I Looked Up

I look up, Weeping into the sunshine
Goldfinch flit past my eyes
Flashing bits of brilliant sunlight within my reach
Gentle breezes caress my bare arms
Drying my wet and heavy tears
Coaxing me
enjoy this Day
Coldness from the rock where I am still
Seeps into me
Spreads throughout me
I take my sorrow and go inside to wait for Night
where Darkness always receives me
preventing any distractions from Grief

I look up
Turning my face to the darkness
Waiting for a familiar coldness to overtake me
I Listen for my sobs
But, I am not overcome
I marvel instead at the near moon
Light surrounded by blackness
A white curved glow piercing the expansive nothing
A hope quickens within, and a thought forms
If the moon in it's passivity can conquer the night
I can in my patience conquer this death that eats me

Today I wept in the sunshine
Tomorrow I will smile, remembering the moon

Gifting Music To Myself

 . . . and for my birthday gift to myself I went to a strings class to learn how to play my cello. My lovely cello that I've had for a year, that DH gave me as a gift so I could engage in music again, because I wasn't able to sing after Caitlin died. But I still didn't have the brain power or confidence to learn anything new. Ah, but, I went today and committed to learning to play my cello. So far, I know how to hold, how to tune, and how play with up and down bow on open A, D, G, and C strings.

Life is good. Looking forward to playing Caitlin's songs someday on cello and discovering another way to make music!


Peace.

"Play me, I'm Yours"

Luke Jeram brings art to the streets of London and soon-to-be other UK cities with "Play me, I'm Yours."

I love it. Seeing people gathered around a piano with smiles and wonderment on their face. And, it seems a bit of confusion . . . doesn't music come from an iPod? You mean regular people can make music? Don't you have to be a star? An American Idol?

Nope.

I love that Luke Jeram in his art has provided a way to help people make music for themselves, and the real people that gather around to listen. Love it. We need the arts to live.

Here's a couple videos. But, don't expect a commercially produced recording. The art in this is more powerfully in the experience of those who make the music, and those in their physical presence.

The Light of a Child

My sisters and I visited the Phoenix Art Museum, and I was drawn to this painting. (I forgot to note the artist's name and will credit the painting as soon as possible.)

The image of mother and child is universal. The Madonna and Child is the image I see most frequently in my experience, likely because I recognize the figures, because of my religious background. Though, every culture that you might explore will have this image as a prominent feature in their Art, both Folk Art and High Art.

As I studied this "Mother and Child" painting, I noted that the light of the child is where my eye is drawn. And my mother's heart and mind rest in there. I note this darkness that seems to be hung around the mother. I find it meaningful that where the light emanates seems ambiguous. Does it come from the child? Or the mother? The brightest light is found at the center of the child, but that light blends with the body of the mother and so, to use a not very pretty analogy, it's like a flashlight. The light comes from the flashlight, but the brightest light you see is where you aim the beam, the flashlight itself remains dark. (Yeah, I know that ruins the beauty of the painting. Sorry.) Or perhaps the child is the light and it permeates the mother's body and becomes part of her.

As I study this light of a child, I see the painting transform to fit my experience as a bereaved mother. I envision another painting like this one, hung to the right of the original, with the same mother and the same light. Only in this painting, the child is gone. The light of my child has permeated my body, mind, and soul and though I no longer hold her in my arms, I know that light. I have not forgotten. I still love. I am still a mother.

Come Back as Music

The lyrics from "Let Me Be The Music" by David Friedman speak to me. Firstly, because it suggests that we return to this earth not in that ashes to ashes way, where our bodies are reclaimed by Earth and other life springs from the earth, but rather we return in sound. We return as music, a sonorous reification of love.

It's cool, I think. Really cool. I cannot find a free sound file for you to hear the music of these words, but hope the lyrics might speak to you and provide a bit of hope for you as you read.


Seasons come and season go, and somehow they were meant to show, that life and love are never really gone.

So when my journey here is through, I'm certain there is just a new hello, and so when I travel on

Let me be the music. Let me be the music of love I have known. Let me be the melodies in the wind and the trees that sing to the lost and alone. Let me be the sweet refrain in the sound of the rain or a rippling stream. Let me be the lullabies that close the eyes of children when they dream.

For music has no walls or bars, it bridges time and space. It only asks the senses to surrender. It sweeps us to the stars and makes us one in its embrace. It has no fences. It has no gender.

So let me be the music, the beautiful music of love. Let me be the voices of spring that rejoice in the things that blossom and grow. Oh let me be the music, to come again as music. The beautiful music of love when I go.

Oh let me be the music when I go, when I go.

I Looked Up

Weeping in the sunshine
Goldfinch flit past my eyes
Flashing bits of brilliant sunlight within my reach
Gentle breezes caress my bare arms
Drying my wet and heavy tears
Coaxing me
enjoy this Day
Coldness from the rock where I am still
Seeps into me
Spreads throughout me
I take my tears and go inside to wait for Night
Darkness always receives me
I will find no distractions from Grief



I looked up
Turning my face to the darkness
Waiting for a familiar coldness
Listening for my sobs
But, I am not overcome
I marvel instead at the near moon
Light surrounded by blackness
A white curved glow piercing the expansive nothing
A hope quickens within, and a thought forms
If the moon in it's passivity can conquer the night
I can in my patience conquer this death that eats me

Today I wept in the sunshine
Tomorrow I will smile, remembering the moon

Getting on the Mondrian Train

I've been enjoying the portraits of several bloggers, thanks to Niobe's prompt and link to this Mondrian site to generate a portrait in the artist's style. I thought it might be curious to get a "family portrait" of sorts by generating one for DH, myself, and Caitlin. (The one with lots of brown is DH, with red is me, and touches of brown is Caitlin.) Caitlin's was hard because there weren't any options for being less than a year old and such, but I answered for her the best I could. Then, I layered the portraits each on top of the other, with Caitlin's first. I made DH and mine transparent so all three of "us" could be seen, and that's how I arrived at our family Mondrianesque portrait. I'm sure the artist would not have approved, but as with all things grief, it's not about him. It's about doing the grief work that must be done to make sense, make meaning and bring some comfort and way to live in this world without her.

Pouring another's Pain with My Own

Somehow, it's comforting.

I asked a friend who had lost her mother, if I can expect to do this again. What is this? Pouring another's pain with my own. I don't know why, but it helps. I suppose because I feel less lonely. Perhaps, it dilutes my sorrow? Feels more like immersion, so that's not really it.

Well, it's no sleep night. I'm in a familiar, but different grief place. I watched all of Caitlin's videos and cried and stared and felt my heart hurt. The poetry has subsided, but what still helps is the community of other bereaved mothers (fathers too, but I know so few). I read the blogs of others, scattering a few comments, and then read some new blogs--a mother with a baby with DS who died, a mother who feels the pain of seeing a mother with her living child, a mother who expresses her anger for remarks that ignore the birth of her child, and so many more.

I read until I feel better? No, it's more than the comfort of knowing I'm not the only one whose baby died. Some comfort comes in being understood, but it's not a particularly warm comfort knowing others hurt this much. It's horrifying actually.

Let's see if I can describe this phenomena with an analogy. It's like I have a cup of liquid pain. I get another's cup and pour it into an already full vessel and then it happens, my cup expands and makes room. With each cup I pour, the vessel transforms into a boat to keep me safe and help me navigate this now ocean of grief. And the wind in the sails that moves me across this expanse, is the knowledge shared, and the expressions of love for our children in story, poetry, song, painting, and sculpture and photography.

And now, sweet sleep, as I have arrived on my home shore safely.

And, my friend? What was her answer? "No, expect something different." I'll be honest, even after Caitlin's death, I still have this sense that those I love will always be with me. Perhaps this irrationality is evidence of my "healing."

Death Ain't You Got No Shame

"Death Ain't You Got No Shame" is a white spiritual, a folk song collected by Alan Lomax. The words are simple and repetitive, but the power of the sorrow is rich. I haven't found a free example of the song that's "listenable" to my ears, but the lyrics (truncated) are: 

Death ain't you got no shame. 

Left his pappy to moan. 

Left his widder alone. 

Left his mammy to weep. 

Death ain't you got no shame. 

The folk song speaks to me, because the bereaved do often personify death. When we make it a someone, all be it a mysterious and unknown someone, but, when we make it a someone it makes it possible to express our anger, sorrow, and pain at this someone. It gives us a place to put our thoughts and feelings. You can't shake your finger at an event and "ain't you got no shame," but you can at a mysterious someone. Once again, it seems that it is the arts that allow us to manage the unmanageable, in this case the literary and poetic art of the words and the sounds over time that express those words. 

I Seek to Live

I am not seeking to be happy
I seek to live
For some time, well into adult hood
I abandoned my naive belief that
happiness is the goal.
Catilin's death punctuated
precisely that
Sorrow and joy live together
both must be acknowledged
both must have my full attention
Happiness is a wish, a fantasy, and fleeting
And that's OK
Life is presence and fluid
And that's what is

I am not seeking to be happy
I seek to live
And in life, I will be content
with tears and smiles

I find that allowing painful and raw emotions to flow out of me
Feelings of anger, fear, jealousy, pity, desire, guilt
To acknowledge them and know them
through some kind of expression
is an outlet to wash clean the heart
Using the same water that bubbles from a spring
a spring of hope that I cup my hands under
and bring to to my lips to refresh
or splash upon my heart to cleanse

In short:
I will always feel sorrow that Caitlin is dead.
I will always feel joy that Caitlin lived and that
I am her mother
I will not shy away from expressing my sorrow
or describing my joy


Why this big-thought? I've been feeling frustrated with the message that one should "focus on the positive." This is not one of those life events where that strategy works or is a healthy approach. I've been feeling irritated with the message that expression of the so-called "negative" emotions should be avoided. Feelings in and of themselves are not bad, and without a healthy way to express what is in your heart and mind, a more insidious and possibly damaging expression will most likely emerge. I'm not interested in converting or swaying others to think as I do, but I am interested in exercising my right to express myself and "give permission" if you will, to others who may feel stifled from expressing what must be released in a healthy way. Ah, but here's where I feel myself launching into the sorely lacking arts education in our children's lives and this is not the place for that "big thought."

Snowflakes that Didn't Turn Out

I've haven't exactly ignored the holidays this season. I wrote the family Christmas letter and purchased two gifts for the names that were drawn. A tiny 2-foot tree is up with Caitlin's Angel (the one they placed on the remembrance tree at the NICU on the day she died), and I put lights up on the steps of our home. We attended the business Holiday party, but I wouldn't say I've engaged in the holiday spirit much. It all felt quite pedestrian. Then, I receive a gift that changed everything.

A friend stops by my work to talk with me and says, "I don't want to upset you but . . . . I want to give you something. My daughter was making paper snowflakes and she got pretty upset, because after cutting them out and coloring them she tells me, 'they didn't turn out right.' " "They don't look like snowflakes," the child says to her mom (my friend), "they look like butterflies." Her mother looks at the butterfly snowflakes and says, "Well, would it be OK if I give them to my friend because, I think that she would really like them. They might help her think about her daughter."

And so, that's how it happened, I now have two beautiful child cut and colored butterflies in my office, a gift that feels like a Christmas gift from Caitlin with the help of another child. I can't stop smiling. Caitlin found a way to give her mommy a Christmas gift from heaven. Thanks to Z, my friend's daughter, I'm smiling at Christmas.

Hugged with Words

For Absence
by John O'Donohue
from "To Bless the Space Between Us."


May you know that absence is alive with hidden
presence, that nothing is ever lost or forgotten.

. . . .

May your compassion reach out to the ones we never
hear from.

May you have the courage to speak for the excluded
ones.

May you become the gracious and passionate sub-
ject of your own life.

. . . .


[I love this poet's words in his book of blessings. They are rich with truth and when I read slowly, I feel a hug and a whisper, "It'll be OK."]

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