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

Her Name

When your child is gone, what you have is her name. Her name is tangible and in a small way, writing it places her here in this place with me.

Early Bloom

This is far to early for the season Caitlin's tree to bloom, but one lone bloom showed herself in this oppressive heat. Blooms are supposed to occur in November!

The Moon

I sat in an orange chair in our sitting room when the full moon caught my spirit and compelled me to looked up at her through the skylight. She was breathtaking, bright, a reflection of the sunshine --- like my daughter as she lives within me now. Her life now reflected in my own. I call for her dad to come and see. We shut the lights out so that the only light that comes through is what shines from the moon. We squeeze into that orange chair together and watch her in silence. Dark clouds cover her and we see, not hear, the tumultuous wind fight to keep her covered. But she remains and when a break in the clouds appear, the light is bright and piecing and beautiful. We exhale together. "Miss you."

Three Random Pics: Three Random Thoughts

This is another pic of one of the frogs who comes to visit us on our deck. When I catch 'em on my porch, I am compelled to take pictures. There is such interest in their faces. And recently I learned that the two snakes who took residence in a pile of bricks close to our house, eat these very kinds of frogs!



The summer has been a time of getting things cleaned out. We shredded hundreds of documents and took lots of clothes and shoes to the St. Vincent DePaul bin. I included a bag of my pregnancy clothes. Plenty of tears during this event. I couldn't help but note the irony in seeing that I had purchased three polo prego shirts with butterflies on them---a symbol now of Caitlin's spirit in this world, now transformed, but beautiful.

And this, is proof to me that I still have joy in my heart. This was captured while I was teaching my pre.scho.ol music group. And my smile surprised me, I barely recognized myself.

A Gift From Kay

I saw the ocean first when I was very young, that was pretty cool, as I was a landlocked child. My shoes got washed away with the Pacific tide. That was cool, except the part where I didn't have any shoes to go home with. The next time I remember seeing the ocean, I was an adult. And the first thing I did was write my name in the sand and watch the waves wash it away. Each time thereafter, whether I visited the Atlantic or Pacific (Those were my two choices.), I found a stick and wrote messages and drew flowers and such. Sometimes I would add a stone or leave the stick to help me out.

Though, I must admit, the writing didn't hold a great bit of meaning for me, other than it's what you do when you see undisturbed sand of any size that begs to bear a message. And now that simple activity of writing in the sand has become a sacred ritual of sorts for me and many other bereaved parents.

After Caitlin died, I was struck by how profound it was to write her name and know that that seeing her name in print was tangible evidence that she was here. If felt like that's all I had left of her. I saw her name in stone where her body lays, and I was overwhelmed.

I wrote her name in the sand on a visit out west; at the family beach week on the east coast; on a beach on the Cape, the town beaches that are close to my home, when there wasn't/isn't a beach I write it by arranging stones, or I draw her name in the snow. When I discovered Carly's site and requested Caitlin's name to be written on a beach in Australia. I wrote her name again and captured the tide as it came to wash the letters back into the Atlantic. Most recently, Kay at "Eternal Names by the Sea" sent me these photos of Caitlin's name on a white sand beach in Australia.

Thank you Kay, for your kind gesture. I'm always comforted to see her name. I'm grateful.

At The Beach

Caitlin's Tree Blooms

Here in New England, we haven't had much summer. The thunderstorms have been severe and frequent. Local news reported that we've had more rainy days in June than Seattle. Now that just ain't right! Today was another rainy day. I looked out the window and notice something new . . . Caitlin's tree has begun to bloom!

This brought some comfort today, nicely balancing the painful cemetery visit on July 4th.

When I went out to take a few pics of the blossoms, I captured a lovely creature also out enjoying the blooms, a bee. Now, bereaved mothers will find this next part of my story quite easy to understand and likely will have similar encounters to share.

While at the cemetery, a hawk flew very low over the baby section of the cemetery. The wing-span was enourmous, and I watched it lift and circle until I could no longer find it. I thought of another bereaved mother who has written several times about the significance hawks have for her and her baby boy. I sent them a little hug from us. Another frequent visitor was a red dragon fly. I didn't know they came in red, but I watch this one dart around and hover above the small stones in our little lost baby land. We sent another "universe" hug to a baby boy and his mother who attaches great meaning to the dragon fly for her baby. I looked down at Caitlin's grave and noticed that the grass has nearly succeeded in hiding the wound of cutting the ground to lay her coffin in, and I saw a bee buzzing around this grass by my feet. "Who do you belong to?" I asked out loud. I wrote my poem there, and then sat in silence.

Today, I got my answer. The bee belongs to Caitlin and the flowers on her tree. I love that nature is an avenue of comfort for us on this journey by providing a way to make meaning and find connections to our children.

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

The Four Elements

In the movie, Angels and Demons the four elements, Water, Air, Fire, and Earth, feature prominently. I'm highly susceptible to ways that may provide a framework for understanding this grief journey, and since a reminder of the elements in the movie, I've been reflecting on these elements. I've thought about how they intersect with my life now, and how they might provide a framework for understanding other aspects of this grief journey. After reading a bit (here's one page from online), I discovered that once these elements were fused, but then the forces of love and strife broke and separated them. It was, or perhaps is believed that individuals possess a preference for one of the elements. So I took a quiz (apparently I thought it could tell me something I didn't know, heh heh): I most identify with air, water, and fire, and I least identify with earth. Yeah, I'd say that makes sense. I'm pretty upset with earth right now. The element where my child now rests.

Water washes my wounds, transforms and releases pain through my tears, and gradually wears a new path for this journey.

Air provides transparence to see what is and sustains me as I inhale disbelief, anger, despair, and exhale hope, peace, survival.

Fire burns metaphorically throughout my life destroying me within and without, making room for new growth and a new normal.

My child lies in the Earth. Her body is swallowed and claimed by Earth. Silently resting. Absorbed. Eventually transformed. But the earth is for her, and not yet for me, I am not at peace with this element. Water, Air, and Fire need more time to fuse what strife has separated.





Water is comfort.
Air is hope.
Fire is renewal.
Earth is death.

And yet, healing has begun.

Caitlin's Tree is In

I went to the nursery and chose a tree, and wrote about it here and here. Well, on Memorial Day, our landscaper came out and prepared the bed and planted her tree. We should see blossoms in July and then in the fall we'll see the leaves turn. I love that we can see the tree from our front window of our home. And I love that it lives.

The tree was a gift from a group of DH's colleagues and so I took this picture of the butterfly sympathy card they sent us.

Real Life, Not E-life

Today, I sat at the kitchen table with DH and was distracted, by a bright red cardinal perched on a branch protruding from one of the many pine trees that surround our neighborhood. The pine trees are full of green patches of moss and so the red seemed more stark than perhaps it was. We watched the bird for moments. Only moments and it was such a fulfilling spectacle, though short. We talked about the world around us coming life as spring prepares a way for summer. This preparation that the frogs sing out for us every evening. They croak an almost deafening sound when we are still enough to listen.

And so I'm thinking, I need a little more real-life and a little less e-life. So, like so many bloggers, I find it necessary to write about taking a break from the net, the forums, the blogs, email, and go offline into real life for a few days. (Besides, it's DH's B-day today and I have a few things to do!)

I mean the net has lots to offer, but a red cardinal in the mossy green woods---Can't beat that. And yes, that's one of our frogs (or is it a toad?) hangin' out with us on the deck. I think he thought the pine needle on his back was a nice disguise. Heh heh.

I've left the comments open so if you visit when I'm not "in," you can let me know you stopped by, talk amongst yourselves, or leave a message for the frog! S/he needs a name!

Peace.

More Information on Caitlin's Memory Tree

I wrote about choosing Caitlin's memory tree. Some wanted to know the name of the tree, and so I thought I ought to respond. It's called a Stewartia. The bark pic I shared is one I took of the tree on the nursery property. I found these pics below to share more about the tree. If it s flowering tree and we'll see some fall colors, which is important to me because Caitlin lived and died in the fall months.

A Memory Tree

Shortly, after Caitlin died, a group of people my DH works with gave us a beautiful card to purchase a tree or shrub to plant in memory of our sweet daughter. I couldn't do it. I had received other plants from people and they died (I can't tell you how that sent me over the edge.). Well, not all died the Christmas cactus gaves blooms around Caitlin's birthday and that was amazing, but other plants given, no matter where I put them and tried hard to water them just right---decided not to stick around. I was truly worried about this tree thing. I didn't want to just dig a hole in the ground and plant something. And what would I plant? What if I chose something that doesn't like the weather here. If I planted something so significant, and it died within the year . . . well, I didn't want to think about it.

Well, since then I've gotten much stronger in carrying my grief. And, I'm more able and willing to translate my love for Caitlin into the symbolic planted tree. I wanted to be sure it made sense and didn't look out of place. So, I went to the nursery where the card was given--it had been over a year, so I was worried. But the nursery is a small privately own nursery and I just blurted the story as is the way I am. He came out to our home, took some measurements and created a plan for some decorative landscaping, and today I saw the plan. It's simple, with plants that are hearty and flower and bring color and scent to the area.

And there is a tree. He tells me that the tree will flower, show fall colors, and over time the bark becomes beautiful shades of color---almost like a painter's palette. I told him that I wasn't sure about the tree. "You can use your gift card for the tree, if you wish," he says staring intently at the computer screen. I sat there and thought about it, and realized that the rest of the landscaping was to make the tree make sense. He chose the tree first for Caitlin, just as I had requested: Something hearty, something unique, something that would fit into the landscape like we wanted our daughter to fit into our lives. I felt a bit stupid that I hadn't realized it to begin with, after all that's why I went to the nursery--to find a tree to plant for Caitlin.

He led me to see the young tree that would be planted and then, "let me show you what it will look like after many years." So, we walked over to a tree on the property, that had been there for years. It was beautiful, and the bark was smooth to touch and the subtle colors were as he described. The tree seemed to symbolize that beauty continues to grow with age and weathering the elements. And that's what has been happening to my heart since becoming a mother.

A Fifth Season

I left the house this morning, before noon. It was a decent hour and I was dressed with matching top and pants, pretty professional despite the no socks and sandals. I stepped out into the air and noticed immediately. The air was chilled and my nose hairs anticipated a freeze. I looked with panic at the trees. No they had not turned, yet. That means that the year marker has not arrived. I could keep my delusion of this summer season a bit longer. I made it to my car with my idiosyncratic belief, but the air. The air warned me, “The season will change.”

Fall will come and then the year will be marked, my daughter's first birthday, a Tuesday. It was a Sunday last year, and several weeks before her due date. My mind flashes to the day. My husband reads the list of pre-term labor symptoms. There were 10, I raise my hand at each one. He calmly tells me that we should go to the hospital. The contractions were coming at 3 minutes apart by the time we arrived. The rest is a blur and not a blur. It went so fast and not. The nurse asked me a series of questions and then the gurney and then the oxygen mask, her father at my side, me moaning, and the chatter, “where’s the doctor?” and “she’s on her way.” There was an ultra-sound and a shot for my daughter's lungs and finally a prescription over the phone for pills to stop the contractions. An exam, or two and some number about centimeters and then “no, I’m having a C-section” and then the epidural between contractions. Then I’m in the room with my arms out in a T and her father in my line of sight who taps a steady beat on my chest to calm me. And fear. So much fear. It’s too soon. We’re not ready. She’s not ready. The fear. Please, let her be alive. Let her be OK. She was tiny and red and crying and alive. There was my baby.

I don’t remember the season that day, but I remember the season of her life. Fall. Each day I parented her in the NICU I witnessed the trees turning gold and yellow, and brown taking over the landscape. I was hopeful, though, prayerful, with entreaties for her to survive so she could live at home with us. And then she died. Another season arrived with blankets of snow concealing the deadness of the landscape. Winter set in—set in my heart with a blizzard of blinding emotions and sheets of freezing rain attempting to numb my sorrow. We traveled and I packed her things to go with me. Spring brought flowers and color to the landscape again, and in my heart I did the work of tending my garden of grief.

I can’t find the analogy for the first summer of her death, only that once I looked into the sun hoping that it would blind me first at the eyes and then burn through to make me blinded to all so that like an infant I could not distinguish between myself and anything else, making me exist in all of it and not exist in any of it.

And in that place of being and not being would be a fifth season. A pause.

In our fifth season the tide would transform to crystal clear waters of deep blue calm—no ebb, no flow. Rather an expansive pool, a pause.

Falling rain would hang suspended so I may take my time. No markers of birth and death would be noted, and there would be pause to be within and among the sunshine. In a fifth season, I could revel. I could renew. I could reflect on watching summer give way to fall, the season of her birth and life. I could ready myself to watch fall fade into winter, the season that marks her soul letting go of it’s earthly hold on this earth, like the last gold maple leaf to release itself to the brown grasses below. A fifth season, a respite and a retreat, and a season to know the full weight of her life and death, so when the moon resumes its power over the oceans and the rains pour again--the sun--would know why.