The Tribute to My Sister

After the event at church Wednesday night for those whose lives have been touched by suicide, a woman placed her circle on the tree and then caught me before I left the church. She told me she had lost her sister to suicide and wanted me to sign her copy of my book, Do They Have Bad Days in Heaven? Surviving the Suicide Loss of a Sibling. The cover was bent back, proof she had read the book, and before we parted, she told me how she tried to pay tribute with her husband to her sister each year. Then she asked me if I pay tribute to Denise.

I’m not sure why, but the question caught me off guard and I didn’t know how to answer. Finally, I said, the book, and pointed to it. She nodded and we parted. But I realized later that the book is not paying tribute to the life I had with Denise. The book is about her suicide, about moving forward and, to me, paying tribute would be about remembering the life Denise had, not her suicide. And the life I had with Denise.

My tribute to Denise is all of this– what I create, what write, everything you see on this web site. It’s a tribute to the childhood we shared, the creativity we explored together through coloring and making clothes for our Barbies on our grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine. It’s the inspiration I find in my daily life.

That’s my tribute to Denise.

Home

I don’t believe I can ever write enough about the importance of home because I don’t believe many people understand how important home is related to who we are/who we become. And the choices we have about making home a place that makes us happy.

While I understand that life isn’t about physical objects so much as it is about what happens inside our minds, nourishing all sides of ourselves, home is our shelter, our rest, our inspiration. Home is a place where we live the routine moments of life that make up more than the big events.

Someone taught me long ago that you sow your seeds where you are planted, that no matter where you are, you make the most of it. Her words have always echoed in the back of my mind, even when life wasn’t what I wanted or that I wasn’t really where I wanted to be. Still, it was important to take care of home.

And it’s why I spend the time making changes, updates, surrounding myself with what makes me happy. I love to explore the world, but I also love to come home and just be.

Watching the pandemic play out, I saw many people who realized that home wasn’t necessarily what they wanted it to be so they made changes. Others chose not to. To me, it was an opportunity to make home better because that bodes well for the future, especially for the others who share that home with you. It might not be obvious, but you’re giving something to them, too– a piece of yourself.

The Ripples from Suicide

On the even of National Suicide Prevention Month, I am reminded of the stories I have told through the years since my sister Denise’s suicide, the stories that show how deep the ripples of suicide run. Many times I have not named the people whose stories I am telling to protect the privacy of their grief reactions to my sister’s death, or to another way that suicide had touched their lives. I believe it’s important to let people tell their own stories– if they choose to.

But last week a high school teacher of mine, Mr. Foerch (his first name was Brad but he was always “Mr. Foerch” to me) died. He was 62, not an age at which we expect anyone to die.

I’d had Mr. Foerch for consumer education and economics, but I also had been a sports writer and the sports editor of the school newspaper so I had gotten to know him some time before I had him as a teacher because he was the gymnastics coach. But in the spring of 1993 when she died, my sister Denise was a student of his in his consumer education class, the last class she needed to graduate, all her other requirements having been completed.

At her wake, another teacher, who I have known much longer, told me that Mr. Foerch had been gone from school, that he was taking the day of her funeral off (it was the following morning) and that he wasn’t doing well.

There was nothing I could do at the time, however, at some point I wrote him a letter. The response took a very long time and it was only then that I learned the depth of his grief over Denise’s suicide.

A girlfriend had found my letter to him and asked him if he had responded. When he said no, she had questioned him why not, telling him that he needed to.

It was in that letter that he told me how much pain her death had brought him– how he thought Denise was too smart for her own good how he didn’t want to face the classroom (where she had walked in my steps and become another current events queen). without her.

I have the letter– it’s packed away somewhere. I don’t know how many times I saw Mr. Foerch after Denise’s death– I know the last time was around 2008 when I was there at the high school with a friend who was having his class reunion. We didn’t talk long; he didn’t really have time between classes.

But when you move on from the people in your life, you wish them well, you hope that life has brought them happiness. And you hope the grief they might have experienced has been processed. I hope that for Mr. Foerch and that perhaps he and Denise will get to meet in heaven for coffee. Her pain from this life is gone, any pain over her suicide that he had, is also gone. Maybe they can pick up where they left off before she died.

Be Present

Be present.

Seems impossible for many of us, doesn’t it?

How often do we find ourselves distracted from the moment, even a great one, by something else?

But being present is important, it’s a key to life in many ways, or at least to functioning in life. What we often don’t realize, however, is that not being present is the source of much of our pain. We’re always looking one way or another– in the rearview mirror at what we had– or looking forward to what we want but can’t seem to get. Then we find ourselves in a downward spiral of pain.

There is pain in the present, of course, but present moments don’t last forever. The sun always has to come up, light must return.

Whether we have lost someone to suicide and can’t stop looking back at what we didn’t do or what we will never have, or we’re contemplating ending our lives because we can’t bear to face a future, we need to stop walking one way or the other.

Stand still, be present, look around. What’s surrounding you? Life has pain, it’s a reality, Yet by stopping for a moment and just being, we’ll find our perspective changes. By being present.

That Stupid Word

No no no– I’m not referring to believe. We all know I like that word so much that I made t-shirts and stickers from my painting of it.

We’re two weeks from Suicide Prevention Month, Suicide Prevention Week, and Suicide Prevention Day which means it’s time for me to start addressing not just suicide, but the state of where things are. I dusted my soap box off and I’ll be using it for the next few weeks.

Usually, each time this year I have some sort of message that I believe people should know about. This year, probably in light of everything that’s happened, I didn’t feel anything that hasn’t been said before so much as maybe some things that need to be rehashed.

I also thought about something that is getting better, but still needs more work.

The used of the word “committed.”

That’s the stupid word.

I never felt comfortable using that after Denise died by suicide. It never rolled off my tongue and it took me time, processing, to understand that “committed” in that sense means sin or crime, neither of which she had done.

Denise died by suicide. She believed her pain to be insurmountable and I have never tried to judge that because I wasn’t walking in her shoes.

For many reasons- church reasons, law reasons– the word committed has stung the bereaved in a negative way. The good news is that I hear it less often– less on television, less in the newspapers. The bad news is that I still hear it in my orbit.

There are many things you can do for suicide prevention and there are a number of things you can do for the bereaved. One big one is to change your language and those around you.

Died by suicide.

Sacred Spaces

I believe God is with me all the time; I can talk to God whenever I want. I try to be thankful for the small things– like excellent parking spaces– and ask for help when I’m writing an email or some sort of post, to bring me the words to share. I don’t need to be in a church to feel God.

But the pandemic taught me something about the importance of sacred spaces, like churches, in my life.

I remember once, my former CCD teacher whose son was my age, told me that her sacred space had become when she was riding her horse. I believe that stuck with me because it was the first time someone had said that to me (I was still fairly young– probably in high school if not younger when she told me that). Other people have said that to me throughout the years, but now that I’m older, I do believe you can be in different sacred spaces– to you– but there is no substitute for being in a church.

I didn’t realize it until Greg and I were several weeks into getting back to going to mass consistently each weekend again. Then I began to receive what I call “my messages” and that’s when I saw how important it is to take the time to go to church.

There is something to be said for taking an hour out of the day and going to a space where I am not bothered by the million things I want to do or the other interruptions in life. Of course my mind wanders at church, it wanders no matter where I am. Yet I am more able to hear God because I’m not distracted by so many other things.

I also had started putting in my prayer before mass to Our Lady of Guadalupe, asking her for my messages that I need to receive that day. In the past few weeks, I’ve noticed an uptick in them– ideas, thoughts, even questions for manuscripts I’m working on. Sure, these could come to me anytime, but there is more room you might say in my brain at the time of being in church because there are fewer distractions around me.

While most people don’t understand it, LA is a sacred space for me. I replenish my soul there, I get new ideas, I find inspiration to keep me going until the next trip. Even if we can’t make it to mass, we always stop at my favorite church, St. James in Redondo Beach, so I can light a candle. A photo never does this stained glass justice. But it’s about more than the photo– that church, that sacred space, has been a place where I have been more than thankful, but ask for the help on the road to where I’m heading next.

Both churches are important in who I am, in who I want to be, and finding the strength to not just stay the course, but to believe this path I’m on is going to get me where I want to go. And where I’m supposed to go.

The Discomfort on the Road to Success

As I made my breakfast smoothie this morning, I was streaming the Olympic coverage on Peacock (it was the end of the evening track and field session in Tokyo). David Feherty from The Golf Channel was talking about why he was never more successful playing golf. He explained that he understood that all successful people, in any field, are successful because they want to be uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to do that.

I believe this a concept that most people don’t understand– to be successful, you have to continually step out of your box and into uncharted territory. To lead a well-lived life, you need to do the same. You can’t sit back in your arm chair and watch life play out in front of you, it needs to be about your actions.

As a freshman in high school, I remember our cross country coach told us something similar. “To be a good distance runner, you will never be comfortable.” (The other bit of advice I remember from him was that we should never, ever get our shoes wet when we were running– I’m not sure which is harder– stepping out of a box or not stepping in puddles of rain when you don’t know how deep they are.)

Some years ago, I was in constant motion training people on the warning signs of suicide/how to ask people if they are suicidal. I had multiple contracts with various state and federal organizations, was working on a doctorate, and had a variety of other things happening. Each week, I was doing a presentation and I used to remark that I was constantly stepping out of my box, being forced out of my comfort zone.

It wasn’t easy but I could see, even then, how it was helping me to grow. The more I spoke, the better I got at it. And the more experiences I had that I could write about and reflect back on.

It’s okay to rest sometimes. We have to do that. Yet we also should remember that being comfortable for too long means we aren’t growing. That’s when we need to find something to challenge ourselves, something new, something that maybe we didn’t believe we could do before. That uncomfortable state means we’re heading in the right direction– we’re growing into who we all have the opportunity to be.

Drowning Out the Negative

In many ways, I had thought the pandemic was the perfect time for people to latch onto what I do- sharing inspiration and hope. While many people posted their negative thoughts about what we were enduring, I held steady and kept posting my sunny, colorful photos.

I also thought it time I resurrect my suicide grief and prevention work, another way to offer hope and inspiration to people, as many people felt hopeless with our world and ways in question.

And I thought it was a good time to remind people about my books as I kept hearing people were reading more because they had more time on their hands.

None of it went very far.

It turned into a very frustrating time for me in the aspect that I wanted to help, I wanted to be a beacon of light in some way, yet I was getting drown out by the negative. People were caught up in feeling sorry for themselves, in not taking care of themselves, instead of taking the time as an opportunity to make themselves better, to do things they hadn’t done in a long time (or had never done). And some people did do positive things, but when then negative is drowning out the positive, it’s hard to see the good that’s happening.

I didn’t stop with my positive posts though, partly because I learned a long time ago that when I post positive things, I feel better.

While the world still feels somewhat flipped on its side– mostly because people are choosing that through their words and actions although we and the world have also changed in this time– I am finding people seem more receptive to drowning out the negative. That, at least, is a good sign. I’m just sorry so many people ignored the good that was right there waiting for them in this past year and a half. The positive is always there though you must train yourself to hold onto it because the negative is always running after you, trying to catch you.

Life is much too short– where did the last year go?– embrace the positive and all that it offers.

The Return to Church

In the nearly ten years– I just realized it’s been ten years almost to the date– I’ve been attending Immaculate Conception Church, I’ve never been in the choir loft. While it’s usually not open, it was Sunday as the church held a farewell mass for the Jesuits who are leaving Albuquerque (and the church that they founded) after 154 years.

It was a different perspective than I’ve ever had and one I’m grateful for as we start a new journey this week with new priests and a new vibe.

I was not happy, although I understood, when I found out a year ago we’d be losing the Jesuits. Ten years ago, someone in my life suggested I find the Jesuit church here, believing I would like spirituality that comes with the order. I learned a lot in these ten years, not just about Jesuits, but about myself, and I can see how my own spirituality has grown. My life has also changed in some major ways in ten years– the end of a marriage, the death of my mom, a new marriage, a huge shift in my professional life, and the list goes on.

I knew that some point Fr. Warren Broussard, our pastor and the priest who married us would leave, but I didn’t expect to lose all the priests and their Jesuitism as I’ll call it. I spent the past year fighting my head, wanting to walk away from the social media that I do for the church with the pandemic brewing around us. I wasn’t even sure the church would survive when the building and land could be sold, especially with not enough priests go to around (Fr. Broussard put a squash on my thinking that at dinner here at my house about five weeks ago though).

But if we left the church where we were married, the church that I have spent so much time talking to God, feeling Our Lady of Guadalupe with me, hearing the messages I need to go forward in my life, where we would go? I had options, but nothing felt right.

Fr. Gene and I discussed it at my spiritual direction meetings with him at the Norbertine Monastery. It was a virus loss for me and I wondered if the pandemic was telling me to make a change. Yet something inside me nagged not to do anything, to hold on until we found out who and what was next. Fr. Gene reminded me that I did need to get back to church when things opened up because “You can’t go it alone.”

I hung on and in June, when we found out who our new pastor would be and I met with him, learned more about the priests who would join him, I told Greg, “We’re staying. I feel good about the future.”

Many people yesterday at the farewell mass and reception told me of their sadness for the Jesuits leaving. I get it, but I also feel like I have processed it already, maybe because I put so much effort into letting go over the past year, that I am ready for what’s next.

After all, as I have lamented here about a conversation with Fr. Anthony some time ago about how sometimes God asks you to give up something for something better. It’s about giving up the swimming pool for the ocean. I can’t swim in the ocean well right now with my popping shoulder, but I know that I need to let go of that fear because God is saying, “I know it’s hard, but don’t be afraid because what’s ahead, if you choose to let go, will give you something greater than you can imagine from where you’re standing.”

Forgetting to Ask

Sometimes I forget to ask for help.

I’m not talking about when I’m about to drop a large load of laundry in my arms and I don’t think to ask Greg to help me carry it. I’m referring to those times when I’m looking for something inspirational to post or I’m not sure what to do about a certain situation.

I’m sure I’ve heard it more than once, but I have a memory of attending daily mass and the priest asking why people are so afraid to ask for what they need. And that makes me wonder why I forget to ask for help so many times, especially in the kinds of situations where a little inspiration from the universe goes a long way.

Sometimes the inspiration comes, the words, the ideas, whatever it is, and maybe I have asked without realizing it, but there are times where I’m trying to figure something out and the answers just don’t come to me. It’s then that I forget to ask.

Some years ago, my mom and I were talking about something– I was working on a project and wasn’t sure how to do it (I wish I could remember what it was because it would make this post a lot more interesting to read) and suggested I ask my friend Bonnie who had died several years before that. And when we couldn’t find Mom’s mother’s wedding dress, we talked about how we should ask Grandma (who also had died) where it was.

There are so many times where we need just a little help to find something, to get us past our fear of doing something, when we need a sprinkle of inspiration. We should ask for help then, too. Often, we seem to think we should only turn to God for the major challenges in life, but I believe the more we ask for help from him and our deceased loved ones, the more we’re easing our own road here in this life because we’re learning to let go of whatever is holding us back.

The Motel Connection

Greg says that if you take me to a motel with a “parking lot pool,” I’ll be happy. He’s pretty right on that.

I don’t know how it formed or where it came from, but my entire life I’ve had a fascination with motels and their pools. Growing up, we took a lot of vacations, mostly across the Eastern half of the United States (one vacation focused on touring Civil War battlefields), the six of us crammed into a 1977 silver Chevy Impala station wagon.

There was a big green Coleman cooler in the back and Denise and I spent our time in what someone coined “the back back” of the station wagon.

Our nights were spent at Holiday Inns (with a few Howard Johnsons sprinkled in there) and it was a family game to see who could spot the Holiday Inn sign first when we arrived at our exit.

These vacations would be the happy family memories that we would discuss when we ate out on Christmas Eve or other times we gathered around the kitchen table. My dad drank too much, his unhappiness poured into his beer mug, and my parents just generally weren’t happy in life or together.

But these trips, these stories about the various things that happened to us and the unique of each place we visited were Linn Family lore and happiness.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve taken my inspiration from the motels and wrapped it into so much of what I do today. A friend on Instagram said refreshed bathroom and guest room reflect that retro motel vibe. I know that I’m not trying to recreate my past with my family, but in some way I’m taking what was and making it part of my past and my future.

As summer officially begins in a week, here’s to the summer road trip!

The Tree

There is a giant spruce tree in my front yard, probably planted when the house was built in the 1950s. For some reason, I believe Iheard somewhere that you got a tree for your front yard as part of the house building deal.

When my first husband and I bought the house at the end of 2001, the front yard was the second thing we redid (after the kitchen floor and new appliances). With the help of our neighbor, the two tore out everything but the tree leaving us a clean slate to create something new. The grass had already been taken out and one of those awful fake river rock scene put in its place when we bought the house and we wanted to do something better.

My dad was very into trees. He planted a lot of trees at our house in Naperville which was great until the later years when my parents were raking endlessly in the fall. But he also seemed to keep up with the trees, trimming them periodically, and this was my failure.

The spruce hadn’t been trimmed since well before the divorce and I remember times when people would stop and look at the tree. I felt as if I were being judged, that I hadn’t taken care of the tree, that everyone had an opinion about the tree’s care.

But we decided a few weeks ago that we needed to have it trimmed, mostly because the pool guy told me that he was slated to open a pool that day and the customer called and told him not to come because the neighbor’s 50-foot tree had fallen into the pool and destroyed the cover. While my tree isn’t in danger of hitting my pool, it is in danger of hitting my house and I had fallen trees at my Naperville house more than once.

I worried that I had failed the tree. I hadn’t watered it enough, I hadn’t had it trimmed it enough.

But there was something else– I watched a neighbor a very long time ago have to have her tree taken down. The tree was in the front and she was crying in the backyard because she couldn't watch. The tree was a metaphor for her marriage that was ending.

Then I saw a tree across the street have to be removed and the sadness of my neighbor Joan (although I couldn’t tell her that the removal of the tree meant I had a better view of the mountains). They had built that house and I’m sure she had photos of her daughters growing up by the tree.

With everything that has happened in the last year or so, the idea of the losing the tree made me sad, but I was prepared that it might happen.

And it didn’t. It’s in good shape. It’s been trimmed. And my road ahead looks a bit clearer again.

Forward, forward, forward

Don’t look back, I was often told when I was running competitively.

It was so easy to do– to look back and see how far (or near!) the next runner was behind me. Would I need to work harder to keep her at bay? Did I have the mental energy to keep up the pace, or even pick up the pace, so she didn’t pass me?

But looking back, even for a brief moment, took up not just physical energy, but time. It was that effort of the head movement that also lead to a partial body movement that slowed the running down and let that person get closer to me.

So they said not to look back.

Isn’t that true about life though, too?

Don’t look back or it will slow you down. Keep your eyes on the prize. Keep your eyes on your goals, your dreams, whatever it is that keeps you moving forward.

I was thinking about this as I was out running the other morning, finding myself looking back for no reason. I don’t know why I thought anyone was behind me (although when I run Ash, he looks back all the time, especially when we turn onto certain roads, for reasons I don’t understand). But as I did it, I thought about the effort it took to look back and the bit of time it cost me. For what?

I have always thought of the line from the Manfred Mann song, “Don’t look back/You’ve been there.”

After a year of what felt like standing in place, I’ve been trying to move forward so why would I look back? I do believe in occasional reflection of the past, after all, it’s that which reminds us of how far we have come. It might be that sometimes we need to stop for a moment, collect our thoughts, and take a quick look back to see where we have been to see how far we’ve come, but we don’t and shouldn’t do that all time.

Remember, will keep us from getting where we want to be.

A Color-Driven Life

Some twenty or so years ago, my mom and I were walking through the now-defunct Mervyn’s department store at one of the malls here in Albuquerque.

“This is terrible,” Mom said. “It’s dead in here.”

That’s what she always said when color was lacking or lighting didn’t let the color come through– it was dead.

Mom included color wherever she could. There are multiple photos me wearing pink footy (as we called them– not Australian football) pajamas which were then passed onto Denise. Karen had a pink bedroom, mine was pink, Brian’s was blue. My parents had a gold bedroom. I’ve talked about the rainbow bathroom before.

She didn’t do color as loudly as the senior citizen woman I saw in Lowe’s recently wearing eighties fluorescent leggings with an equally fluorescent top, but she used enough color that you definitely wouldn’t call anything she wore dead.

Life is meant to be colorful, to be bright, to be sunny, especially because we’re often fighting challenges and darkness without ourselves and our worlds.

Which is why I choose to wear color, to decorate with color, and encourage everyone to include color wherever they can. We can't ever get enough of the good vibe it makes us feel.

Seeking a Journey

When my sister Denise died by suicide in 1993, I don’t believe the need to do something for others came instantly. I had a full life at the time of her death– I was getting ready for midterms in my junior year of my undergraduate college degree. It took some time for me to realize that something was missing and I had a skill that could fill that need.

At the time, there wasn’t an internet to connect people and it was mostly by reading books and talking to others (but that meant you had to find others who had lost a loved one to suicide, and in my case it was a sibling which was even more challenging to do) that gave you the connection. What I felt was that there was little available to sibling survivors of suicide and if I were to fulfill a need, it was to write a book and give a voice to what were then called the “forgotten mourners.”

It will be twenty years this coming July since the publication of Do They Have Bad Days in Heaven? Surviving the Suicide Loss of a Sibling was published and sent me on an incredible journey around the world speaking, writing, and advocating for not just the suicide bereaved, but also for suicide prevention.

At some point, I felt as if I had done all that I was supposed to and started to move back to the things that had always been important to me– my writing and then the outgrowth of other aspects of my life, the creation of Chelle Summer. However, I have tried to some little things to raise money and awareness for suicide, not always able to get the results that I would like and I’ve tried to leave that behind.

There has been some good movement in the field of suicidology since I moved onto other things, but I’ve also seen things that make me shake my head and other things that I had started have died because the person I gave the torch to buried it instead. Those stories aren’t for today though. This is about what we encourage people to do after a loss. For so long, it felt like people were encouraged to somehow get involved whether with the bereaved or in suicide prevention efforts.

However, I see that there are many ways we can do things to remember our loved ones, mostly through something that was important to them. Perhaps, if my journey were starting today instead of nearly thirty years ago, and the book had already been written, maybe I would have gone straight to Chelle Summer and using the inspiration of the creativity of my childhood with Denise to build my brand instead.

But I don’t usually look at it that way. If someone were to call me today and tell me that they had lost a loved one and what could they do, I would encourage them to do something that is important to them and/or their loved one. What outwardly might not be helping the bereaved or advocating for suicide prevention could still be helping people, but in a different way.

The important part is that we find a “place” to put the suicide, and remember our loved ones for the lives they lived, not for the way they died.

The Summer Routine Returns

It felt strange not to go to the gym and swim this morning. Except for a statewide virus shutdown in November, I had pretty much been there every weekday morning to swim between 30 and 60 minutes since September. And for the past few months, I’d been there Monday through Friday to swim at 6:00 am, after I had run the dogs and then been on my run.

While I am ready for the summer routine– to swim in the afternoon sun and let the dogs run around the pool (after Ash announces to all the neighbors that I’ve gotten into to the pool)– I was sad Friday because it was like the end of the school year.

I know I’ll be back there in late September, but I also know that things won’t be the same because going to the gym each morning for the swim as part of how I coped with the pandemic.

All those mornings I had a community of people talk to, to lament the weather, the temperature of the pool water, and the world events that swirled around us. I find so much peace in the water, it’s almost as if nothing can bother me while I swim (except maybe the person in the lane next to me, but I won’t delve into that today).

I don’t function as well in the winter. While I’m really not an outdoor sports person, I do need to be outside and that’s why I run in the bitter cold, even though I’m slow because it’s harder to breathe and I hate the time it takes to bundle myself up and then remove the bundle when I’m done.

Swimming outside in a heated pool helped me not just cope with the cold months, but the pandemic as well. There is something about being alive in the cold, the darkness, and seeing the stars, the planets, and the moon. I could feel alive and be reminded of the wonders of life and our world. And those sunrises! There were two brilliant ones; this photo is of one of them.

But it’s time for change. My body is ready to sleep a little later in the morning and my mind is ready to finish the workday with a swim. This also allows me to write earlier in the morning, giving me more time to focus on the quality of my writing rather than just trying to tap out a quantity each day.

Change is good, it means moving forward. But it’s also hard to leave behind something that I know brought me so much peace through many challenges. Still, in the back of my mind, I have to remind myself that the pool will be there for me when the temperatures start to dip in the fall.

Just like an old friend, the stable kind who lets you and come and go as you need to.

Mom and Dad

While I’m writing this on April 26– I usually write my blogs the day before I post them to social media– chances are, you are reading this on April 27, what would have been my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary.

The reality is that my parents didn’t have a happy marriage. I can say that out loud and on the internet because they aren’t here anymore. It’s just like when I wrote my first book about my sister’s suicide and I had to tell them before it was published, “Remember, this is how I saw things as they happened.” Sometimes there are things you don’t say because you don’t want to hurt people.

It’s sad for me to say that they weren't happy, but I also don’t think it’s worth walking around saying they were happy when they weren’t.

And it feels like recently that I’ve had more friends lose not one parent but a second one, leaving them without a living parent. Like me.

Being without living parent makes you feel somewhat disconnected from the world because the two people who brought you into the world, who helped you become who you are (for good or bad) aren’t here anymore. There’s another thing that happens during grief though, something that happens and we often aren’t aware of so we don’t understand our emotions relating to it.

When a parent dies, we also grieve what we never had with them. For each of us that it is going to be something different because we had unique relationships. Sure, there are threads through all our relationships, but none of us has exactly the same story of our lives.

I have often told the story that my dad’s way of showing his love for me was to buy groceries. He would show up at my apartment in Muncie, Indiana, where I was attending Ball State University with a trunk filled with styrofoam coolers that had Budget Gourmet frozen dinners in them. He would never tell me he loved me. He bought me groceries. That was who he was.

My mom never wanted anything more than to have a family and I’m sure it was hard to accept that my dad wasn’t that interested in us kids (even though there were four of us), but I’m sure my dad got married and had kids because at that time, that’s what you did– you married, you had a family. Had he been a young person now, I’m not sure he would have married or had a family. That meant my mom spent her life trying to make up for what he didn’t give us. And that was hard on her because she struggled to love herself, particularly because the polio had left her with a limp that put a big hole in her self confidence.

I’m not writing this for anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m writing this because once we understand what we are grieving– because grief is confusing and sometimes we don’t understand what’s behind the sadness– it makes it easier to process and move forward.

My parents are both out of their emotional and physical pain from this life. They did the best they could with the skills and backgrounds that they had. They gave me a longer list of things than what they didn’t give me. I know they are still with me, cheering me on. If anything, I just wish this life had been a happier one for them.

Replenishment

Last week I talked about the importance of doing things that bring us joy when we’re faced with what seems like an endless list of routine items to trudge through. But there’s another part of that, taking the time to replenish ourselves, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

After I busy weekend, I usually don’t find myself ready to face Monday and its long list of item to start the week. I also find that my view of the world has become somewhat negative and I have to stop myself, reminding myself to take a step back and remember that I feel down the world and people because I’m tired. That means I also need to find a way to refill that half empty cup.

If I’m feeling physically exhausted, I might move up an acupuncture appointment (nap time!) or make it a priority to spend time on the couch reading. But my emotional side needs something different, usually some sort of project I haven't had time for and would like to do. It has to be something that inspires the creative side to me. For whatever reason, that often is where I find my replenish most of the time. I feel fortunate that I know that though as it has helped me coped with so many challenges in my life.

For each of us, what we need will differ. I know that each time, it might be different and I try to honor that because I also know filling my cup up again is what keeps me fueled to keep going and engaged in the world and the life around me.

Not Just a Well-Lived Life

I believe in the importance of a well-lived life. However, recently, as I reflected back on the past year, I believe it’s something more than that.

I have talked about how it was important for me, and I believe for all of us, to take advantage of the opportunity we had during the pandemic, when we weren’t able to do many of the usual activities in our lives that give us joy (for me, one of those was hosting pool parties and dinner parties), to do other things that maybe we’ve been putting off or just want to do. However, as I think back on the past year, I know that I created many items for Chelle Summer, yet it felt as if something was missing.

I realize that sounds silly because one of my frequent early morning prayers is to not just have a productive day, but to make the most of the day ahead of me. That’s when it struck me that it’s also about having meaningful day, a meaningful life.

A better way, I believe, to put it is to have a well-lived meaningful life.

I can be productive– I can clean my house and do the laundry and that’s productive. But, really, it doesn’t bring me great joy beyond the satisfaction of knowing a weekly chore has been accomplished.

Instead, there has to be something more to the day, something that brings meaning to it for me. Usually, that’s in spending some time being creative. Yesterday, I painted a bedroom wall, a bathroom ceiling, and a nightstand. After taking Saturday to clean the house (not joyful!), but then taking Sunday to do several things that were creative and happy, they brought me great joy.

Each day we have is a gift, yes, but we also need to find those aspects of it that make it meaningful, that spark our joy, that keep us inspired to get up and do it again tomorrow.

One Step, Even a Small One, at a Time

Without realizing it (can I blame the pandemic?), I have turned into a very molasses kind of runner. I feel like I run as fast as the molasses pours out of a jar when I’m measuring it for something. Honestly, I didn’t catch it and I don’t know why or how it happened. My only thought is that I don’t take days off as I’ve had no travel for a year. Usually, travel is my break– not just from running, but from my routine as well. However, I kept running because it also helped keep my spirit afloat during this time.

The weather has turned warmer in New Mexico and, finally, I’m feeling the need to run faster, too. There is a correlation– it’s much harder to run in the winter than the warmer months. However, I don’t think I can blame the winter for my running woes either.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to motivate myself to go faster, to get out of that comfort zone that I’ve gotten so used to. I started to think about the Eleanor Roosevelt quote that I posted on social media last week, about doing the one thing you don’t believe you can do.

Apparently, I don’t think I can go faster. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s work. But if I’m running for a total of six miles (three of those are with the dogs on their respective runs), how can I keep up the mental aspect?

Baby steps.

I don’t mean take small steps as I run, but to take small steps toward running faster. Like anything else in life we shouldn’t try to do too much at once because it will most likely lead to failure. It’s been to work at running hard for a block, then allowing myself to slow down for a block (or two), before picking it up for another block.

It’s a long, slow road, just like a lot of movement forward is now (including somehow resuming the old routines in our lives even as we have changed in some ways over the past years). But I also know that the long, slow will eventually pay off. The key is to chip away at it bit by bit.

And each morning to tell myself that I can do that one thing I don’t believe I can do. And that’s to run at least faster again.