art, creativity, grief, loss, Love Lives On, moving forward, openness, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photography, Products, transformation, widow
The last decade has involved quite a bit of figuring out who I am now. Any time we have a big loss in our lives we eventually come to this point: who am I now that my children are no longer at home, who am I now that I no longer work in my previous occupation, who am I now that now that I will not have my own biological children? The list is endless. The evolution of who I am today even after being widowed has had its twists and turns. Leaving a corporate job that no longer fit. Remarriage and figuring out the role of bonus mom. My children growing up and leaving home to live their own lives. Even my pottery avocation has shifted and evolved into a bigger part of my vocation. I’ve talked about vocation some before. These days I still lead the widow social support group but we’ve added a co-leader so it’s not all on me. I spend more time in the pottery studio than out of it (when there’s not a pandemic, that is). I’m finding a new balance and a new me. There is an equilibrium that, if you’d asked me 10 years ago, I would have told you I would likely never experience again. So how did I find that equilibrium? Interesting question to consider. There was no one technique that did the trick. I’ve had some great coaches and mentors. There has been some natural evolution in my work life (nothing is constant but change, as they say.) I’ve done values surveys to try to figure out what...
accepting new love, grief, Kairos, Motivational poster, moving forward, openness, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
I flipped through a magazine while my son sat in the barber’s chair getting a back-to-school trim. A photo of a woman standing on top of a mountain peak, arms outstretched, with her body backlit by the sun caught my eye. She was clearly experiencing a moment of kairos time. The first line told me this was also a story of loss. The subject of the article, Jen Lacey, had made the difficult decision to have her leg amputated after it failed to heal properly from an accident. Coming to the end of the piece I realized that, substituting a few words, I could have written the same. “It’s hard to be a [widow]; I won’t sugarcoat it. But every day, I get more used to my [new life], and sometimes I even forget it’s there. You might think I’d dread having strangers ask questions, but I don’t mind—some of them are in a situation like I was, [pre-widowhood], and I can offer advice. Lately I’ve been mentoring new [widows] and hosting [widow] support groups, and it’s allowed me to help people, which is what I’ve always loved to do… The best part: I wake up every day with hope…” I’m not saying I understand what it’s like to be an amputee – clearly I don’t – but this is the closest analogy I can think of to explain what life feels like as a widow. A part of me was severed when Ken died. We spent our young adult lives in each other’s orbit and grew into maturity together. We became parents and experienced all of those firsts...
grief, grief as teacher, loss, Motivational poster, openness, transformation
Would you think I had lost my mind if I said that our losses can result in favorable changes in our lives? Probably but that’s OK. I would have thought the same thing a few years ago. Now, however, I can see transformations that might not have happened without my losses. Here are just a few of the ways that I’m different: I worry less. I wish I could say not at all but I’m not immune to fear. My worst nightmare came true and amazingly…I survived. It was awful, I don’t want to relive it and if I could wave a magic wand to make it go away I would. But I now know I can survive. I’m much less willing to settle for aspects of life that are not feeding my soul, my career for instance. Grief gave me the courage to respond to a calling rather than merely having a job. I have closer relationships with old friends and have experienced the love and caring of new friends. Did some people fall away during this time in my life? Yes, but I understand how uncomfortable it can be to be with someone in grief or making changes in their life as they learn to live with their whole hearts again. I have compassion for them and wish them nothing but good. I understand that we are all connected. I have more empathy for the pain of others than I did before and a desire to support them as they find their way. I know that love lives on. I could go on really but I think...
children, clown, grace, grief, loss, openness, suffering, why
How can it be that even clowns die? Our community lost a dear soul this week suddenly, without warning. We are shocked beyond measure, devastated. Vincenzo Tortorici was many things: loving father, larger-than-life personality, accomplished juggler, master of ceremonies, vaudevillian, puppeteer, Buddha scooter jockey and introspective wise old soul. A clown and actor by trade, he made the lives of children a little brighter during their stays at the local children’s hospital. Dr. Pucci was a miracle worker who knew how to set nurse traps with toilet paper, catch invisible balls in paper bags and make children forget where they were for a little while. I love to laugh and I make my attempts at humor, often funny only because of their feeble nature. I am not a natural; he was, sparkling eyes and all. I honestly can’t recall a single encounter with Vince where I did not laugh. We have boys the same age but as they have gotten older their interests have diverged. My interactions with Vince have been reduced to chance encounters in the grocery store or the YMCA. Social media has allowed me to stay in touch, laughing at his musings and putting in a comment or two. Even in the way he wrote you could hear his humor reflected. That’s a skill! Vince signed his posts with a clown face. :o) Of course he would. More than a humorist though, Vince could meditate profoundly over deep questions of spirituality, the root of creativity and on suffering. With his loss we suffer. The void is great. We ask ourselves: Why? How do we hold this...
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