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The Altars We Didn’t Know We Made (or Needed)

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Remember me
Though I have to say goodbye
Remember me
Don’t let it make you cry
For even if I’m far away I hold you in my heart
I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart

Remember me
Though I have to travel far
Remember me
Each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be
Until you’re in my arms again
Remember me

REMEMBER ME (LULLABY)

Let’s be honest—thanks to popular culture, there is curiosity around El Día de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. This Mexican holiday is celebrated on November 1 and 2 to honor and remember deceased loved ones. It is a joy-filled remembrance of life that involves building altars (ofrendas) with offerings, visiting and/or decorating graves, and sharing memories with family. The holiday blends ancient Mesoamerican and Spanish traditions into a celebration that welcomes the spirits of the dead for a brief reunion.

In recent years, this observance has taken on new meaning for me as more loved ones have passed from this life. It may sound selfish, but the idea of dedicating time to remember the most important people in our lives feels far more significant than some of the material-centered holidays we often celebrate. And while Día de los Muertos can be a grand, communal celebration, it can also be quietly observed in solitude.

Lately on social media, many creators have shared their stories, videos, and photos of their ofrendas. Some are elaborate and ornate, while others are simple and serene. Both are equally meaningful. At the same time, I’ve noticed conversations about who is “allowed” to participate, with some insisting on cultural credentials to take part in this day of remembrance. Yet, the overwhelming sentiment remains: we’ve all experienced loss, and the desire to honor those who shaped us is something universal.

A few days ago, I began putting out my Halloween decorations. As a 50-year-old empty nester, I don’t need to do this—and some might argue I shouldn’t—but Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I have such fond memories of it from childhood and of celebrating it with my own kids. What started as a plan to display a few old photos of my kids in their costumes quickly turned into a full-blown decorating session. On the built-in shelves, I decorated every corner, including two spaces where I already have photos of my mom and mother-in-law, and my sweet dog, Madeline.

These memorials stay out year-round. In realizing that, I saw that I had already created my own version of an ofrenda—a quieter one, perhaps, but deeply meaningful. It’s something I see every day. A space that holds memories 24/7. A space I could never imagine packing away. Every time I look at it, I thank God for blessing me with such beautiful souls in my life, even if only for a season.

In the Bible, altars were sacred spaces for worship, sacrifice, and offering—first built by Noah, Abraham, and others. They were places of remembrance, of unity, of meeting with God. Thinking about that reminds me of one of my favorite passages, Joshua 4:6–7, where God tells His people to stack stones by the Jordan River as a lasting reminder of what He did for them:

“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them…”

Both the altar and the memorial stones tell the same story: that remembering matters. That marking what—and who—has shaped us is a sacred act.

I’m not going to tell you to build an altar in your home or decorate an ofrenda. But I will encourage you to make space for remembrance—a moment, a corner, a conversation, or even a prayer—to honor those who came before you and hold space in your heart. Whether through tradition, faith, or personal reflection, remembrance roots us in gratitude.

After all, memory itself is sacred.

Now, tell their stories.

Still Me at 50, Part 3: Boring by Choice, Fabulous by Design

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“For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic saying

Don’t ask me what I want for dinner — I have no idea.
Ask me instead what I don’t want for dinner, and I probably won’t shut up.

One of the most beautiful parts of aging is wisdom. In fact, I think it’s the best part. Living five decades means I have very clear ideas about what works for me and what doesn’t. As a kid, I foolishly thought old people were boring — doing the same things day after day, with no excitement or mystery. Boy, was I wrong. Older folks curate the days they want. They sprinkle in excitement and mystery as it suits them. Old people are so cool.

I’ve tried — okay, half-heartedly — to become a morning person. I am now one with the fact that this will never happen. I’m a night owl. I’m all sunsets and stargazing and very little sunrise. Sure, I can wake with the sun if I absolutely have to. But it will never be my preference. I crave the quiet of night, when most of my time zone is tucked into bed, where they can’t call me, email me, or ask me what’s for dinner.

This is my peace.

Always a picky eater, I now fully embrace eating at home. Here is where all my favorite foods live — in my kitchen, made exactly how I like them. No more standing at restaurant counters wondering which entree I’m going to waste money on today. I don’t mind trying new places, but please don’t judge me when I immediately look for my standbys: sandwiches, soups, and salads.

This is my peace.

And while we’re fixing things: I have about a million brilliant ideas for making the world run more smoothly. (Just ask my friends and family, who lovingly decline every time I suggest they nominate me for President. Cowards.) Still, I stand by my platform: Let’s just make wearing black the standard life uniform and call it a day. As I’ve gotten older, my closet has morphed almost entirely into black — with a pop of color here and there for flair. I keep it real.

This is my peace.

Getting older doesn’t mean giving up excitement — it means getting better at choosing it. It means understanding what brings you comfort, what fuels your joy, and what you’re just fine living without. It’s not boring. It’s a beautiful kind of freedom. And for me, that freedom looks like tacos in my kitchen, black in my closet, sunsets on the hammock — and a little laughter tucked into every corner of the day…because I’m addicted to sitcom reruns.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

Still Me at 50: Just With Stronger Coffee and a Deep Commitment to Quality Breakfast Burritos

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“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.”

— George Bernard Shaw

If you know anything about me, you know that I live to laugh. I credit this quality with helping me lead a happy, mostly peaceful, and unbothered life. I’m the kind of girl who would rather watch silly sitcoms than movies, prefers clever podcasts to dramatic series, and there’s nothing I love more than chatting with a quick-witted friend. So as I celebrate 50 years of life, I’m quietly chuckling at how little my personality has changed over the years.

I was a smiley kid, and I had a wonderful childhood. Comedy was built into our family—though I’m not sure every member of the household remembers it that way. I mean, I found a lot of things absolutely hilarious. I have too many funny memories to count, and thanks to my brothers, I was often the target of their practical jokes. One of the funniest parts now is looking back and laughing at the times I took myself way too seriously. My siblings will gladly tell you how ridiculously clumsy I was, making you belly laugh over the countless times I injured myself trying to do something sporty or just walk in a grocery store. Even today, the best part of going home is all the laughter. It’s in our DNA.

And speaking of DNA—one of the silly routines I’ve carried with me from childhood to adulthood is the importance of breakfast. I think it would warm my mom’s heart (and maybe even get a proud little smile) to know how her breakfast mandate stuck with me over the years. I even harp on my own kids about it. I can’t make travel plans without calculating when and where we’ll get breakfast AND coffee. I go to sleep thinking about breakfast AND coffee. I’ve even said out loud, more than once, “You know what I’m excited about?” That’s right: breakfast AND coffee. You’re laughing at me, but it’s true.

I hope I never stop laughing—especially at myself. Which brings us to the inspiration behind this blog post. Here’s a quick giggle for you. I remember being a 20-year-old college student, rushing into a campus building (coins in hand) to buy a crummy cup of coffee from a vending machine. All the while, I had scrambled eggs wrapped in a tortilla (protected by aluminum foil) tucked into the small pocket of my bag. That was my daily college breakfast. No amount of money could persuade me to drink vending machine coffee today. I still like my coffee strong, but it’s name brand and a whole lot more refined—and yes, I’ve definitely upgraded my breakfast burrito game, too.

At 50, I have leveled up, but make no mistake—I’m still that same girl laughing at her own clumsiness, with a heart full of gratitude, coffee in hand… and probably some salsa on her shirt.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette Three)

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My favorite hiding place is music. Unknown.

I started taking piano lessons sometime during elementary school, though the exact year escapes me. I recall learning finger placements, scales, and, of course, how to read music. I had truly wonderful piano teachers who were both encouraging and straightforward. Practice was not just necessary but absolutely required. Whoa, the child who showed up unprepared! I took seriously the idea of practicing every day and it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized what an undertaking that was…not for me, but for my family!

I have a feeling that my personal practice policy was not a directive from either of my teachers but more a process of self-flagellation that I created all on my own. It went something like this, miss a note…start over…from the beginning. Repeat. This may not sound like a horrible methodology, but when you’re a child and prone to mistakes, practice sessions could go on…and on…and on.

My mom had this one joke that she liked to tell over and over. It was probably extra funny because it went right over my head. She would say, “Can you play far, far away?” I naively thought that was the name of a song rather than a location. I’m certain she made this joke for years before I finally got it. Did I mention that our piano was in the living room?

And all that long lead-up to get to another one of my favorite Christmas gifts—my Casio keyboard. Oh, how I wanted a keyboard! Oh, how I loved that keyboard! Oh, how wild it is that 37 years later I still have that keyboard AND IT STILL WORKS!

The keyboard was a gift when I was 12 years old. I wanted a keyboard so bad…think Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun. I would hint about it, talk about it, scheme about it, write about it, and I would lay out my case about why this would be such a good Christmas present. And then on Christmas…I got it!

I certainly didn’t deserve a Casio keyboard. I can play piano but I am no virtuoso. Our family budget didn’t warrant it, not by a long shot. Undoubtedly, I probably wasn’t extra good or anything like that. That’s one of the most remarkable lessons about love, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve (good or bad).

I found out later that my mom and dad bought the last keyboard in the store. It was the demo keyboard on the shelf. Mom said they almost didn’t sell it to her. Yet, she persisted. There was no stand, no box, just the keyboard, and the plug-in adapter. Since it was opened she was cautioned that the purchase was “as is,” no refunds. I should tell Casio just what a quality product they made back in the 1980s.

I don’t have to tell you I was the happiest kid in the whole world that Christmas. Oh, I had big plans. I was going to practice more than ever, I was going to be able to play everything from classical to pop music, I was going to write songs like Debbie Gibson…. Then my mom told me, “You know there’s a little plug-in on the back so you can play with headphones…in your room.”

I guess that counts as far, far away.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette Two)

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“A typewriter is a portal to worlds waiting to be discovered.” – Neil Gaiman

When I was eight I marched right into the kitchen and told my mom that I was going to college. She asked if I even knew what college was and I said, of course I do. It’s where you go after high school. And that was about as much as I knew about that. It wasn’t long after when I declared that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure she wasn’t too surprised. I had been writing and illustrating my own books and telling bedtime stories to my siblings for years. Around 4th or 5th grade, I decided that I wasn’t going to be just any kind of writer, I would be a reporter and a reporter needs a typewriter.

At Christmas time I received a Petite 600, a portable little typewriter complete with a learner’s manual. I’m not sure how much of an odd ask it is to request a typewriter at Christmas time, but I’ll admit now that I was an odd kid. Opening that present was the beginning of a new era for me. And while I was not a good typist, typing was a heck of a lot faster than writing things out and that was good enough for me.

I remember writing stories and even creating my own family newspaper. I would play “newsroom” and “reporter” all the time. I would use carbon paper when I typed so I could create multiple copies of my newspaper to distribute. My sister and I even secured a Barbie 6 O’Clock News Play Set. The determination level was high.

I did go to college and became a reporter and as a blogger today, I’m still writing. Receiving a typewriter was one of my absolute favorite gifts. It was more than just getting what you want under the tree. The magic was in getting the typewriter you wanted because someone believed in your dreams just as much as you did. You can’t buy that kind of gift.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette One)

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“Christmas is a piece of one’s home that one carries in one’s heart.” – Freya Stark

The nostalgia of Black Friday shopping rears its head this time every year. Most people glorify the event, and as someone who tiptoed into these waters in the early 2000s, I never really experienced its full heyday. I’ve waited in pre-dawn lines and weaved through the crowds, but no punches were thrown, no shoving of any kind, and definitely no arrests. Still, whenever I think about Black Friday my mind immediately goes back to the 1980s when I was a kid and my Mom somehow managed to secure Cabbage Patch Kid dolls for me and my little sister.

I regret never asking mom for the full story, but I remember minor details. It went something like this: We desperately wanted Cabbage Patch Kids. We likely kept mentioning it and basically annoying my mom to no end. Miraculously the dolls showed up under the tree that Christmas! However, we both received boy dolls. First, I didn’t know Cabbage Patch Kids could be boys as all of my other dolls were girls. Second, my mom was prepared for our shock and confusion as she immediately told us we could adopt them as girls…if we wanted to. Her exact words were, “Peyton and Ramsey can be boy or girl names. So you get to choose.” Who knew?

Amanda had Ramsey and designated her doll a girl on the spot. This was easy to do because Ramsey had a gender-neutral outfit on. One hair bow later and she was all set! Peyton was another story. My doll was wearing a full-on football uniform. He had a helmet, a green jersey and white pants with a green stripe. Then my dad said something along the lines of maybe he’s named after Walter Payton. I knew who Walter Payton was and although my doll’s name was spelled differently, it all made sense to me. My doll stayed a boy. It was love at first sight!

We took those silly dolls everywhere. Back and forth to our grandparents, on car rides, and to bed with us every night. We snuggled them and dressed them in baby clothes. We took them to the grocery store. One of my favorite memories is that Amanda and I put both our dolls in the front of the cart and strapped them in like real babies and then we wandered off leaving my mom pushing around a cart of dolls while shopping. I remember that she wasn’t happy with us after all the strange looks she got that day in the store.

The following Christmas we received another Cabbage Patch Kid doll. Girls this time. Wanda was a cheerleader, the perfect match for my Peyton! I have a zillion stories about these dolls. We had so many adventures and eventually, I passed them on to my own daughter. While I’ll never know the full story of how my mom managed to snag our Cabbage Patch Kids, I do know that the magic of Christmas extends well beyond the day. It lives in these precious memories.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

Rage Shopping (Not My Finest Quality, But It Might Be My Funniest)

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My least favorite aspect of shopping is shopping. —A.J. Mendez

Usually, it’s bacon but today is was greeting cards.

Turns out while I have a million and one thank you, birthday, happy graduation and Chrismas cards in the home office, what I didn’t have were wedding cards. Who knew? So, I did what anyone else would do in my situation—I hotfooted it over to Dollar Tree and bought more than my fair share. Not just wedding cards, but blank all occassion cards, too, because you’re not going to catch me lacking. And why not, this is America, right?

My behavior has been lovingly dubbed by my family as “rage shopping.” Used in a sentence: “We’re out of (insert item here) and Mom bought a thousand of them so she NEVER has to do it again.” Pretty straightforward.

I’m not sure when it happened, but I fell out of love with shopping and not just for groceries, but for anything. I don’t want to buy shoes or clothes. I don’t want to shop for home decor. I’m not into jewelry or other fancy things. We can blame Amazon Prime for it, but the reality is my anti-shopping attitude has been decades in the making. I’m a pretty simple girl and I would just rather spend my time doing other things, like listening to podcasts. If I had my way, we would order absolutely EVERYTHING. I’m trying to decide, does that make me crazy, lazy or both?

Recently, I’ve added a new dimension to my rage shopping. It’s the rage I experience when they don’t let you pick up something from an online shopping order. Have you experienced this? For example, there are certain more popular coffee brands that you can only purchase INSIDE THE STORE. Excuse me? Sometimes when I am trying to order a product I’ve purchased a thousand times over it suddenly is removed from my online cart, only to find out that they have rows of the product INSIDE THE STORE. Pardon? While some stores will tell you upfront that the item is available in store only, other establishments make you think that they’ve been out of an item for months only to find out that there’s plenty, but it’s a privilege for in store shoppers only. What?

Let’s be honest, I’m not the person in the house who does the bulk of the shopping but recently I have been a little more adventurous, especially with the kids home from college. I’ve been everywhere…Walmart, Target, Kohls, Trader Joe’s, Marshalls, Michaels, Ulta, HomeGoods, Sephora, Academy, Old Navy…honestly the list goes on and on, it’s too long in fact. And I can confirm, I am reallly, REALLY not into shopping.

Still, since the kids are dragging me to all these places you better believe I’ll be stocking up on EVERYTHING. Rage shopping for the win.

Puppy Tales: In Loving Memory of Maddie

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Madeline Rose Spencer, April 2008-September 2023

“Dogs leave paw prints on your heart.”

—Anonymous

Everyone should have a cup of coffee with a dog. Just try to make sure it’s not the same cup. More on that in a moment….

Losing a dog is hard. No one tells you just how hard it will be. After almost fifteen years, our Maddie is gone. She was the absolute best dog. That’s easy for me to say, but I wholeheartedly believe it. I had no idea what we signed up for when we brought her into our home. She was a gift for my son’s 7th birthday and as crazy as it sounds, we found her on Craigslist. Really. We loaded up the “swagger wagon” (our minivan) and hotfooted it 70 miles north to Lindsborg, Kansas to pick her up. The whole thing was sketchy. Really. Top to bottom sketchy, but we headed back home with a four month old Aussie and some super excited kids in the backseat.

I always claimed to be a dog person, but the reality is that I was more of a dog-adjacent person. Meaning that I like dogs (way better than cats) but I had also never had a dog of my own. Sure we had dogs growing up, however, they weren’t my responsibility. EVER. I can recall letting the dogs in and out and occassionally feeding them, but that’s the extent of my dog experience.

My son, Sean, always wanted a dog. ALWAYS. He had a stuffed dog as a baby and just seemed naturally drawn to dogs. He wanted a dog as a toddler. He wanted a dog as a preschooler. He wanted a dog…well, you get the picture. We told him that as soon as we had a house with a fenced backyard we would get a family dog. In July 2008, we moved into a house and had a dog by September. He held us to our word.

I could write novels on all of Maddie’s adventures. She was a herding breed and exercised that trait over and over. The poor kids were frequently rounded up and pinned up against trees, fences, the house…you name it. The more they screamed, the more excited Maddie got. Maddie was tiny when we got her, but it’s hard to imagine her that way because she grew up alongside the kids. My daughter, Casey, baptized Maddie an innumerable amount of times and both kids taught her tricks. She escaped the backyard on Christmas Day resulting in the Great Snowscape of 2008. Maddie knocked our Christmas tree over too many times to count. We discovered she had an affinity for sugar cookies…both baked and unbaked, resutling in several cookie capers and vomit. There was Maddie’s Deep Depression Era the summer when her fur was shaved to all of our horror! She was incredibly protective. She let her presence be known every time someone came in or out of the house. She nipped at everyone, even Sean and Casey whom she saw every day. We’re pretty sure she only actually got a hold of one person’s backside, but I can’t verify this. This dog. Oh, how we loved her.

Maddie was named after the character with the same moniker from “The Suite Life of Zach and Cody” show on Disney Channel. I started calling her Madeline because I love the Madeline books and I felt like it had a little more gravity when I was trying to be stern with the dog…this of course never worked. Maddie or Madeline, she remained indifferent and only listened when it suited her.

I’m grateful for the time we had together. Our family is better for it. Maddie brought joy, laughter, antics, adventures, and occasionally bewilderment to our household. She was all personality. She was the softest dog on the planet, and I can say this with all certainty because that was one of the most common compliments she received. She was beautiful and at almost 15 years had practically no gray at all to her coat. We loved to take photos and videos of her…running, playing with her toys, catching the ball, sleeping on the couch when she wasn’t allowed to be on the furniture…you get the picture. Casey had some of the best photos of her. Of course, Maddie wouldn’t pose…even if you bribed her, but Casey managed to get some great shots. I’m glad we have these reminders to keep her memory alive.

I’ll share my absolute favorite Maddie story now: Everyone should have a cup of coffee with a dog. Just try to make sure it’s not the same cup. When Maddie was a puppy she quickly became my sidekick. Not because I was her favorite (far from it), but because I was the one she got stuck with at home. Every morning Steve and kids would leave for work and school and Maddie would be with me. If you know me, I am not a morning person and thus coffee is vital for survival. I had the same routine. Get everyone out the door, pour myself a cup of coffee, set it on the coffee table in the living room and head back to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of Cheerios. We had one of those hand-me-down, low level ’70s coffee tables, the perfect height to put your feet up on or rest your coffee cup, but also the perfect height for a puppy to indulge herself in a new treat. Of course, Maddie wasn’t greedy. She’d just take a few licks from the top…while I was grabbing my breakfast. I was new to dogs, she was new to coffee and it was probably two weeks before I knew what she was doing. Caught in the act, I poured out the coffee, recalled the scene from Charlie Brown where Lucy goes nuts about dog germs, and started a new routine. If you’re going to walk away from your coffee cup, make sure it’s on a tall (very tall) surface. You might wonder how I wasn’t aware of this before, but as I mentioned earlier, I was a dog-adjacent person. Maddie and I, we learned together.

My coffee cup is safe now. I wish it wasn’t.

We love you, Maddie-girl. You are missed a thousand times every day.

A home without a dog is just a house.

anonymous

This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (Halloween Edition)

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This song has been on repeat in my brain for several days now, almost like it’s haunting me. Not because I’m a Swiftie, not because of the recent Taylor and Travis love story (of which I am a big fan,) and not because I heard it on the radio recently. So obviously, I’ve been a little spooked as to what has triggered my most recent earworm.

This is why we can’t have nice things, darling
Because you break them, I had to take them…

TAYLOR SWIFT

I will admit that the song title has practically become a permanent part of my vocabulary lately. I’m not necessarily singing it, but I am saying it quite a bit. It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.” Basically, it’s my feeble attempt to explain why things go wrong, people can’t get along, and miscommunication abounds. In other words, we’re all imperfect humans who don’t know how to talk to each other and so we take the easy road (and not the high road as some might have you believe) and we default to the cut-off. (Insert scream here!)

It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.”

hymningandhaing.com

We refuse to hear each other out. It’s early October and already I’ve seen three videos and heard one podcast giving talking points about how to shut down your annoying relative over Thanksgiving dinner. There are how-to articles with tips on how to cut-off just about every type of relationship imaginable: boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, parent/child, friends, coworkers, neighbors, acquaintances, and even strangers. What was once thought of as a jerk traffic manuever, cut-off has quickly become a scary way of life.

I’m not saying there aren’t reasons to cut people out of your lives. Clearly, there are. We all know that cut-off has been happening since the dawn of time. Still, it seems that with cut-off there’s a history of incidents or behavior between the parties involved where the cut-off might be warranted. This is why today’s new version of cut-off seems so violent. You can be talking to someone one day and then find yourself blocked or unfriended the next day. Yikes.

It’s almost as if cut-off has morphed into ghosting? (If you’re not familiar with ghosting, the dictionary defines it as the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.) It’s a little unnerving isn’t it? Unlike cut-off where there is an incident or series of incidences that lead up to the end of communication, ghostings often happens with no context whatsover. You exist, they exist, but you go about your lives as if you never knew each other. Creepy. Lately, I’ve been told by more than a handful of people that they’ve been ghosted by someone they thought they knew and trusted. Then poof…they’re gone.

At this point in my life, there’s been a lot of soul searching. I think it’s a natural part of maturing and aging. Maybe this is why this song has been resounding in my head AND my spirit. As we move into this political season and closer and closer to the holidays my heart is heavy. So often I’m reminded that relationships are the most important part of life. More important than jobs, money, status, ego…you name it. And yet here we are, so ready to throw people away. Is it really impossible for two parties to sit down and have a conversation? Perhaps find a way to air out their grievances and make amends? And if that’s not possible, at least understand the reason for the cut-off?

I can only speak for myself, but I have seen firsthand the pain and heartache associated with cut-off. I’m a big believer of forgiveness, living without regret, thinking before you speak, pausing before you act and trying to put myself in the other person’s shoes. None of which guarantees anything. But it’s a start. It’s scary out there. Without the effort, the song will hauntingly play on…”this is why we can’t have nice things.”

The tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood.

Henry David Thoreau

“Griefing”…Marking Three Years (A Life Interrupted)

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I’ve taken to making up words. I guess that’s what happens after three years. We’ve moved past the point of surviving and here we are in this new reality—”griefing.” No longer adjusting to life without Mom as we are in fact living our lives without Mom. As you can imagine, this brings about a whole new stage of sadness.

While in survival mode the days blurred together. My mind began noting all of the things she was missing. All the milestones, events, holidays and ordinary moments. I would catch myself saying, “Mom should be here.” In survival mode you look at the calendar and note how much time has passed. In this early stage of grief you remember where you were in the days leading up to her positive COVID test, ER visits, hospital stay and ultimately her death. In survival mode you are doing everything you can to just get by. Griefing is different.

Griefing is living daily with this neverending sorrow. I feel like it’s a permanent stage, one you can’t escape. It feels like a step that will neither get better nor worse. The memories exist, but we are now making memories without her. I hate this feeling. The sting is still there, the tears remain just below the surface and yet there is this awful resignation. Understanding that this is part of the human condition doesn’t make it better. Knowing that millions of people feel exactly the same way doesn’t make it any easier. It’s this hidden current that runs through society and no one wants to talk about it. Ever.

It’s interesting to me that in the aftermath of COVID we are hearing more about prolonged grief and complicated grief as mental health conditions. Many are receiving these diagnoses and seeking treatment. And while I understand that some of the characteristics of these conditions are severe (such as the inability to resume daily activites, etc) I also think that our failure to cope with loss has more to do with a lack of communication and overall empathy for one another. I could go on and on about the societal demand to resume our work schedule, home life and the call to return to “normal,” but these things have become a staple of modern living and will lkely never change.

There are some things in life that we will never fully understand, death being one of them. Losing my Mother has changed my perspective on so many things. I now posess a form of patience and compassion that surprises me to this day. I have been humbled in a way I could have never imagined. Empathy has changed how I react to everything. I am different now. I am griefing.

Writing has been my therapy, the best form of solace for my grief. Who knows where I will be in this journey a year from now, five years from now or even ten (if I am afforded that luxury). They say time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. I’ll stand by that.

“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my Mother to COVID-19.