Nate Berkus Moves Forward

When I share stories on this blog about my travels with grief over the past several years, I do so in the hopes that it will help others cope with their losses.  Grief can be isolating even though I believe most people want to connect with others and especially those who have been where they are when they experience a loss.

I think everyone wants to feel that someone, anyone gets what's going on with them; especially at this time of the year.

One of the ways I found a connection was through reading.  In the beginning of grieving the loss of my husband, I read everything I could get my hands on about what this whole grieving thing was about.

I was hungry for information about the particulars of grief because no one I knew had lost their husband at a young age and was also trying to raise a child.  I wanted to know how long would it last, would I always feel so full of pain, would I ever stop crying, would I ever laugh again, how was I going to get myself going again.  And these were only a few of the urgent issues swirling around in my head at that time.

I have since learned that every loss is unique, that each of us grieves in our own way and what helps one person doesn't always work for another person.  That is why I am always searching for stories about how other people have handled their loss and what helped them to find meaning in their life once again.  You never know what's going to click.

Nate Berkus

Enter Nate Berkus.  Yes, Nate Berkus the designer.  Nate Berkus, the talented cutie who you've seen on television as he goes into people's homes and beautifies their rooms with new design solutions and a refreshing down-to-earth attitude about design, living spaces and life.

You may not know this but he's also the same Nate Berkus who in 2004 survived the Indian Ocean tsunami.  Tragically, his partner, photographer Fernando Bengoechea, Berkus' did not survive.  They were traveling to a small surfing village in Sri Lanka when the tsunami hit.  Nate Berkus shared with oprah.com earlier this year his wisdom about how his loss affected him and how he went about  processing it.  I just discovered this story and felt Nate Berkus' answers still resonate with help for all of us. 

 

Please read Nate Berkus' insights about moving on with your life after a loss in the following link:

 

http://www.oprah.com/spirit/When-Life-Hits-the-Reset-Button-4-Things-Nate-Berkus-Has-Learned-Abo_1?TW=tw_omag_berkus_rebuilding_video

Searching For Memories

The whole world is watching as the Japanese rebuild their lives with quiet diligence.

News reports show incredible pictures of houses ripped from the earth, cars piled on top of each other and even the concrete tsunami walls built for protection have been broken up and easily tossed aside.  And then there is the nuclear issue...The enormity of the human and physical devastation in Japan as a result of the March 11 earthquake and tsunami is difficult to comprehend and just seems endless. 

But one man in particular stands out for me.  I recently read an interview with this Japanese man, who asked to be called by his family name, Kikuchi, and his sentiments immediately struck a chord.  Through his shock, he was saying that we, as a larger human family, really do have so much more in common than we realize.

"My daughter is missing.  She is gone.  I was up in the hills above town and couldn't get to her in time," he said in a Reuters interview.  "I am looking for something that can remind me of her.  There must be something here," Kikuchi said as he continued his search through the broken-up wreckage for any little piece of something that might belong to her or remind him of her.

The primal need to connect to someone loved and lost is an emotion that touches everyone.  No one can take away Kikichu's memories of his young daughter, but his desperate search is for something more.  He wants physical proof of her, something that he can hold, perhaps something she once held, to reassure him that she will not be forgotten.

Sometimes you keep a possession that once belonged to a loved one because of what it evokes.  It's not really about what the object is.  It's about how the loved one used the object and how it reminds you of how much you cared about that person and how much you miss them.

When my Nana died, I wanted the small metal oblong telephone directory she kept by her bed.  To this day it reminds me of her because all the names, addresses and telephone numbers were written in her distinctive handwriting and no one else had anything like it.

When it was closed, the cover had a vertical list of the alphabet on it.  Beside the alphabet was a piece of metal that was shaped like an arrow and it was on a track so you could slide it up and down the alphabet.  Once you picked the letter you wanted, then you pressed a bar at the bottom of the cover and, presto, the directory would open.  It's a precious memory for me.  In my mind, I still see my sweet grandmother in her lavender bedroom picking it up and using it.

I also talked to a young mother I know about this need to connect through a loved one's momentos because her mother died when she was a teenager.  She immediately knew the emotion I was trying to explore and proceeded to tell me a story about how she and her father were cleaning out a closet a few months after her mother's death and they found a raincoat that belonged her mother.

They both thought they had gathered all of her mother's clothes so the raincoat was a total surprise.  She said her father just stared at it and didn't say anything but she immediately grabbed it and wanted to smell it to see if her mother's scent was still on the material.  The best thing, she said, was when she put her hand into the pockets of the raincoat and she found some balled up kleenex.  "I put them in my hands and closed my fingers around them as though I was holding my mom's hands because my mom had held these kleenex at one time and I just felt closer to her."

Let's think of Kikuchi in his time of sorrow and hope that he finds something that belonged to his dear daughter; something he can hold close to his heart.