Kenwinks, landscape, letting go, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Photography
Yosemite National Park - Heart over Half Dome (June 2010)
grief, just be, music, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
I had big plans today. Preparations for the Redefining Loss to Live Wholeheartedly retreat have been a joy and I was looking forward to getting back at it bright and early this morning. But Grief said, “Not today.” The anniversary of my husband’s death – the third now – is coming up in mere hours. I’ve been wondering when Grief was going to show up unannounced expecting to be invited in for tea. Her visits are always the same; she stares at me silently from across the table with her piteous eyes, making even the cup in my hand feel burdensome. So here she is, right on time as usual. At first I tried to pretend I didn’t see her lurking there outside the kitchen window in the rain. I locked the door quickly after my son went to school hoping she didn’t know that I knew. I disappeared to the basement to busy myself with laundry. She can’t get to me down there, right? I was determined to avoid her. But Grief said, “Not today.” The fog and drizzle conspired with Grief to ensure my heart was made as heavy as the air. She wore me down. I let her in. We sat in silence for a while. I told her that if she didn’t mind very much I was going to meditate for just a few minutes. But Grief said, “Not today.” My sweet cat crawled into my lap sharing the comfort of her purr with me. I sipped my tea. We settled in together and rested in each other’s company. After ten minutes had plodded by...
book recommendations, grace, grief, letting go, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Pinterest, prayer
I have a confession. I’m a life-long Presbyterian who went to Catholic school (that’s not the confession but probably enough to make one crazy right there.) I am currently an elder in my church which would make my grandparents bust with pride. My grandfather was a stalwart Presbyterian church elder and my grandmother was the quintessential church lady and official silver communion plate polisher. Not a meal was taken in their house without grace spoken before it. Sandwich over the sink? Say grace. So here it is: I don’t know how to pray. My grandfather and father were the official family grace sayers and used a standard prayer. Check. In school we had the rote memorization of the rosary prayers. Done. None of those prayers felt like a personal conversation with God though. Don’t get me wrong, I have spoken to God quite a bit in the last five years but I’m not sure begging counts as prayer. My prayers sound a lot like wishes to my ears: that my husband would live, that my father would live and before that that my grandfather would live at least long enough to meet the great-grandchild I carried. He did not. My timing is off. The futility of when I pray has led me not to do it so much. It seems I’m always asking for the thing I so desperately desire after the conclusion has already been reached. “Please let this test be clean,” I pleaded. Too late, the cancer was growing. The test was just there to show the foregone conclusion. This was the case with my father. I...
car, grief, letting go, memories, permission, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
His car was worth $3. No really, count ‘em: one, two, three. That’s it. According to the blue book value the trade-in value was a whopping three bucks. But that 1989 Volvo station wagon was worth so much more than that to me. Ken and I met in the year that car was created, 1989. In 1991, we married and, planning ahead, bought a sensible vehicle that could serve as family car for us and company car for Ken’s photography business. Our other cars – five of them – came and went but “The Truck” as we called it was always there. It was our rock. It carried precious cargo in safety seats and everything else from photo gear to bails of pine straw. It was our workhorse. The Truck took us on adventures. The console became a scrapbook of sorts holding a smooth rock from one journey, an abandoned skate egg sack from an annual beach trip and a ticket stub from the tallest lighthouse in North America. Only Ken had climbed that lighthouse late one afternoon before the rain set in. The Truck was our safe harbor. When Ken was sick The Truck sat until it became sick too. A few months after he died I had it brought back to working condition for our daughter. Hearing the particular rev of its engine and the sound the tires made on our cobble driveway was a comfort. She was able to drive it into her senior year in high school but its age, twenty years now, was showing. Pieces started falling off. New noises and squeaks made their...
grief, just be, meditation, Motivational poster, music, Photograph by Tamara Beachum
“Just be,” was the sagest advice I received upon entering grief in full force. “What the heck does that mean?” is what I heard my internal voice silently reply. A dear friend who lost his wife nine months before I lost my own beloved gifted me with that message as we departed from another tear-soaked get together. Though I didn’t get it at the time, I came to understand. I remembered his advice and examined it periodically as I tried to live my new, strange life. But I didn’t do it right away. I tried to outrun grief first. It can’t be outrun. Don’t let your mind get weary and confused Your will be still, don’t try I found myself with the bizarre title of executrix and there was much involved in this business of concluding a life: car tags and titles to be changed, hospital bills to be paid, insurance company and hospital representatives to mediate, credit cards to cancel, clients to contact with the sad news and many papers to sign. It went on and on. I was very busy, purposely so I now realize. It felt like it was over a month before I even sat down. There was no time to just be. Truth be told, I was afraid of what would happen if I did quiet myself long enough. There were moments of torturous grief and I was certain that I would be swallowed whole by them if I sat still for too long. Don’t let your heart get heavy Child, inside you there’s a strength that lies Then the day came, I finally...
ALAL on Facebook
ALAL on Pinterest
Tamara on LinkedIn
Follow on Twitter
