Light a
Candle...
 As
I reflect on the approaching holiday season I am
reminded of the theme which Bereaved Families
used for a memorial service a few years ago. "It
is better to light one candle than to curse the
darkness." Like many old saying, there is a
great deal of wisdom and truth in these words,
but much that also goes unspoken. It is better
to light a candle than to curse the darkness!
Never is that so evident now as we move
into the holiday season. This is the time of the
year when there is the greatest distance between
what you as a bereaved person feel inside and
what the world is trying to project. You feel
the pain of 'holidays past' with all the
acuteness which time doesn't seem to be able to
erase at this time of the year. Yet the outside
world is promoting joy, peach and good will.
Never is the gap so wide - never are the inside
and the outside so far apart.
It is so important to allow yourself to
experience the feelings of grief, but you can
easily feel overwhelmed at this time of year.
Remember, that as well as feelings beings, we
are think, doing, physical and spiritual
creatures! Many of you have told me that, if you
were only to follow your feelings at this time
of year you could easily be overwhelmed. So what
can help you as you struggle to light a candle
rather than to focus on feelings exclusively and
get locked into cursing the darkness?
You’ve told me that planning ahead so that
the holiday has some predictable structure to it
has been helpful to many of you. It has also
reinforced the fact that this holiday period is
time limited - that it will end and a new frame
of time will take over! Some change to past
rituals has also been important to many of you
so as to give the present a different face from
holidays past. Being with friends who give you
permission to be yourself, such as other
bereaved parents and siblings, is also helpful.
Many of you feel it is easier to be at a
holiday gathering if you give yourself
permission to have an ‘escape hatch’ when you
feel you’ve had enough. As you have told me,
setting boundaries, saying ‘no’ and doing only
as much as you can feel you can, is critical.
Once again, keep expectations realistic!
If this is the ‘first year’ for you,
remember that you are in the thoughts and
prayers of many Bereaved Families. Those of you
who have lit many candles and chosen to do so
rather than to only curse the darkness, tell me
that it is possible to do so and that it doesn’t
become easier, just not as hard. January is not
far off.
Reprinted with permission of
David Wright, Consultant BFO-Metro Toronto
|
|
|
|
The Seed
Within...
 Outwardly,
the earth appears to be dead. The leaves
have fallen from the trees long ago; many of
the birds have flown south, not able to live
in the cold, stark weather of Canada’s
winter. Snow and wind combine to form drifts
that sometimes make it difficult for us to
navigate our way. It's not always easy to
grab hold of hope when the world around us
seems so cold and inhospitable.
But though the air is cold and the
earth has been covered in snow for much too
long, it seems, something IS happening below
the surface. The winter water nourishes the
seed within the earth and though to our
naked eye, nothing is happening, in reality,
the earth is taking small steps to prepare
the way for the blossoming of new life in
the Spring.
We can gather to us the lesson
nature lives out: regeneration and new life,
despite our loss, are possible. The movement
of the seasons in our outer world reminds us
that grief, too, is cyclic. The feelings of
loss and devastation around losing our
children will ease as we grow through the
pain and at some point, we will be able to
smile again. And though the wheel may turn
and the pain of grief return, we have come
to know that there will still be moments of
joy and friendship that grow out of sharing
our loss together.
There is a darkness that is deep,
warm and healing. The long night can slowly
yield to day, if together we allow the
process of healing to take place within our
hearts. |
|
|
|
| Courage in Grief
 Grief
can transform us and reveal a dimension of ourselves
we never knew. I’m thinking of Jill Hill, the
amazing bereaved Mum from Halton-Peel, who bicycled
across the province this summer to commemorate the
10th anniversary of her daughter’s death. IT would
have been easy for Jill to commemorate the day
differently, without the intensive physical effort
and psychological dedication that this ride has
demanded of her. How many of us, approaching middle
age or there already, would dare to confront our
limitations by the daily challenge of a marathon
bicycle ride? How many of us, in the peacefully
numbing respite of long-term grief would dare to
revisit the original devastation of our loss by
holding our child in our minds and our hearts with
every breath and painful movement of our lives? Yet
Jill has chosen to do just that.
Her ride has not been easy, but
the journey was a way for Jill to remain connected
to her daughter while discovering more about her
present self, the person she has become as a result
of her death. Something in Jill asked for more then
the usual experience of grief and commemoration;
something in her demanded a voice and asked to be
hear. Something in her, a part of herself she never
knew, called out and asked her to descend into the
darkness of the unknown so that it might be found
and retrieved.
Is that not what this
experience of grief asks of each one of us? Jill’s
ride and her marathon of hope reminds every member
of Bereaved Families of Ontario of the potential
fruits of this awesome grief experience. Jill’s
message to each of us is this: in the devastation of
loss, we can renew our sense of self and grow in our
ability to fact the challenges of life.
Psychologists speak of
resilience; of the ability to thrive, not just
survive, after having encountered adversity. As Jill
rode, I wonder if she sensed the trauma of her
daughter’s death being converted into hope and
meaning? Jill’s courageous ride asks us to question
why some people respond to suffering by transforming
themselves and finding new meanings to their lives
while others respond by falling apart, stagnating,
protecting themselves, and eventually becoming
bitter and enraged.
Look at yourself: what is your
stance towards this horrendously painful experience
you have been given? Jill has shown us that in order
to make the most of our experience as bereaved
parents, once our initial railing against the loss
is done, rather than continuing to ask, "Why me?
What is?" we can also respond by saying, "What can I
make of this? How can I deal with it? What can I do
to change the situation and convert it into an
experience of hope and life?"
It’s not an easy choice for it
requires a daily confrontation with our weakness and
human frailty, but if the challenge of hope is
accepted, in the end we will triumph over loss...
and carry our children with us into an expanded life
we once would never have thought possible.
Thank you, Jill, for our
courage in the face of adversity. Thank you, Jill,
for reminding us that in this journey through grief,
we can grow, develop and find an inner strength and
integrity that we never dreamed of before.
Susan Hendricks
|
|
|
A Symbol of
Hope
 Fly!
Fly! Fly! The leaves are leaving the branch.
Cold are the days. Winter is coming. These are
the words to a song performed by Libana from the
album, The Circle is Cast. Many of us despair as
Fall announces the advent of winter. Often we
feel the death of our children most acutely when
nature mirrors the contents of our soul.
Over the years, in this column, we’ve used
the particular season in which the newsletter
has been published as the theme for this piece
on grief. But sometimes in our grief it helps to
get outside of the particular and embrace a more
global understanding. Just as the seasons change
so very slowly, grief is a gradual process with
barely perceptible changes. It is only in
looking back and reviewing all the seasons of
our grief that we become aware of how we have
grown and changed.
The cycle of grief is predictable and
relentless: we will move through highs and lows,
feelings able to embrace life one day, then
overtaken once again by the pain of the death of
our child. And like the weather, there may be
significant changes within the rhythm of the
year with nuances of hot and cold that are
unique to each one. But the cycle has a life of
its own.
At this Bereavement Ontario Network
Conference in Orillia this year, Barbara
Cohlmeyer reminded those in attendance that the
passage of the seasons can be a symbol of hope
for grieving people if we dare to see that each
season can bring us something that moves us
inwardly to inspiration. Those of us who have
lost children look back to springs and summers,
so full of life and potential. These were the
days of warmth and love, of happy memories
watching our children grow - whether this was
within the womb or continued beyond, into life
within a family. As fall approaches, we reflect
back on those glory days, yet begin to ponder
what is to come. Winter brings the cold, dark
forces into play. We hibernate and wait for the
return of the warm weather and reflect on what
was. In the winter of our grief, we may feel
trapped, snowbound and unable to get out of this
house of mourning. Yet it invites times of
deepest introspection. And in the dark, empty
place that marks the part of us where their
presence touched us, we find life, for our
spirit is enhanced for having known them.
The grief journey moves in harmony with the
passage of the seasons. The wheel turns again
and again. Nothing dies forever. Nature is the
Renewer. The spiral of life includes death. The
spiral of death includes life. We are assured
that despair will one day give way to new life
for the elemental forces of nature tell us so.
Just as nature’s passage reminds us of the
sustainability of Mother Earth, the seasons of
our grief demonstrate to us our ability to
endure, rework and reweave our lives, the lives
of our loved ones and the world.
Susan Hendricks
|
|
|
| A Rare Moment...
 We
are at a rare moment in time, in many ways. Thanks
to a quirk in the calendar, this past month saw two
full moons. The second in the month is traditionally
known as a "blue moon.' February, too, is often
viewed as a month when the "blues or blahs" take
hold. But not even there yet as I write this column,
I am already leaping ahead to the month of March,
and find that on the anniversary of Kristina’s death
(March 31st) there is yet a second full and possibly
very "blue" moon.
On the other hand many believe
that the full moon marks a good time for beginning
projects and launching into new territory. Even our
nighttime hours seem filled with light and energy
when the full moon shines.
Living in the country in a
house without curtains, the light of a full moon
usually wakes me. But most city dwellers can also
attest to having lived the line -- "the light on the
crest of the new fallen snow gave the lustre of
mid-day to objects below". The moon, that mysterious
being, in her fullness calls us to live. Life calls
us to live, despite the pain of our loss.
We spent a very quiet holiday
season this year with time to talk about and ponder
our life as a family that has lost one of its
members. That, in itself, was a very meaningful and
treasured experience. But as the old year passed and
we entered the final year before the new millenium,
I suddenly realized that this would be the last year
that I would live within the century and millenium
in which Kristina was born, lived and died. The year
2000 will bring a huge demarcation in our family’s
grief experience. And so the question arises: how do
we mark that?
It seems to me that these
"blue" yet very full moons have something to teach
all of us about our journey towards the new
millenium. While grief bring us to the center of our
soul’s pain of loss, like the moon it can also give
us the energy to forge our way in new directions.
And so I ask, "What gift would I like to offer to
the new millenium that my child’s life has given to
me?"
As bereaved parents, we have
known the best of life and the worst of loss. And as
this century and millenium close, I’d like to
suggest that perhaps our task is to close just even
one of the doors on our grief experience and in so
doing, open another to life.
What was it about the spirit
and lives of our children that continues to
enrapture us? What fit did they bring to our lives
that we would like to emulate and take forward with
us to the new millenium? Think about it. You still
have time. There is almost a whole year left to
search for the answer.
Susan Hendricks
|
|
|
| Hot and Cold
 The
weather has been unpredictable this winter, one day
warm and well above the average temperature, the
next day dipping to extreme low with wind chill
factors that make us feel like we’re in the Arctic.
As I lie awake in bed pondering the meaning of life
and death, the wind outside whips the branches of
the trees against the windows, breaking some off and
sending them flying through the air.
This weather reminds me of what
the last five and a half years have been like as our
family has struggled to come to terms with the loss
of Kristina. We had no control over a situation that
blew out of nowhere and just as quickly as the
evening wind, ripped away one of the tow most
important branches from our family tree. With the
limb gone, the surviving three continued to feel the
effects of the chaotic storm that had invaded our
lives. And though the wind dies down and the tree
adapts and grows upwards rather than out, the scar
of the lost limb forever remains and the tree has
lopsided look to it.
Like the tree, we have been
forced to grow in new directions. But the scar of
the lost limb has needed care. Much like we tend to
a tree that’s been damaged in a storm and paint a
protective coating over the exposed core, we need to
dress for the weather of our grief. That means not
putting ourselves in situations that we know we
can’t handle emotionally. That means not putting
ourselves in situations that we know we can’t handle
emotionally. That means not putting ourselves in
situations that we know we can’t handle emotionally.
That means being good to ourselves by dealing with
our emotions as they surface, rather than letting
them fester, damaging the wound even more.
Grief, too, is unpredictable.
One day we’re doing quite well and things seem sunny
and bright. Then, without any apparent reason, our
mood changes and we’re right back to where we were
at the outset. The highs and lows of grief may be
frustrating for many of us but it’s important to
remember that without the lows, there would be no
highs and that both are reflections of our love for
our children.
There are probably at least two
more months of winter before the hope of Spring will
dawn in our outside world. In terms of our inner
landscape, let’s remember that Spring will come to
all of us, and that the cold winds of Winter are
easier faced together around the warm fire of
support and friendship.
|
|
|
|
