren's Column, The Arizona Republic, October 2, 2000 |
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Please Ask Someone asked me about you today. It's been so long since anyone has done that. It felt so good to talk about you, to share my memories of you, to simply say your name out loud. She asked me if I minded talking about what happened to you — or would it be too painful to speak of it. I told her I think of it every day and speaking about it helps me to release the tormented thoughts whirling around in my head. She said she never realized the pain would last this long. She apologized for not asking sooner. I told her, "Thanks for asking." I don't know if it was curiosity or concern that made her ask, But told her, "Please do it again sometime — soon." — Barbara Taylor Hudson |
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Grieving is as natural as crying when you are hurt, sleeping when you are tired, eating when you are hungry or sneezing when your nose itches. It's nature's way of healing a broken heart. A cut finger is numb before it bleeds. It bleeds before it hurts. It hurts until it begins to heal. It forms a scab and itches until finally, the scab is gone and a small scar is left where once there was a wound. Grief is the deepest wound you will ever have. Like a cut finger, it goes through stages and leaves a scar. When you try to help someone heal from their pain, chances are you are probably healing yourself. Listen to the words within your own heart. — Patti Filion, The Compassionate Friends |
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The Agony of Grief Grief is a tidal wave that overtakes you, smashes down upon you with unimaginable force, sweeps you up into its darkness, where you tumble and crash against unidentifiable surfaces, only to be thrown out on an unknown beach, bruised, reshaped. Grief means not being able to read more than two sentences at a time. It is walking into rooms with intention that suddenly vanishes. Grief is three o'clock in the morning sweats that won't stop. It is dreadful Sundays, Mondays that are no better. It makes you look for a face in the crowd, knowing full well the face we want cannot be found in that crowd. Grief is utter aloneness that razes the rational mind and makes room for the phantasmagoric. It makes you suddenly get up and leave in the middle of a meeting, without saying a word. Grief makes what others think of you moot. It shears away the masks of normal life and forces brutal honesty out of your mouth before propriety can stop you. It shoves away friends, scares away so-called friends, and rewrites address books for you. Grief makes you laugh at people who cry over spilled milk, right to their faces. It tells the world that you are untouchable at the very moment when touch is the only contact that might reach you. It makes lepers out of upstanding citizens. Grief discriminates against no one. It kills. Maims. And cripples. It is the ashes from which the phoenix rises, and the mettle of rebirth. It returns life to the living dead. It teaches that there is nothing absolutely true or untrue. It assures the living that we know nothing for certain. It humbles. It shrouds. It blackens. It enlightens. Grief will make a new person out of you, if it doesn't kill you in the making. — Stephanie Ericsson in Companion Through The Darkness: Inner Dialogues on Grief |
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Grief, An Unpaid Bill I have become more familiar with death now. I know what it is to grieve, to feel loss, to remember my dead child with flesh and bones. In the beginning, I was numb. Nature is kind; we can't feel more pain than we can endure, but the pain waits. Like an unpaid bill, it remains until it is opened. We may bury our feelings, but they are buried alive, and the time of payment always comes. I find myself crying at unexpected times. In my car on the way to work, I see a young man riding a bicycle near the side of the road. Suddenly, I remember that Ken bought one just a few years ago when he was already ill. "It makes me feel young again," he told me. As we looked at each other then, we both understood the wish to go back to an earlier time, when the future still seemed certain. My tears come, and I make another small payment on this outstanding bill of pain. Today is July eleventh, the birthday of my friend's dead son. "Steven would have been forty today," she tells me on the telephone. "Don't add to your anguish," I warn, not being afraid to enter the fray. We are both part of this community of bereaved parents, and we know how to speak the forbidden words about death — something the rest of the world avoids. "I can't help it," my friend says. "The thoughts just come." Time passes and I continue to learn the lessons that death and life teach. They are patient teachers, so if I don't learn, they will teach me again. I have learned that death is as much a part of life as the air that I breathe. It will not stay away because I avoid speaking its name. The grief that I feel, I must feel. I have loved; now I must grieve. It is the homage the heart pays. — by Anita Kirschner, in Bereavement Magazine, July/August 2000, www.bereavementmag.com |
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On Woundedness We must acknowledge the fact that the entire world suffers; woundedness exists with every people of every culture; we all experience pain, suffering, and death. There are many people who have had divorces. There are many people who have had job losses. There are many people who have had loved ones die. There are many people with mental and physical handicaps. There are many people who have experienced violence and abuse. We all have problems; we all have wounds. Besides acknowledging the existence of our shared woundedness, we have to also acknowledge the potential for some gain from that shared woundedness. There are things we can learn from our own woundedness and there are things we can learn from the woundedness of others. We can grow in the midst of the world's woundedness; we can learn from the world's woundedness; we can heal through the world's woundedness . . . Hospice affirms the value of woundedness, the value of woundedness in general and the value of one particular universally shared wound, our inevitable death. The modern loss of awareness of woundedness, especially our shared wound of death, is very different from the attitude present in our spiritual traditions. Many spiritual traditions have actually been founded upon, and centered around, the principle of facing the reality of death. It is the premise of these spiritual traditions that if we in fact face our woundedness (individual and mutual), especially facing death, we will end up leading a much fuller life than we normally do. — Douglas C. Smith, in Being A Wounded Healer |
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Remember that it won't always feel this bad.
--
Deidre Felton, in
Bereavement Magazine |
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When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice. — Cherokee Saying |
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A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song. — Chinese proverb |
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Grieve not,
nor speak of me with tears, but laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you. Twas heaven here with you, I loved you so. — Isla Paschal Richardson |
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Grief is Not Quicksand Often, a survivor fears that if he shows his sadness, there will be no end to it. If you are among those who feel that you do not know how intense, lengthy, or deep your expression of grief may be, you may find yourself thinking that it would be impossible — or at least very difficult — for you to pull out of grief's deep pit to do all the things you need to do before or after the death. Being afraid of getting sucked down into a hollow of "no return" is not realistic. Grief is not quicksand. Rather, it is a walk on rocky terrain that eventually smoothes out and provides less challenge — both emotionally and physically . . . For example, you may think: I will fall apart and won't be able to function if I start to show how I feel. Replace such thoughts with the more realistic: I will let go for a time, release what I feel, and will be able to function better as a result of having vented the feelings that are an ever-present burden. — Carol Staudacher in Men and Grief: A Guide for Men Surviving the Death of a Loved One |
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Curing, or Healing? Curing of a particular wound implies the elimination of that wound, and healing implies enhancing a person's life even if that wound is not eliminated . . . Providing someone a cure is like giving that person a welcome gift (which is certainly nice). Healing someone is like teaching that person how to find gifts wherever they are (which can be wonderful) . . . — Douglas C. Smith, in Being A Wounded Healer |
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Treasure Every Moment To realize the value of one year, ask a student who failed a grade. To realize the value of one month, ask a mother who gave birth to a premature baby. To realize the value of one week, ask the editor of a weekly newspaper. To realize the value of one hour, ask the lovers who are waiting to meet. To realize the value of one minute, ask a person who missed the train. To realize the value of one millisecond, ask the person who won a silver medal in the Olympics. Treasure every moment that you have! And treasure it more because you shared it with someone special — special enough to spend your time. And remember that time waits for no one. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why we call it the present! — Author unknown |
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Who Am I Now? Much of the emotional distress during the early stages of grief results from an identity crisis. Throughout married life we develop an identity blended with our mate's. To be successful in marriage each partner willingly gives up part of his or her individual identity, and in many ways marriage defines who we are. The loss of a spouse can cloud a person's identity to the point of asking, "Who am I now?" As surviving spouses, we know we are not the same person we were before we married. In many ways we still feel married. Yet the death of our spouse makes us someone other than who we were during our marriage. The stress associated with the loss and the disassociation is magnified by the fear of the unknown future. The search for and the development of a new identity is, in large part, what moving through grief and into living again is all about. — William Wallace, in Living Again: A Personal Journey for Surviving the Loss of a Spouse |
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It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine, or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of a full moon, "Yes!" It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. — Oriah Mountain Dreamer in The Invitation |
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While both joy and sorrow are fleeting, |
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We Remember Them In the rising of the sun and in its going down, We remember them; In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, We remember them; In the opening of the buds and in the warmth of summer, We remember them; In the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn, We remember them; In the beginning of the year and when it ends, We remember them; When we are weary and in need of strength, We remember them; When we are lost and sick of heart, We remember them; When we have joys we yearn to share, We remember them; So long as we live, they too shall live, For they are now a part of us, as We remember them. — From Gates of Prayer, Reform Judaism Prayer Book |
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Life is difficult. |
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The human organism knows how to heal itself, |
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It is the miracle of memory |
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No man is an island, entire of itself; |
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A significant function of ritual in a society |
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The search for answers
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A
family has been described
—
Harriet Sarnoff Schiff, in |
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Civil choices . . . demand that we tolerate ambiguity. |
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The
Elephant in the Room
There’s
an elephant in the room.
—
Terry Kettering, in Bereavement Magazine,
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You
— and you alone — will have stars as no one else has them.
— Antoine De Saint-Exupery |
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And
each one there — Neil Diamond |
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Dawn
is born at midnight. — Carl Jung |
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On Wednesday morning,
the family stayed home from work and school. Snowball was driven to the vet and put to sleep painlessly.
Placed in her favorite sleeping place— an old brown-leather
house slipper, which was put in a small, lidded basket lined with straw
and placed in the front seat between Lucy and her dad.
The family car became a hearse for the ride home. — Robert Fulghum, in From Beginning to End |
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Pain
is the difference between what is
— Spencer Johnson, in The Precious Present |
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There
is a Job-like mystery in human suffering and loss — Thomas Moore, in Care of the Soul |
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Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart — William Shakespeare, in Macbeth, Act IV, Scene III |
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Funeral
Blues |
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| Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light! -- Dylan Thomas |
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Use the uncertainty of life |
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| Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure that you are. Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you, before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it will not always be so. One day, I shall dig my fingers into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my head to the sky, and want more than all the world your return. -- Mary Jean Irion |
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| Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer is too small to be made into a burden. – Corrie Ten Boom |
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It occurs to me that grief
— From Reflections on the Bombing in Oklahoma City by Brian W. Flynn, Chief, Emergency Services and Disaster Relief Branch, Federal Center for Mental Health Services |
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Perhaps they are not stars in the sky, -- Eskimo Legend |
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The message of hospice — Douglas MacDonald |
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They
are not dead — Hugh Robert Orr |
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| God gave us memories, that we might have roses in December. -- J. M. Barrie |
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The
great thing, if one can,
— C. S. Lewis, in A Grief Observed |
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I
am standing upon the seashore.
— Rev. Henry Van Dyke |
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.
. . His dog up and died, up and died.
— Mr. Bojangles by Jerry Jeff Walker ©1968 Cotillion Music, Inc. & Daniel Music, Inc. |
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One
day a woman who was dying from cancer wrote a letter to her husband. Instead of giving it to him to read, however, she put in
their computer under an obscure file name, and simply left it there for
him to find. A few months later, the woman died. On June 14, 1997, the man did find the letter in his
computer, exactly one year from the date that his wife had written it.
This is the letter she wrote to him: June
14, 1996 My
darling, Thank you for
being there for me, looking after me, and helping me to grow up.
If it weren’t for you twenty-something years ago, I don’t
know where I would have ended up! You were always so patient with me, a real gentleman and you
always made me feel special. I
know you loved me so, and I love you so very much and have always done
so. I know you will
take care of the kids and be a part of their families, to encourage and
guide and to be a great Grandpa. Always keep your home a home for them should they need it,
darling. And please make
sure you leave everything to them equally.
Take care of it NOW! I
worked hard all these years with you so that they could have a share in
our memories and worth. I
don’t want to see it go to the government or to some other family! Your
Happiness is Up to You! Take time to
pray. It helps to bring God
near, and I’ll be listening. Take time
for friends. Find others
who’ve experienced a loss; it will be a source of happiness for you. Take time
for work. It will keep your
mind off me. Take time to
think. It is the source of
power and remembrance. Take time to
read. It is the foundation
of knowledge to help you guide the kids. Take time to
laugh. It will bring you
together with the kids and help with life’s loads. Take time to
love. They will still need
your love as well as the grandkids. Take time to
dream. It hitches the soul
to the stars. Take time to
play. And develop new
interests. It’s the
secret of youth. Take time to
do something for someone else; it is the highway to reverence. I may not be with you in body, but I’m with you in spirit. And darling, it’s okay to need comforting for a while. Be brave, and accept support from others. Take time to heal. Tomorrow will come. The good is on its way. |
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| Life
is change.
Growth is optional. Choose wisely. -- Karen Kaiser Clark |
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Take
a music bath — D.W. Holmes |
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Someone once wrote that tears
— Oprah Winfrey |
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Photographs are precious memories . . . —Robert Fulghum, in From Beginning to End |
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You
are not a human being having a spiritual experience.
—Wayne W. Dyer |
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Do
not feel |
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Everything that happens to you is your teacher.
— Polly Berrien Berends |
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We
do not see things as they are. — The Talmud |
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Smart is when you know what is true; — Gellman and Hartman, in How Do You Spell God? |
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I
say to you: — Nietzsche |
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Life is not the way it’s supposed to be. — Virginia Satir |
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He
who has a “why” to live — Nietzsche |
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Everything
can be taken from a man but one thing: — Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning |
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| In
order to get from what was to what will be, you have to go through what is. |
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You
can clutch the past — Jan Glidewell |
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Your
pain is the breaking of the shell — Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet |
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The only courage that matters — Mignon McLaughlin |
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If the future seems overwhelming, — Beth Mende Conny |
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They
that love beyond the world — William Penn |
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When
he shall die, — William Shakespeare, from Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2 |
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| Stars are the forget-me-knots of angels in the meadow of heaven. -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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If
I should die and leave you here awhile, — A. Price Hughes |
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I
will not forget you. I have
carved you on the palm of my hand. — Ellen Sue Stern, Living With Loss, 1995 |
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—Robert Browning |
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Time it was ~ — Paul Simon |
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| Realizing the mortality of the moment, I became a photographer as a way to fight Death and preserve those things that inevitably become lost as time goes on. Friends change, lovers leave, one moves on. A photograph is forever. -- Libby Friedman |
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I’ll
be Seeing You In
all the old familiar places The chestnut tree The wishing well. I’ll
be seeing you In
every lovely summer’s day, In
everything that’s light and gay. I’ll
always think of you that way. I’ll
find you in the morning sun, And
when the night is new, I’ll
be looking at the moon -- but
I’ll be seeing you. —
Irving Kahal and Sammy Fain |
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It
is wise for me to think about the past — Spencer Johnson, in The Precious Present |
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| You
Needed Me I
cried a tear: you wiped it dry. I
was confused: you cleared my mind. I
sold my soul: you bought it back for me, And
held me up, and gave me dignity. Somehow,
you needed me. You
gave me strength to stand alone again, To
face the world out on my own again. You
put me high upon a pedestal — So
high that I could almost see eternity. You
needed me. You needed me. And
I can’t believe it’s you; I can’t believe it’s true! I
needed you, and you were there. And
I’ll never leave — why should I leave? I’d
be a fool, ‘Cause
I’ve finally found someone who really cares. You
held my hand when it was cold. When
I was lost, you took me home. You
gave me hope when I was at the end, And
turned my lies back into truth again. You
even called me friend. You
gave me strength to stand alone again, To
face the world out on my own again. You
put me high upon a pedestal — So
high that I could almost see eternity. You needed me. You needed me. —Written by Randy Goodrum; Sung by Anne Murray, © 1978 EMI Music Canada |
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Following the death of her mother in the fall of 2001, Dava Boston wrote this poem "with one of my sisters in my mind and in my heart -- her loving eyes reflecting her feelings of loss, and mirroring how I feel as I experience my own emotions of loss": |
| Pooling Your love Spills Silent streams Slide down The slope of your cheek Past an upturned smile Strangled My throat A choking frog Croaks © December 2001 by Dava Boston and used with permission of the author |
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