I'll Fly Away

The last time I walked the beach, it was early in the morning, and this hymn sprang from my heart to my lips:

some glad morning when this life is over
I'll fly away
to my home on God's celestial shore
I'll fly away

I'll fly away
I'll fly away
when I die hallelujah by and by
I'll fly away

I took off my shoes and climbed the rocks and walked in the wet sand, humming and singing as I went. The waves accompanied me, and I felt embraced by all that was there. Being in the moment is where I find my balance, my center.

My friend Mary speaks of the place where her daughter's spirit flew near a flower market, and it makes me imagine that Katie's spirit flew like a bird from her little body. How does a spirit fly? I'm not sure...it's a mystery. I just know that Katie's spirit wasn't in the shell of her little body when she was found.

It's her spirit I've been searching for, and several times she's come to me in my dreams. After struggling so long with wanting her just the way she was, my loving daughter, I've begun to look for a new kind of relationship with her. One in which I get to live all of my days for her and carry her in my heart. I want her to become part of me and together we'll go on.

Give Sorrow Words

My friend Joanne sent me this quote today:

"Give sorrow words;

the grief that does

not speak whispers

the oe'r fraught heart

and bids it break."

Shakespeare, Macbeth

I replied: I love it Joanne, I think that's why I've searched for words that describe this hell, for the relief that expression brings.

Joanne replied: Me too, Lisa, and relief is so hard to find and then it seems just temporary. It's amazing how we need expression for our heartbreak (I love the expression "bids it break"...because it WILL) yet so few will listen.

The quote is validating and consoling.

May you get what you want on this Mother’s Day

Let’s make a resolution. I’ll drink to that.
Let’s always stay friends.
Friendship is thicker than blood.
That depends . . . on trust.
Depends on true devotion.
Depends on love.
Depends on not denying emotion.
—From the play, Rent

Simple Requests; Simple Dreams;
Wondering What You Can Do?

We asked our mothers what they would like for Mother's Day. As we read through their responses, we quickly discovered similar themes running through each one. Here we share some of them with you. As you read, you, too, will begin to see the common themes that thread them together. Simple requests, simple dreams, and so easy to fulfill by those who love and care.

We would encourage you to share this May 2009 E-Haven Newsletter with others who might not know how to best support a bereaved mother, as well as those mothers who are in a quandary about what they want to do on Mother's Day. Everyone will benefit in some way from these frank and heartfelt sharings.

Here are those responses to the question,
“What would you like for Mother's Day?”

“Mother's Day is the hardest of all of the holidays, and I really don't want to do anything on that day, but I do it because I know how much it means to my own mother and family. So I would like those I am with to say something like, 'I know it's hard for you to be here today, so thanks for coming anyway.' That's all I want.”

“No amount of gifts will ease the difficulty of this day, but special moments with those I love who do not judge or pressure me are the most precious gifts of all.”

“Honestly? I'd like to spend the day in bed, alone. But I won't, because that would be hard for everyone around me.

‟I'm just grateful to those who remember.”

“Take the kids for a couple of hours so I can have some downtime. But then I need them all back!”

“To be with nice people who don't judge, either inwardly or outwardly, even if I do cry a little.”

“I'd like my husband to go with me to the cemetery where our son lies.”

“I have no idea what I want, but I know a lot of what I don’t want.”

“Just let be whatever will be. No 'have-tos' calms my heart.”

“It would be nice if everyone would always remember on these holidays, especially Christmas and Mother's Day, to say her name and talk about her when we are together. That's the best gift you can give me.”

“I would love it if my family gave me something from my daughter that they think she would have given me.”

“We lost our only child, so this day is the hardest of all. I guess I would just like to know that I don't have to do anything if I don't want to—if it's just too hard—and not be judged or pressured by others.”

“I want to have a picnic with the entire family at the grave site. We did that before, and it was nice.”

“To take that day off of the calendar forever.”

“To be happy, but I just can't, no matter how hard I try.”

“You know, what is bothersome to me is that it's been nine years since she died, and everyone is now acting like it was a time back then—that she's gone, life has gone on, and that's that. THAT kills me, because for me she's still my daughter, and Mother's Day is still the hardest day of the year for me. So I'd just like people to bring her forward into our lives and our gatherings as we grow older. In other words, please don't forget her, no matter how much time passes.”

“ . . . but I would love more than anything for people around me to understand that, no, I won't ever be 'over it,' I won't ever be the same again, and that I am doing the very best I can. I'd like their ongoing support no matter how long it goes on—for them to trust me and know that everything I am going through and the way I am being is normal. I guess you could say I would like to know that no one is judging what they think I should be doing at this or that stage when I'm with them.”

“I want to want to celebrate Mother's Day.”

“A spa day that is set up for me with maybe a manicure, pedicure, and massage. Something where I can just let go. Then a nice dinner with my son and husband where we share stories that include my son who died.”

“Another shoulder to cry on who understands why I'm crying on Mother's Day.”

“We lost our only child, so I would like to have lunch or dinner with a group of others who have also lost a child, so we can just 'be' in the moment and not have to worry about how we might be upsetting others.”

“If the weather holds out, I'd like to honor our son by going to the beach and flying a kite as high as we possibly can with everyone holding the string together.”

“I want to get out of town and come home when it's over.”

“To go by myself to the cemetery so I can cry, talk to her, do whatever I need and want to do.”

“Last year, three friends made sure that Mother's Day wasn't forgotten. This year I haven't heard a thing from anyone. I just don't want to be alone.”

“Go to church with my daughters and hear his name in the prayer.”

“To be with people who won't say, 'Don't cry.' Please don't tell me not to cry.”

“I want us to cook everything that she loved most and eat ourselves into oblivion in her honor!”

“A day of utter and total distraction! I don't know where or what that would be, but I want to be thoroughly distracted!”

“Ummmmm. A diamond would be nice. Hee Hee. Seriously, just to be with people who know my son and will talk freely about him.”

“I would like to crawl under the covers and sleep all day.”

“Something really special that represents her. Just something that my family thinks of that honors her, you know? Just so she’s not forgotten and that I am her mother forever is remembered.”

“A long, strenuous bike ride along the mountainous roads always makes me feel better.”

“I miss my family. They are in America. It would be nice to be with them so we could all talk about him and just share stories.”

“Someone who will just do something nice for me this day since I lost my only child and just say to me, 'Okay, I'm picking you up at this time, so just be ready.'”

“My son always wrote something lovely to me on Mother's Day, so to receive something he wrote would be sweet.”

“Her friends calling and just remembering would mean so much. Even emails would be great.”

“Just a warm, heartfelt hug from my surviving kids and my beloved husband.”

“Eggs, bacon, bagels toasted with melted butter, pancakes with hot syrup and melted butter, and lots of orange juice in bed!”

“One of those teddy bears that they make from your child's clothing. I would love that!”

“I don't really care what it is, as long as they feel good about whatever they planned. That means the most to me.”

“It would be so great if the whole family got together and worked in our garden and then rode our bikes to town and had lunch. Along the way, we would leave flowers on her grave and remember.”

“Someone to call and ask me, 'What would you like to do on Mother's Day?'”

“I could never share this with most people, but on Mother's Day it would be so nice if people would simply acknowledge what a difficult day it is, even though I'm there with them and my child is not.”

“They say Mother‟s Day is for celebrating 'your own' mother, not for celebrating someone else's mother. But we lost both of our children, so Mother's and Father's Day is very difficult. What I want is for people to remember those who are alone with no children left on Mother's Day.”

“I just want those with whom I spend the day to say her name!”

“That's an interesting question. What really means the most to me on Mother's Day is helping someone else in need.”

“Please don't ever, ever forget that I am her mother now and until the day I die, especially on Mother's Day.”

“What I want on Mother's Day is for everyone in the world to read our responses so they know that we simply want to be remembered as the mothers that we are and always will be.”

May you get what you want on this Mother’s Day.

a single poppy, a single rose

For over four years I wasn't able to sleep well, with grief and anxiety my constant companions after Katie's death. Now I'm sleeping almost too well, and while I don't miss the hypervigilance and anxiety, I just wish I wasn't so tired all the time. I can seriously sleep the day away now if I don't have to go to work, and after work I've been taking luxurious naps. This is the depression side of grief, and not much is getting accomplished in my life.

It was during this Sunday morning sleeping in time that both of my sons called me to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. Gabe told me about the elderly lady that he was driving to church and about Crissy's Birthday Party the day before. Jason told me that he'd been noticing things while he was walking that he hadn't seen before, like different birds and the stained glass window of a church that was lit up at night. He also told me about his new friend Sarah, and that they like to play frisbee together and go running and have even gone rock climbing at a gym. All seems well with their Chicago world at the moment.

I finally got out of bed and wandered outside to look at this poppy and snap it's picture, as last weekend it just kept raining and the petals on this little wildflower were closed up. Today there was only one bloom, but one is enough. My husband first noticed it blooming over a week ago and showed it to me. I felt it was a connection with Katie, our little wildflower. There are also volunteer lupines in the backyard, but they're going to seed now. Just taking in the beauty of a single flower is inspiring, but this weekend I also noticed the beauty of many women in my life.

On Saturday, Carrie was my hero, driving a 16 foot moving truck from Rancho Cordova to Carmichael to Yuba City to Chico. She made it look easy, and I felt content riding in the cab with her. She's smart and capable and loving, and I'm proud she's my niece. Carrie's also a great hiking partner, and together we've hiked to Phantom Falls on Table Mountain, Bald Rock near Berry Creek, North Mountain in the Sutter Buttes, and Rock Creek in the Feather River Canyon. She has an artistic point of view that shows in her excellent photography, and I can't wait to go on another adventure with her.

My niece Amanda is an awesome mother to her daughter, lovingly attentive to her baby's needs. This is her first Mother's Day, and her first weekend in her new home. She's a young mother, a road I traveled 25 years before her, and I know how difficult it can be. Amanda will be adding a new baby to our family near the end of July, so her kids will be even closer in age than mine were, only 13 months apart! She's planning on going to Butte College so that she can get a better job to support her kids. I can't wait to visit Amanda and Giana in their new home this week!

Then there's my friend Nola, who lets me leap into her pool when life gets me down and I need to let go and be caught by the liquid beauty of water. She listens to my troubles with her heart, and I know that she cares about me and loves me. I brought her coffee and sweets so we could celebrate our motherhood together, and she showed me her new paint sprayer that she's painting her newly remodeled kitchen with. I'm convinced that Nola can do anything she puts her mind to, and soon there will be new wood flooring and cabinets and appliances and it will be gorgeous. Nola is also my park walking buddy, and together we talk out our troubles and worries and enjoy the beautiful trees and birds of Bidwell Park. Her sweet daughter Crystal gave me a long-stemmed red rose for Mother's Day, and I cried all the way home in the car. And I remembered how Katie liked to stop and smell the roses.

Live water heals memories. ~Annie Dillard

I love to lay on the rocks and gaze at the creek or close my eyes and listen to it roar by. There's something cleansing about just being there, even if it's too cold to go swimming. The mist of it soaked me without getting in because I had chosen a spot so close to the thunder of it. The light and the water and the rocks dance together, easing grief and allowing peace to sink roots into my soul.

Heavy by Mary Oliver

Heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it--
books, bricks, grief--
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled--
roses on the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

by Mary Oliver

May Day

I remember making May Day baskets in first or second grade. Little paper baskets of little paper flowers that our teacher explained should be left secretly on someones doorstep. I left mine for Mrs. Stone, an elderly woman that lived alone on the corner across the street.

May Day has changed forever for me since we held Katie's funeral on May first. There is no good day for a funeral, but irrationally I wanted to limit the damage by holding her funeral on Friday, April 30. Someone explained that Saturday would be a more convenient day for people to attend, and I gave in. There really is no good day for a funeral, or good month. Several days later we went and lifted Katie's body one more time for cremation. Just the five of us, one last time, so May would have contained an unchangeable moment anyway.

And every month since then has contained the absence of her presence...her voice, my god what I would give to talk with her one more time, to hear her laugh. Just seeing the word silent on the spine of a book in a store today brought her lifeless shell to my mind. That's not the way I want to remember her. I want to remember her eyes looking back at mine or see her laughing and goofing off with her brothers. I want to watch her dance and hear her clarinet.

Katie told me on the phone that she had some May activities she wanted to do with my kindergarten class. She said her friend Kelly had told her something about a dance with ribbons and a Maypole that she had done in kindergarten, and they thought it would be fun to do with my class. She was coming home in May.