Feather and Ash

People have apologized to me lately. Not because they have done anything wrong, but because when I sincerely ask how they are, tears often come. As they begin to describe their own sadness, difficulty, or loss, they quickly catch themselves. “I mean it is nothing compared to what you have suffered…”. They apologize as if my grief outweighs their own. Somehow more worthy of notice. Perhaps it is true, in a universal measure, what I carry is heavier. It is certainly the heaviest thing I have ever carried, to be sure. But this experience of grief does not belong to a singular subset. Who is to say the crucible you are living through today is not more deserving of recognition than mine?  Grief belongs to everyone.  Because this human experience is filled with loss,  and every loss, is a loss.  But sometimes we pretend it’s not true, don’t we? Surely what I am experiencing is not grief, we say. We call it by other names sometimes - stress, relentless worry, fear, sleeplessness, overwhelm. B

To be a mother is a fearsome and blazingly gorgeous thing.  To endure through rising hopes and devastating losses, as you will a tiny spark to ignite within you.  To nourish, cherish, allow this deepest longing to take root and grow, pushing aside your very own organs to make welcome room for a soul’s home. To surrender your body to the panic and peril of giving birth to new life. Walking the rough edge of courage many women have walked before you, death and life hovering at the edges of the same room.  To hold that tiny new body, knit by the Divine, but of your fabric. Your heart held, now outside of the protection of your skin, muscle, and bone.  To be food, milk, sun, moon.  Softness, comfort, correction, delight.  Tiger, commander, shelter, homeland. Your whole heart, a map and compass, fixed unwaveringly upon progress, eyes alert for impasse or warning.  To contend with fear, champion their becomings, and urge them upwards. Always.  To carry their weight, absorb their pain, give t

The body knows how to deliver a child.  Over the edge of what you can control, there is only surrender.  Surges of pain, of tightness, of breath.  You crouch low, keening.  You rest and weep in moments where you cannot go on.  You let others bear your weight as they witness the mighty work.  To fight against is to increase pain, lengthen it, prolong it, or even damage yourself.  Instead, find the rhythm, the flow, working with the currents and contractions, that carry you deeper, into a liminal space, where life is born.  You must surrender. It is the way.  The body knows how to grieve a child.  Over the edge of what you can control, there is only surrender.  Surges of pain, of tightness, of breath.  You crouch low, keening.  You rest and weep in moments where you cannot go on.  You let others bear your weight as they witness the mighty work.  To fight against is to increase pain, lengthen it, prolong it, or even damage yourself.  Instead, find the rhythm, the flow, working with the cu

This is a statement I drafted at the request of the Epilepsy Foundation to further educate others on the reality of Sudden Unexpected Death in Epileptic Persons (SUDEP). Today is SUDEP Action Day, and so I use my words as action. I hope by painting a more intimate portrait of what life with epilepsy is like, more people would come to understand and throw their support behind fundraising and finding a cure. Thank you for reading. https://give.epilepsy.com/page/33651/donate/1 My son, Jonah Winn, started having seizures at 14. I cannot tell you exactly when, and I absolutely cannot tell you why. There is no family history we can locate, and there were no physical indications that might help us understand. They simply began.   At first, it just seemed as if he would wake up sick in the morning, pale and nauseous. The first few times, I thought he was just coming down with something. Sometimes he would report feeling “shaky” in his sleep. I didn’t really know what that meant. Other times hi

I don’t know why, but I have always felt calm in a crisis.  When I was 16, I was in a terrible car accident. I was stopped at the bottom of a hill, waiting to make a left turn, when I happened to look in the rearview mirror and saw a car barreling toward me. I knew it was going to hit me. At that moment, everything slowed down. I noted the driver, turning and talking to the person beside her, oblivious. I thought through my options. Turn left? No, oncoming traffic. Move right to get out of the way? No, cars coming there, too. Speed up? No. I wouldn’t be able to accelerate fast enough, and then she would hit me and propel me even farther forward. My only option was to take the hit. I somehow had the presence of mind to take a deep breath and relax. I knew that the more tense and tight I was, the more injury I would sustain. So, I just relaxed my body, took a deep breath, pushed my foot down harder on the brake, made sure my steering wheel was straight, closed my eyes and waited. Breathe

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 favorites. W

  In the days and weeks that followed Jonah’s death, I was overcome daily with gratitude for the love people poured out over us. I was so touched by all the meals, acts of service, presence, kindness, beautiful and meaningful gifts. People rearranging their whole lives to come across the country to be with us. How could I ever express what it meant? My vocabulary suddenly reduced to sorrow and thankfulness, neither fully capturing the universe of emotion I felt from both this sudden loss and the immediate response of astounding love.  Gratitude is really another way to say thankful humility. And I think an even more descriptive way to express my feeling would be thankful vulnerability . Defenseless, truly laid bare, scorched, small, and coughing up ashes, but somehow met with the most beautiful tender understanding and care. Friends and family reaching to meet my every need when I couldn’t muster the strength to do so for myself. So, so grateful.  Of course, this is what I would feel.