51 days
It has been 51 days since Hunter died and I am slowly becoming oriented to my new life. As horrific as it is to have my only child die I do not spend every moment suffering. In fact, there are long stretches when I feel calm and present albeit with far less energy than I'm accustomed to. We were not wired to grieve 24/7 because our species would never have made it this far if that were the case. We have to keep going despite traumas and losses-- I think it's an essential part of healing. There's a balance in healthy communities between giving space and support to those who are mourning while also helping them to re-engage. In our culture much of our undigested grief stems from people not having strong communities around them, holding them up, nourishing their spirits, listening to them, and allowing their assistance when it comes time to look outward again. I witnessed this absence of community when I was a therapist and in my financial planning practice.
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I remember having a conversation with a dear friend and client about aging, finances, and resilience. He is a beloved meditation teacher and has been nurturing his community for decades. He was worried that they wouldn't have enough money should he need extended medical care. I looked at him with so much love and said, "You have more wealth than you will ever know-- an asset that money can't buy. You have a community that loves you and will do anything to assure you and your family are loved and supported. That is true wealth." He burst into tears and said, "I never thought of that." A year after this conversation he had a life-threatening medical emergency and indeed his community showed up so beautifully that he was just floored by it. What a gift to get to see and feel the impact of what you've built.
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Resilience, I'm discovering, comes from struggling to find the balance between giving and receiving, between building community and taking time to deepen your inner life, between building tangible assets (savings, investments, real estate) and investing in intangible assets (health, relationships, family, spirituality). I love the Jewish concept of "wrestling with God"-- the idea being that our job is to explore, challenge, and struggle to understand, for ourselves, how to relate to this idea of one unifying force. Judaism is not about faith, it's about wrestling with. In the same way, I think we have to wrestle with the idea of having balance in our lives. It's not that one day we will miraculously be balanced-- it's that the act of walking that tightrope, of developing muscle memory and skill and confidence, is a worthy task from which life becomes richer and more meaningful.
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It's because of my community that I'm able to have days like yesterday-- a day in which I felt strong yet very present to emotion. The day started with an early morning trip to Fat City Cafe (next to where the pie shop was and across from my office) to get Amy a cinnamon roll for her birthday breakfast. The owner, Helen, said that the shop owner next door would like to help create a memorial garden for Hunter. I don't even know this person because they moved into the storefront a few months ago, yet they want to honor Hunter in this way. I got in my car and burst into tears. Truly, it's kindness that breaks open my heart. At ten I attended my first meeting of Helping Parents Heal-- which I learned about because a woman from my ceremonial circle connected me with Annie, who also lost her son. This group provides a space to talk about our children and how they are showing up now. What a comfort to be with people that share this experience and don't shy away from discussing the possibility of other realms of consciousness. I got off the call feeling grateful for new friends, a safe place, and the possibility of learning how to find meaning in the unimaginable.
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When the CEO of the broker/dealer I just left said he wanted to come to Portland to personally deliver a rock for Hunter's grave, I was touched. Yesterday he drove down from Seattle and met me at the cemetery. We walked to the grave, cried together, then placed his beautiful rock with the others. After talking for an hour he left and I stayed. I asked Hunter for a sign of his presence and immediately a hummingbird flitted by. I smiled and said, "Thanks, honey!" then, I looked at the trees and a white butterfly crossed in front of me. I hadn't seen a butterfly since returning from Key West, yet there it was. My tears streamed more in gratitude than sorrow.
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Somehow I found the energy to clean the house for Amy's birthday dinner. I wanted her to have a sweet evening and asked my friends to join us. They immediately offered to handle all the details of dinner which was amazing because I couldn't have managed it. They swept in, provided a beautiful meal, made Amy super happy with just the right amount of levity, cleaned the kitchen, and completely supported me when I knew it was time to go to bed. This is the gift of community. Wow. This is true wealth.
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One more thing-- this morning I did a session of grief yoga (griefyoga.com with Paul Denniston)-- How lovely to do yoga with someone who gives you tools for moving emotion out of your body, someone who talks about loss and allows you to be with it. At the end of the session, I was sitting cross-legged on my mat, eyes closed, when Bella (the Italian greyhound/ chihuahua that we got for Hunter 12 years ago) placed her feet on my shoulders and gave me the biggest hug, nestling into my shoulder and almost knocking me over. She was so present and didn't want to let go. We had a little love fest then I curled her in my arms like a baby and held her close. What sweetness.
