Your Dad Is Here

I see my husband in my son in small ways:  the way he rolls up his long sleeved shirts, the set of his jaw when he is annoyed or determined to do something he really wants to accomplish and the way he plays chicken with his car's gas tank and won't fill it up until it is almost empty.

When I see those traits it is bittersweet: they make me laugh and but they also make me feel a little sad and wistful.    "He is still with us," I think to myself.  My husband had a very strong personality so I am not surprised that I see some of him in our son.  It's just when those quirky things appear, they always have a way of taking me by surprise.

 

 

 

My thoughts today are with fathers and the important role they play in their children's lives.  While my son's father died nine years ago, I appreciate the important role he played in our young son's life and how his influence can still be felt today.

 

Please read the timely story below which I found on the insightful website, Hello Grief (www.hellogrief.org).  The author, Abigail Carter, sweetly reminds us of the importance of Dads everywhere; the ones who are with us today and the ones that we forever hold in our hearts.

 

Happy Father's Day!

 

 

 

Every Day is Father’s Day

By Abigail Carter
June 8, 2010 

Father’s Day never held much importance for our family until the death of my husband, Arron, father of our two young children.

 

The day usually began with a childish command for him to stay in bed so he could be the lucky recipient of a sticky tray of burnt pancakes and watery coffee, and be handed a construction paper card with “I lov you dady,” in bright red crayon, or a popsicle stick picture frame with a blurry Polaroid of a proud pre-schooler.

 

Later in the day, as he jiggled the kids around on the heavy metal lumber cart at Home Depot, I refrained from my usual “step away from the power tools,” and allowed him to run amuck, our list of supplies forgotten in his pocket. For dinner I would make one of his favorites – chicken stew, or if the weather was nice, a steak grilled on the BBQ and a glass of wine after the kids were in bed.

 

Our first Father’s Day after his death was spent in the company of several other widows on a deserted New Jersey Shore beach watching our children romp around in the waves or play in the sand, wishing we had the ability to play so freely, wishing we could have our old lives back. The male volunteers who grilled hot dogs for lunch just seemed to add salt to our wounds.

 

The days and weeks afterward were spent in a heightened state of agitation to which we were oblivious – fighting, frustrated, exhausted – until someone pointed out how difficult Father’s Day must have been. Finally able to connect the dots between the day and the aggression that had settled upon my family, the black moods eventually dissipated, at least until the next event that needed to braced for, like one of the kid’s birthdays, or another wedding anniversary. Year two was a repeat of year one, the bracing, the beach, the fatherless kids, the male volunteers, the loneliness, the anger, the exhaustion.

 

Friends and family, while well-meaning often added to the stress, building the potential heart-break of the day by calling to offer sad Happy Father’s Day wishes, or to offer to take the kids away, thinking that what they needed was to spend time with a man, one that was usually someone else’s father.

 

There was another year, the year I picked my son up from Pre-K after his class had been busy making presents for their fathers, and when we got into the car, he threw the present at me, something square wrapped in emerald green tissue paper. “Who am I going to give this to?” He yelled. “All the other kids have dads and I don’t!” In one day, with the realization that he was not like all the other kids, he had gone from a sad child to an angry one – anger that eight years later is only beginning to dissipate.

 

For many widows with children, Father’s Day creeps up and pounces on us. Sometimes we just anticipate it with dread – more glaring evidence of what we have lost. Everyone (not just widows) tries to celebrate the day in some meaningful way, trying to honor that special Dad. Newspapers and television ads are filled with things we are meant to buy, sentiments we are meant to feel. There is so much pressure to ‘honor” our loved one properly, even when they are alive, but no one seems quite sure how to go about doing so.

 

We have tried a variety of different activities on Father’s Day. Things my husband would have enjoyed: bike rides in the park, planting a shrub in the garden, an IMAX movie downtown, a steak on the BBQ. The day has become less sad, held less meaning as the kids grow and have adapted to their life with only one parent. But with each passing year, Father’s Day becomes less and less volatile.

 

The kids have almost passed the period in elementary school where presents are being made in class. And if they are, the kids have adapted. Presents have been awarded to grandfathers or other men of importance in their lives at the time. I considered last year a kind of breakthrough when my son, still in elementary school decided to participate in his class’s annual Father’s Day craft project. When the day arrived, he presented his gift to me saying, “since you are pretty much like our dad as well as our mom, this is for you.” It was the compliment of a lifetime, and reminded me how far we had all come.

 

This year will be our eighth Father’s Day without a father to honor, and again, it will likely be passed with very little fanfare. In other years I have felt guilt for wanting to ignore these events, making up for it by forcing a celebration with trips to the beach, riding bikes, making Mickey Mouse pancakes – pretending that our family was still whole, pretending that my husband could still appreciate these efforts. It was my son who finally reminded me of the pressures I was putting on all of us when he asked, “Why do we always do all this stuff on Father’s Day when we don’t even have a dad?” I thought we had been doing it to remember him, but I realized that really I was doing it because I felt like I had to. My efforts were stressing me out and doing nothing to help us remember Arron, let alone honor him.

 

Instead of pancakes and bike rides and beach trips one day every June, I realized that all it takes to celebrate Father’s Day is for me to recognize one of my husband’s goofy expressions in our daughter, or his familiar glint of mischief in the eye of our son and laugh saying, “you look just like your father when you do that!”

 

That way every day is Father’s Day.
 

* * * *
By guest writer, Abigail Carter. View more of her essays at www.alchemyofloss.com ^[2] and learn more about her at www.abigailcarter.com ^[3].

Fathers & Sons

Today I'm going to visit my Dad and celebrate Father's Day a day early.

My son won't be joining me because he is out of town visiting his girlfriend.  Even if my son were here in town, I would still be emotionally torn on Father's Day.

My Dad is still alive and our family is lucky and blessed to have him. But my son's father, who was also my husband, died nine years ago and the celebration of Father's Day makes me feel guilty and conflicted. Guilty because my father is alive and his isn't.  Conflicted because I want to make my son and my Dad happy about this day but I can't.  I know, I know, life is never fair but I wish my son could have had more time with his father when his father was in better health.

 

The memories that hold true for my son of his father involves hospitals, doctor's offices, medicine, and constant badgering from me to get his father to do the things he needed to do to stay healthy.  My son was too young at the time of his father's good health to truly remember the Halloween outings, Christmases, beach vacations and other fun times we did have as a family.  There are lots of pictures to remind him, but that's not the same.

 

 

I can't change that for my son but I still wish for it.

I've asked him about his feelings when Father's Day arrives and he just quietly says he doesn't like to watch other people with their fathers. That's probably the understatement of the century. He also says that he forgot that this weekend was Father's Day. Right. When he does see fathers and sons together, I know his mind starts to wander and he thinks about how it might have been different for him if his Dad hadn't gotten sick and died when he was 13-years old.

And that makes me feel bad even though I have no way to change the situation.

So full of guilt, I go visit my Dad and hang out with him for awhile and wish I could make things different for my wonderful son who deserves to have his healthy Dad with him today.
 

Embrace Your Journey

"Embrace Your Journey."

You may have wondered why that phrase is listed at the top of my blog underneath the title, "Cry, Laugh, Heal. " 

"Embrace Your Journey" is something called a tagline, a phrase to give you -- my fantastic, wonderful and supportive readers -- a heads up about the things that I'm going to write about.  Things that have helped me to slowly but surely work my way through the loss of my husband, learn to be both mother and father to a young son and develop resilience.  "Embrace Your Journey" helps me to set a tone of strength and acceptance and even humor in the posts that I write for you and it lets you know this is my approach to living life -- no matter what hits the fan.

Embrace Your Journey No Matter Where It Leads

I came to call this phrase my own because I truly believe that I get out of life what I put into it.  Things may happen to me that I cannot control but I can choose how to react to it.  I can stay down for the count or I can choose to get up and try again.  I can choose whether to be positive or negative.  I can choose whether or not to hold on to something that hurt me, something that made me feel bad or something that didn't work out right.  Me.  All by myself in the driver's seat. 

Sounds simple right?  No way.  It is anything but simple.  It took me years of living and making mistakes and talking and support groups and feeling bad and more talking and gaining experience from all of that up and down and turned around rigamarole to get to this somewhat healthy point of view. 

It all hit the fan for me in 2003 when my husband died.  I had no idea what life had in store for me and our young son but I was sure that I was going to do my best to make a good life for us.  At the time, it looked like a dead end.  Truly I felt as if I were free falling off a cliff and who knew what was going to happen next?  But then daily small decisions and small steps built upon themselves and my confidence began to come back.  I actually began to believe that I would heal.  There were a lot of stops and starts, a lot of two steps forward and five backwards.  But eventually it all began to work together and I began to see that day by day life was going to stabilize and get better.

It will never be the life I had before but it is a different life and I am blessed to have what I have.

It is not easy, I will be honest with you about that.  There were times when I completely fell apart and also times when I forced myself to do things I really, really didn't want to do but knew were good for me.

For some reason, the pain made me grow.  The pain made me a better person.  Now isn't that weird?  I would never wish pain on anyone but sometimes you have to feel it to work through it, and when you find yourself on the other side of it, you feel emotionally stronger and confident.  You feel as though you can deal with anything that life might toss your way because you have already lost everything and come back from that deep pain.

The pain made me reshuffle my priorities and now I look at life differently.  I appreciate it more and I also understand how quickly it can change.

Your present journey may not be everything you want it to be, but don't be afraid to work on your journey and embrace it for what it is.  Embrace it for its beauty.  Embrace it for the pain.  Embrace it for the laughs.  Embrace it because it's yours.

Believing is half the battle.  I know you can do it.
 

Life's Garden of Loved Ones

Two tropical storms have moved through the Washington, DC area recently and we are getting more than our usual dose of rain.  Not complaining because I like the rain.  It's good for our gardens and everything feels clean after a good downpour.

 

This summer I am trying to pay more attention to the plants in my yard which I guess I think of as my garden even though they are not all planted in one contained space.  I planted some lettuce, rosemary and basil along with geraniums and marigolds.  Watching things grow is hopeful!

 

As you wake-up and embrace today's events, here's a good thought about life's garden of loved ones:

Photo Courtesy of French Essence

"Let us be grateful to

people who make us happy;

they are the charming

gardeners who make our

souls blossom."

 

          ~ Marcel Proust, French Author

 

 

The Uncertain Path of Newtown's Mourning Parents

It is rare for a national newspaper to begin a story on its Sunday front page that then continues to run for five pages of copy and pictures inside the paper and is dedicated to the subject of grief.

 

But that is just what The Washington Post did yesterday and Eli Saslow, who wrote and reported the devastating story, and Linda Davidson, who photographed the compelling pictures for the story, deserve a standing ovation for bringing much needed attention to what life is now like for the Barden family of Newtown, Connecticut, a family in the throes of raw, searingly painful grief as they try to figure out what to do next since 7-year-old Daniel Barden, the youngest in the Barden family, was shot and killed at his school.

 

Seven Year Old Daniel Barden

Mark and Jackie Barden's 7-year-old son, Daniel, attended Sandy Hook School Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.  On December 14, 2012, Adam Lanza, 20, fatally shot 20 children, including Daniel Barden, and 6 adults in a mass murder at Sandy Hook Elementary.

 

Yesterday morning when I went out to the front yard to pick up The Washington Post, I pulled the paper out of it's plastic sleeve and flipped it over to see what was happening on the paper's front page.  I immediately saw the story's headline, "Into The Lonely Quiet," and started reading it as I went up the steps and back into the house.  I was riveted.  I continued to read the story about the Barden family as I found a chair and didn't stop reading it until I reached the last word at the end of the story that is so sad on so many levels.

 

Please read this insightful story about the Barden family.  My prayers are with them as they try to navigate the tragic loss of their young son, Daniel, pictured above.

Here is the link to The Washington Post story:

 

http://www.washingtonpost.com/national/after-newtown-shooting-mourning-parents-enter-into-the-lonely-quiet/2013/06/08/0235a882-cd32-11e2-9f1a-1a7cdee20287_story.html

 

That's What Friends Are For

 

 

 

 

This past weekend I met up with three of my best girlfriends to celebrate my recent birthday.

 

I have known these special women for decades and we have been through a lot with each other and for each other.  Birthdays, weddings, funerals, break-ups, new jobs, new houses, vacations -- we have been through it all! 

 

The beauty of being friends for a long time is that you don't have to explain everything.  One person can mention a certain situation or a person's name and we know right away what that means.  We know the things that make us laugh and the things that drive us crazy.

We always celebrate each other's birthdays and this time we went to a small French cafe in Georgetown for brunch.  It was misty and rainy outside and the inside of the restaurant was quiet and cozy.  No one was in a hurry and we settled in for a few hours and just enjoyed each other's company.

What a treat!!!!

Each one of my friends is a treasure and I love all of my girlfriends.  Real friends are made one at a time and sometimes through a shared activity.  I have some special friends I have gotten to know because our sons went to school together and I have other friends I have made through work and volunteering. They are the butter on my bread, the icing on my cupcakes.  They are the people that I cry, laugh and heal with.

All of them add that extra special something that makes me pause and say to myself, "I am lucky to know her and have her as a friend."

I find that my friends provide a layer of protection against life's setbacks and disasters.  I try to comfort and listen to their ups and downs as they do for me.  A true friend is a connection to life.

Friends care about what is going on in your life and with them you can always be yourself.  You can spill out your thoughts, even when they don't make any sense, and your friends take the time to figure it all out and make you feel that it's okay.  Or in my case, sometimes my friends put me back on the right track when I have lost my way....Thank goodness for that!!!!!

I need hugs and smiles and laughter.  I think we all do. 

When we isolate ourselves, we lose an essential connection to people and psychologists report that cutting yourself off from people can make you sick because you keep all of your feelings and thoughts locked inside and your body can't take it.  Your immune system can become compromised and other conditions such as heart disease can develop.

Thank you my special, extraordinary friends and my great readers for being there and for being your wonderful selves!!!

As the saying goes, you have to be a friend to have a friend!!!!
 

The Big 300

 

 

Today marks my 300th post.

It's a personal milestone and truly a huge deal for me.  Big thanks go out to all of my family (especially my son, Ryan, who is my biggest blog cheerleader), friends and readers out there in the internet world who read Cry, Laugh, Heal.   You give me more than you know and I read and respond to all of the great feedback I receive!  And I hope to receive lots more feedback as I continue to write about the incredibly silly, sometimes sad and mostly spontaneous events that happen to me on my new journey as a widow and single mother.

I thought it would be appropriate to go back to the beginning, to the very first post I wrote launching Cry, Laugh Heal in December 2010.  This post is special to me because I had no idea what I was doing -- not that I really know now what I am doing -- but back then I really had no idea where Cry, Laugh Heal was going and what the reaction to it would be.  I just decided to jump in and try it and see what would happen.

 

When I read that first post today, I see a different person, a person still yearning to go backwards to the time when my husband was alive and well.  I still feel that way sometimes but now the feeling comes less frequently and not as strong as it did then. 

I definitely still feel passionately about changing the way people think about grief and trying to help people as they try to rebuild their lives after the loss of a loved one.  That's the reason I started Cry, Laugh, Heal: to open up the subject of grief and it's resulting resilience.  Grief is a natural reaction to a loved one's death and eventually it will happen to you whether you like it or not.  It doesn't help anyone when we make grief a taboo topic.

Everyone's grief journey is unique and certainly full of ups and downs.  I have found that for most people, the passage of time tends to lessen the waves of pain and eventually, the loss becomes less raw and more manageable.  One day, after many years, I had what is called a light bulb moment and finally realized that my husband would never want me or our son to be miserable.  I can't tell you how or why it happened, but it finally clicked in my brain that he would have wanted us to heal and find happiness.

To my great surprise, I have discovered that an inner strength does slowly build with the taking of each day as it comes to me.

I hope you enjoy reading my first post:

Clothes To You

December 23, 2010 

With the today's launch of Cry, Laugh, Heal, I’ll start by sharing an unexpected moment that helped me cope with my husband’s death.

Grieving can take you down some unpredictable paths -- sometimes revealing humor where you least expect it.

I learned the importance of having a sense of humor early in life while growing up in a large Irish Catholic family. If you couldn’t laugh at yourself, then someone else would imitate you until you did. So laughing and making jokes about life’s bumps in the road was part of my DNA, an integral part of my spirit, and it served me well until my husband died.

Suddenly, I found myself in this new role of being a middle-aged widow and single mother and I felt as though I was outside of myself performing some sort of high-wire act. On the one hand I was trying to move forward and support my young son, while on the other hand I was completely numb. As much as my family and friends supported me, I felt as if no one really got my “spin cycle” of emotions and what I was trying to handle.

I decided I needed to find others who had also lost loved ones and talk to them about how they managed to put the pieces back together and go on with their lives. I started going to group support sessions at Sibley Hospital’s bereavement group called Widowed Persons Outreach (WPO) and it was there that I found the emotional resources and freedom to talk about ALL the issues surrounding my husband’s death -- even the things that sound really irreverent and crazy to other people.

Talking about the emptiness, the surreal feelings, the memories and the loss of future memories was exhausting but therapeutic. But the best thing that came out of these emotional dialogues was that I unexpectedly rediscovered my sense of humor.

We were talking about what happens when you have buried your loved one yet their belongings – their clothes, their food, their books, most of what they owned – is still all around you. I jumped into the discussion and began talking about what happened to me one day when I was in the house all by myself. That particular day, I really felt like I was falling apart and all I wanted was some kind of contact with my husband.

I opened my cell phone, walked around the room and stared at it, thinking there actually was the possibility that something might happen -- a ring, a text, a signal of some sort from my husband. I know it sounds strange but when you are in the throes of deep grief and your loss is so raw, you are just hurting and not being logical.

I closed my eyes and imagined that he was hugging me. Then I opened the hall closet and took one of his tweed jackets off the hanger. I put it on and of course I immediately felt better. I smelled him in that precious jacket and I imagined his arms around me. I was comforted and torn up at the same time.

As I talked about this experience to my group, I said to the husky man sitting across from me, “Trying on his clothes really made me feel a lot better. Haven’t you ever done the same thing?”

Without missing a beat, he said with a completely straight face, “I gotta tell you. I have never, ever once thought about wearing my wife’s clothes.”

I totally burst out laughing. Something about the serious expression on his face, his delivery and the mental picture of this big guy in a small pastel sweater made me laugh so hard I couldn’t get my breath. And everyone else started laughing too so I knew that we had hit on something close to people’s hearts.

It was then that I knew life was going to be a little softer. Nothing was going to be great or wonderful; just slightly more bearable. For a long time, I didn’t think it was okay to laugh. I wasn’t supposed to be enjoying myself and besides, nothing was funny to me anyway.

There is a very thin line between crying and laughing. Many times you find yourself doing one of them and all of a sudden you are doing the other. But a good cry or a good laugh can make you feel as if a huge weight has been lifted and that’s what this blog is here to do.

Work Can Be Rewarding

Work itself is the reward.  If I choose challenging work it will pay me back with interest.  At least I'll be interested even if nobody else is.  And this attempt for excellence is what sustains the most well lived and satisfying, successful lives.

                                                  ~ Meryl Streep

I am a big believer in working hard.  Besides getting a lot accomplished, working hard makes you challenge your brain and your talents to the best of your ability.  Dirty things become clean and disorganized piles of papers and clothes become organized.  Working hard can also give your mind something else to think about when you are processing your grief.

When my husband died a number of years ago, I continued to work outside the home because I needed to support myself and my son and it also kept me moving forward.  It brought structure into my daily routine at a time when most other things were constantly changing.  There were times when it was jarring; especially when it was time to leave work and go home.  For a split second while walking to my car, I would always think about calling my husband to tell him I was leaving and then I would remember that he was no longer here.

But work continued to be cathartic for me during that time and I was very happy to have it.  Given the ups and downs of the economy in the past several years, I'm still thankful to have a job.  I know there are some people who take their work to an extreme and lose themselves in it after they have experienced the loss of a loved one.  This is easy to do because you don't want to think about what is really going on in your life and constantly working helps you block the pain.  For my son's sake, I was careful to make sure I didn't go that way.

That said, it's important to do something you really love or something that makes you feel as though you are always learning something new.  I have a job where I work in an office downtown and I am paid to do that work.  But I am not paid to write this blog.  I write this blog because I enjoy it and because I need to write it.  I started Cry, Laugh, Heal in December 2010 to help people become more comfortable talking about grief and how you can rebuild your life after losing a loved one. 

People can tell if you approach your work with a certain amount of pride or if you could care less about what you do. I hope you can tell how much I love my readers and how much thought I put into trying to help others who are also on a grief journey.  I never want anyone to feel as though they are alone or that there is no hope for the future.  There is always hope!!!!!!!

Whether your work is mental, physical or a combination of both, it can feel so good to put in a hard day's work.  Once in awhile I do wonder what it would be like if I didn't have to work.  Of course, it would be great, but I would still need to find something meaningful to do.  I know I would still write Cry, Laugh Heal.

As the wise and wonderful Meryl Streep says, work can be a reward in itself especially when you achieve that "good tired" feeling.

Letting Go

Longer, warmer days are making me yearn for a simpler life.

Lighter clothes and lighter food are definitely the way to go.  There's something about the change in season that makes you want to lighten your material load here on earth and get about de-cluttering your nest.  This past weekend I was cleaning the house and I started pulling stuff out of my closet and making piles of "keep," "donate" or "give away."   

Getting  rid of things you never use or wear feels so great!  But de-cluttering isn't just about your material things.  You can de-clutter your thoughts or your attitude.  What a concept!  Here's a story I found on mariashriver.com that got me going into throw away mode and I thought you might like it too:

April 16, 2012
www.mariashriver.com
Tips for Transformation

An Easy Way to Achieve Peace of Mind

By Barry Dennis

Whether I'm working with a Hollywood celebrity, consulting with a spiritual leader, or speaking to congregants at Celebration Church in Portland, Oregon, I always encounter the same question: How does one achieve peace of mind?

I believe I am getting closer to the answer, and it begins with getting rid of excess "stuff" in one's life -- whether it's material things, unfulfilling activities and people, or useless information.

If you try to only fill your life with things, people, and activities that feed your spirit, there will be a lot less junk standing between you and peace of mind. Now I travel the country motivating and inspiring people to do this.

My own journey toward peace of mind began on April 3, 1998, at 3 am. It was possibly the best day of my life. My wife performed the miraculous that day: the act of giving birth. I made a solemn promise to that 8.3-pound boy the first time I laid eyes on him. I would never parent out of anger.
And, I must say, I have done well living up to my promise. Except on one day, possibly the worst day of my life, six years later.

The first thing I remember that morning is all the shampoos. Why so many bottles? What should I use? Maybe I could use a shower gel for my hair and body! Radical. And then came the hair gels, lotions, and toothbrushes (Which one is mine?).

Upon opening my closet door, I was overcome with a full-blown episode of “apparel-yzation,” which is the act of staring, immobile, into one's bulging closet shackled by the thought “What to wear?” Which is sometimes followed by the nutty notion, “I have nothing to wear.”

The encounters with chaos continued. There were pieces of mail and other random papers on the kitchen table and counters, enough cereal boxes to open my own Kellogg's outlet store, and my boys playing with the latest version of Xbox something or other while the outdated versions lay in heaps, half in, half out of drawers.

I tried to simultaneously pick up after them and get them ready for school.

It all came to a head when I opened the door to my son's room to see before me what looked like a testing ground for nuclear weapons. I was late for an appointment, and my son had already missed the bus. He was supposed to be in his room getting ready. “CJ, where are you?” There was no reply. This time I yelled, “CJ, WHERE ARE YOU?”

A squeak came from behind his closet door, “I’m in here, Daddy.” I opened the door to find him in a sitting fetal position, overwhelmed, surrounded by refuse from the ghost of Christmas past. He explained, “I’ve been looking everywhere, but I can't find my pants.” A tear rolled down his cheek.
But I couldn’t see it. I was blind, turning green like the Incredible Hulk as I yelled, “GET UP NOW, RIGHT NOW! I'M LATE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T FIND PANTS? GIVE ME A BREAK! THIS IS RIDICULOUS.”

We drove to his school in total silence. That had never happened before. The rest of the day I felt like a lowly worm at the bottom of a compost heap. What had happened? That was not me.

A few weeks later I shared my frustration with a good friend, Dr. Harold Bloomfield. I told him about all the stuff, from the shampoos to the floor of my son's room, and how it all seemed to pile up in my mind, creating an overload that turned me into a rageaholic monster. “What is it?” I said.
His reply changed my life. “Oh” he uttered, shaking his head, “you're talking about Chotchky.”

It’s an old Yiddish term. I’ve come to understand it as anything we have in excess that intrudes, clutters, or distracts us from our soul's highest purpose. Chotchky isn't just clutter. It can also be unsupportive people, too much technology, unhealthy food, unwanted gifts, and regrettable decisions, among them. But the junk in your house is the easiest kind of Chotchky to identify.

What my son and I were experiencing was the “Chotchky Effect.” Too much Chotchky can leave us stressed out, irritable, and confused. No one wants to be on the receiving end of the Chotchky Effect.
You see, I wasn't angry at my son. In fact, we are almost never angry for the reasons we think we are. There is usually something behind the anger. Often, if we’re willing to look close enough, we will recognize that “something” as some form of Chotchky.

The anger directed at my son started with an excess of shampoos and built from there. Besides, who bought him the Xbox’s, the toys, and all those clothes that overwhelmed him and me? Hmmm.

Think of your conscious mind as a sacred shelf. It can only hold so much before it starts to bend.

Everything we surround ourselves with, that we come into contact with, is placed on our sacred shelf.
One shampoo is enough. The other nine in the shower that day were Chotchky and they took up space on my sacred shelf. By the time I got to my son's room, the weight of the Chotchky Effect was taking its toll. My sacred shelf snapped.

Give yourself and the ones you love a blessed gift. Eliminate all the Chotchky in your life, one room at a time, and donate it, recycle it, or throw it away.

Doing so will lighten your load, unburden your soul, and give you peace of mind.

********
Barry Dennis is an internationally known inspirational speaker and spiritual teacher. His new book is The Chotchky Clallenge: Clear the Clutter from Your Home, Heart, and Mind…and Discover the True Treasure of Your Soul (Hay House, April 2012). Learn more at www.BarryADennis.com.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

Happy Birthday Cry, Laugh Heal!  Yup.  It has actually been one whole year since Cry, Laugh Heal was launched as a blog and I really can't believe it.

How would I measure my first year of blogging?

In friendship,

in kindness,

and in support.

That's what blogging has meant to me.  It has opened up a new world and that is exhilarating.  Along with my son's help, I pushed myself to learn something new and I am so glad that I did.   I made plenty of mistakes along the way and I'm sure I will make more next year.  But the important thing is to keep moving forward!!

Since the day I wrote my first post, I have been pleasantly surprised by the numbers of readers from all parts of the world who log on to read Cry, Laugh, Heal.  From Saudi Arabia to Lithuania and from Ireland to Nigeria, the power and reach of the internet is truly incredible and never ceases to surprise me.

I wasn't quite sure what blogging was all about but I did my research and googled around and found I liked the creativity and the immediacy.  Most of the blogs I visited were about cooking, lifestyles, decorating, health or politics but not many blogs were set up to discuss what I wanted to write about: grief, resilience and rebuilding your life.  These things I know from first hand experience.  When my husband died eight years ago, our son was thirteen years old.  I felt very alone in facing the future.  By writing a blog, I hoped I could give back and help others by writing that it's okay to acknowledge your feelings whatever they may be.  Ignoring or repressing your feelings only assures that they will last longer.

My life today is not the same life that I had when my husband was alive but I think I have carved out a solid life for myself and my son that is full of different kinds of love and adventure.  It takes time but it is possible to make another life for yourself.  It may not seem that way some days when you feel as though you have fallen off a cliff but then something can happen the next day and it can make you feel as though you have reached a place of healing.

Photo By Katie Quinn Davies

I was nervous about putting my thoughts and feelings out there in Cry, Laugh, Heal for the whole world wide web to read...or not.  But I took a deep breath and decided it was time to put myself out there.  I was a reporter many, many years ago and then later worked in communications.  Currently, I edit a newsletter about grief and thought that blogging could take this subject to the next level.

It means so much to me that you take time out of your day to read Cry, Laugh Heal.  Your support  -- and the constant support of my wonderful son, Ryan, --  is energizing and has helped me write over 100 posts, more than I ever expected.  I look forward to 2012 and cross my fingers that the number of my wonderful, fantastic, beautiful readers will continue to grow.  All I can say is:

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

Cry, Laugh, Heal Has A New Look!

 

 

 



Check out the new look of Cry, Laugh, Heal and let me know what you think.

I re-designed the blog to give it a fresher feel.  I hope you find it easier to read and more pleasing to the eye.

I truly appreciate everyone's ongoing support and feedback.

Please pass along the good word about Cry, Laugh, Heal.

Follow Cry, Laugh, Heal on Facebook at www.facebook.com/crylaughheal or sign up on this blog page http://www.crylaughheal.blogspot.com/ to become a follower.

Thank you to my wonderful readers!

More Humor Therapy

Grief is a journey that sets its own schedule.  Some cry, some talk, some paint and some even throw plates or other breakables to get rid of their anger. 

 

 Unfortunately, there is no set time for healing.

 

It is always difficult to adjust to life changing circumstances and face the outside world on your own.  But since we are all in this together, it is essential to reach out and extend a helping hand and let others know they are not alone in their journey.

 

 

 

 

I found the following story by Ken Garfield of Knight Ridder Newspapers and am sharing it with you in the hopes that it will help you smile:

Don't Let Death Have The Last Laugh

By Ken Garfield

Knight Ridder Newspapers

     We were on the way to her husband's funeral when my sister turned to me in the limosine and said, "I wonder if I should have worn a black veil."

 

     For just a second, I was taken aback.  How could she make a joke at a time like this?  Then it hit me.  How could she not make a joke at a time like this?

 

     When I realized what a brave and important thing my sister had done, I knew what to say.  "We still have time to run into Hecht's and buy one," I joked as the limosine drove on to the chapel.

     I never knew how sacred humor could be until tragedy struck our family.

 

     While my 51-year-old sister, Carol, was away on a weekend with cousins, her 56-year-old husband died of an apparent heart attack at their home in Boca Raton, Florida.  Eddie was a sweet and generous man who adored my sister.  In the last six months of his life, he finally landed a job he loved.  When they found my brother-in-law's body in bed, they also found in the kitchen the lunch he had made for work the next day.

 

     The memorial chapel was filled with elderly folks from the condominium complex where he worked and did good deeds for his friends, the tenants.  Grief darkened our days, of course.  My sister and her husbad, who had chosen not to have children, traveled through life together as soul mates.  For one to suddenly lose the other after 26 years broke our hearts.

 

     But just when it seemed as if the darkness was about to overcome us, the light returned in the form of a funny memory or whimsical story.

 

     In his eulogy, my father recalled how Eddie had told Carol that he didn't know where she was going on their next vacation -- but he was going to spend it at home with his beloved ballgames and TV remote control.  Carol recalled that the only thing Eddie feared more than a shirt ant tie was a social event to dress up for, and she noted that her home was filled with well-wishers after the funeral.

 

     "Eddie would have hated it," she joked.

 

     People who live with death know that humor helps mourners endure the pain.  Brandon Cook, of Hankins & Whittington Funeral Service in Charlotte, NC, said a funny story reminds the bereaved that life is a mixture of emotions.

 

     One story making the round tells of the daughter who had her mother's coffin wheeled into the service after everyone was seated.  Mother was late for everything else, the daughter told the mourners, so why shouldn't she be late for this?

 

     If you need encouragement to have a healthy laugh, Cook said, look to Proverbs 17:22: "A cheerful heart is a good medicine."

 

     A hospice chaplain told me that humor becomes truly sacred when it helps you understand that grief doesn't have to have the last word.

 

     I start welling up thinking about my sister facing life alone.  Then I'll laugh at a funny story, and the tears subside.