We had resolved right away that we would not avoid things and traditions Jonah loved. We knew this year, and likely next, would be filled with terribly painful moments, but to avoid them is merely to delay. The more we avoid touching painful things, the more we might be tempted to draw back from touching even what might be adjacent to what is painful. Before long you have painted yourself into a very small, fearful, angry life, and that does not honor his memory at all. No, we must touch the third rail, and touch it again, until we have felt all there is and the pain changes into sweet memories, gathering tears at the corner of our eyes instead of consuming us in a whirlwind. And so, 3 months to the day of Jonah’s passing, we went to the cabin for the 4th of July. For as long as I have been alive, my family has headed to Breezy Point, MN for a fantastic week of picnics, games, lake time, and fireworks. It is always memorable, it is always so fun, and it was one of Jonah’s favorite...
I stopped writing after the first year. At least regularly writing. At first the need to write was urgent, pressing. There was just so much to process, so much to share, so much to express and I had to get it out before it all jumbled up into the next experience or feeling. Like train cars smashing and piling into the one before it. In the very beginning I felt like I could write 3 or 4 times a day. Gradually it slowed to one writing a day, every few days, once a week, and then really pushing myself to get something posted once a week. Gradually it felt like the immense train came to a rolling stop in one place, bellowing out exhausted black smoke, giving me time to step out and survey the strange, sad, desolate land of my arrival. You might be wondering what it was like, after the fire and the crisis. What does life, as we must call it, look like then? The best I can say is that it was foggy, slow, and tender. It was like rehab and recovery. Painful, necessary, full of steps forward a...
First. Deep breath, my dear one. Your breathing is shallow and high, choked by the tightening in your throat, The black weight sitting on the top of your lungs. You must remember what living is like and this is the first step. Deep breath. Breathe, just once. Then do it again. Second. With a soft voice, I am going to tell you something terrible. Your child is finished with their human experience and you are not. Your child’s soul was lifted out and as it rose it grew and unfurled into myriad, unspeakable refracted colors and pure light. They rise, spinning, laughing, into the joyous embrace of the countless many, music vibrating around them and lifting them even higher, filled with knowing, and love, love, love, love. But, You are here. You are still here. Diminished and gasping for air. Sputtering. Arms empty. But, You are not alone.
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