I haven’t yet written about what exactly Dan and I did on Elise’s birthday.
Dan set her photo and ashes on the dining room table, and together we lit the “Peace” candle my sister Mary and her partner Chris gave us. Dan said, “Happy Birthday, Elise.” We stared at the candle with tears in our eyes.
When we opened our front door to go out, there were a dozen pink roses on our porch. They were from Sanna and Pete, our neighbors across the street whose daughter Oskaria died of a genetic defect July 1st of last year. They are expecting their second child in just a few weeks. We placed their lovely flowers in front of the candle, along with their card. “Love is stronger than death,” they wrote.
We went out to breakfast and talked about how we were feeling. We spent some time taking care of ourselves: I did 2 hours of yoga and took a bath, Dan went to the gym. Sarah dropped off some narcissus bulbs in a lovely pot. Ann sent daffodil bulbs from Seattle. I’ll have to wait until spring to plant them: snow has settled in. Katy gave us a beautiful, tall candle: “May it light your darkness,” she wrote in her card. Throughout the day, we got phone messages and cards from friends and family. We both cried when we read Jan’s card. “Although I still grieve our loss of our tiny granddaughter, I am so grateful I was able to hold her and rock her that awful (awe-full) morning and could be a part of a family that mourned together. Whatever else Elise may come to give me over the years, that is a gift beyond measure to me.”
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Moving FORWARD, not "moving on"
Lots of big events have happened since I last wrote. They are in a chronological (if conventional) order:
1. I resigned from my job
2. We took a family trip to the San Francisco Bay Area to have a great time with dear friends
3. I went to a women’s retreat called The Gift and—no joke—had a transformative experience
4. We commemorated Elise’s birth and death day on Wednesday the 7th.
At the Gift, I was able to let go of a lingering, if irrational, feeling of helplessness and failure over Elise's death. I knew in my mind that I hadn't caused her death, but my body and spirit ached with the pain of not being able to protect her in my role as her mother, especially since I was carrying her at the time she died. But at the retreat, I gave voice to this agony and exorcised it. I let go of trying to control my future, said goodbye to the inner "control freak" whose existence I hadn't noticed until that weekend, and claimed my role as Elise's mother . I also claimed my role as my own parent: a practice of self-care and compassion for myself, instead of the perfectionism I've demanded of myself all these years.
I'd already rejected a big part of the soul-crushing expectations I've had for myself by leaving my job as a tenure-track professor. Some of the parts of my job worked for me: the satisfaction of finishing a piece of writing; my wonderful colleagues; the excitement of listening to my students' ideas and learning from them in classroom discussions; the challenge of getting an idea across in writing and in lecturing to students. But I didn't write and publish quickly enough; I didn't like administrative work; and when I showed up for class on the first day of the fall term and found I didn't want to perform for a room full of strangers in my fragile emotional state, it was a pivotal moment. I don't want to be here, I thought. I don't want to perform for others, I want to go inside me and find what I need to care for this pain. I want to be with my boys, and with myself, in our home.
Once I took a leave of absence, I started to feel a lightness I'd never experienced before. With our wonderful week in Berkeley and Stinson Beach with Dana and Mike, David and Cynthia and Baby Jacob, then a retreat with amazing women where I plunged to the depths of my pain and was lifted up, I emerged from a chrysalis. The pain of losing Elise will always be with me. But I've made peace with it, and I'm not afraid to feel it. My experiences with her are not solely painful ones, but show me the way to compassion and gratitude.
1. I resigned from my job
2. We took a family trip to the San Francisco Bay Area to have a great time with dear friends
3. I went to a women’s retreat called The Gift and—no joke—had a transformative experience
4. We commemorated Elise’s birth and death day on Wednesday the 7th.
At the Gift, I was able to let go of a lingering, if irrational, feeling of helplessness and failure over Elise's death. I knew in my mind that I hadn't caused her death, but my body and spirit ached with the pain of not being able to protect her in my role as her mother, especially since I was carrying her at the time she died. But at the retreat, I gave voice to this agony and exorcised it. I let go of trying to control my future, said goodbye to the inner "control freak" whose existence I hadn't noticed until that weekend, and claimed my role as Elise's mother . I also claimed my role as my own parent: a practice of self-care and compassion for myself, instead of the perfectionism I've demanded of myself all these years.
I'd already rejected a big part of the soul-crushing expectations I've had for myself by leaving my job as a tenure-track professor. Some of the parts of my job worked for me: the satisfaction of finishing a piece of writing; my wonderful colleagues; the excitement of listening to my students' ideas and learning from them in classroom discussions; the challenge of getting an idea across in writing and in lecturing to students. But I didn't write and publish quickly enough; I didn't like administrative work; and when I showed up for class on the first day of the fall term and found I didn't want to perform for a room full of strangers in my fragile emotional state, it was a pivotal moment. I don't want to be here, I thought. I don't want to perform for others, I want to go inside me and find what I need to care for this pain. I want to be with my boys, and with myself, in our home.
Once I took a leave of absence, I started to feel a lightness I'd never experienced before. With our wonderful week in Berkeley and Stinson Beach with Dana and Mike, David and Cynthia and Baby Jacob, then a retreat with amazing women where I plunged to the depths of my pain and was lifted up, I emerged from a chrysalis. The pain of losing Elise will always be with me. But I've made peace with it, and I'm not afraid to feel it. My experiences with her are not solely painful ones, but show me the way to compassion and gratitude.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
