Ask me about Miya

 The new school year began only seven weeks ago. Yet during this time I have fought off feelings of wanting, no, needing to leave the building early to go home. I have done so just once, asking for coverage of my last period class and I stayed home just one day, calling in sick after waking up and feeling this rush of uncertainty and dread. It wasn’t a panic attack; I’ve experienced those. That morning I simply knew that I could not be a leader of any kind. 

We remain at war with Covid 19. Despite mask mandates and vaccinations, we hear weekly of cases of positive tests and quarantine and the names of those who are feeling ill. The fighting is different this year. Our hours at school have been extended and we no longer move to remote learning as it hasn’t been deemed necessary as of yet this fall, but it is by no means a normal school year. The thing is, I don’t feel it will ever be normal again. Teens’ masks slip down to reveal noses. Spoken reminders and gestures are made to persuade students to comply with the rules. The old “No hats” rule is abandoned as an apparent compromise. But between the brim of a cap and the top of a mask, I must memorize only eyes to see whom I’m talking with each day. I miss full faces. I miss seeing smiles.

I may have begun a countdown. I think I’ll retire from teaching in ten years. I hope I can afford to. I never thought of retirement until recently. It’s been a grueling few years during Covid; we teachers have learned to pivot, adapt, adjust, redefine, rework, and grow at rates unbelievably impressive. I put all this down here on paper to mark the journey. But the most heroic accomplishment we, teachers and students alike, have made is to continue to show up. Every morning we arrive to face another day. 

Everyone it seems has a 504 plan. People speak of having anxiety and I think, “who doesn’t?”. The truth is, it’s good practice to be kind and forgiving as often as possible. There’s no need to rate one’s level of suffering. For those taking advantage of a situation, it is what it is. It’s a mark of integrity and character anyhow, isn’t it? 

But here’s the thing. I am reaching the end of my prep period. My last block class will be at my classroom door momentarily. And all I want to do is walk to the chalkboard and to write a brief request upon the green. 

Ask me about Miya. 

It would have been easy to simply close this word document and to move forward in the teaching of my last period class. It would have even been justified if I’d decided to leave school and to go home. But instead, I did walk to the chalkboard and I did write those words above for my teens to see. It was after several minutes of helping students find comments of feedback I’d written on their essays. It was just before I was to tell them of their second summative of the quarter. 

I read them the words above and after saying the phrase above, the class of dutiful creative writers all said in uniform, “Thank you for sharing”.  

I stumbled through a few more minutes of explanation. I didn’t wait for anyone to ask. Instead, I just shared. How we were connected, when we’d met, what she was like, her brightness and her light, how she’d earned her Master’s, how her patients or clients had loved her, how cool she was in all ways. My words were not the most articulate by then but I had trouble stopping. Finally though, I did. I took a big breath. And then  I asked them to take a minute or two to talk to me by responding in their journals. “You don’t have to, though”, I said. I just hope it was okay that I shared that. 

And then we moved on. 

All of the teens in the room wrote to me. They were sweet and they were kind. A few responses stood out to me: 

What happened is horrifying and horrible. But, honestly, I appreciate you sharing that with us. It was really brave, and something I would never be able to do, but… human connection is important. Thank you for sharing.  ---J

How you described Miya shows her as an incredible person that everyone should inspire to be. I think it’s good that you told us about her, if not to introduce us to her, then to be helpful for you. I have a feeling she would be proud of you for making it through the day.  --S

The tears are still brimming now as I close this out, but I don’t think it was a mistake that I wrote, cried, or shared with my students. I accomplished what I had needed to do for their daily lesson. But on top of that, if for just 15 minutes, I did my best to stop the world from spinning. I didn’t run home. I pushed through. 

I did it despite exhaustion and grief. I did it wearing a mask. I did it for Miya... and for all of her loved ones... and for my teenage students...and for me...and for us all. 

Yes, I’ll be ready to retire someday. But for now, I’ll do what I can to make each and every day count. 

Magnificent Miya

Graduation at Fenway Park, May 2021 

Mom? Are YOU okay? 

I had fallen back asleep on Sunday morning. It was around 9:00am, I think, and I sounded groggy as I answered the phone. Emma’s voice. Her question of my own wellness. I heard the slightest of quivers in her voice. I steeled myself. Something was wrong. 

Mom? Miya was shot. She’s gone. 

**********************************************************************

When I Think of Death 

by Maya Angelou

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with

alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day

will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this 

valley of strange humors. 

I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to 

accept the death of anyone else. 

I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that

country of no return. 

Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in

its wake. 

I answer the heroic question ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ with

‘It is here in my heart and mind and memories.’

**********************************************************************

“Magnificent Miya” is what I called her last week on her birthday. In the wee hours of August 1, 2021, a week after turning 24,  she was robbed of her life in a random drive-by shooting in Providence, Rhode Island. She had been outside her car after leaving a party, talking with a friend, when a car raced by and let gunfire fly. The murder was random, senseless, devastating. Left in the wake of this violent death are her wonderful parents, Bryan and Michelle, her beloved older brother, Belamy, and her enthusiastic, fellow Harry Potter fan, sister-in-law, Emma. They’re a demonstrative, affectionate, loving family. The five of them had visited together just the day before the shooting, meeting up in New Hampshire for a day of exploring two Frank Lloyd Wright houses and sharing a meal. Emma and Bel had returned home to their Portland, Maine home Saturday evening. 

I am Emma’s mom. Alongside my husband of 32 years, Eric, our first born daughter Sydney, and our son, Paul, Emma was raised  in one of several lake regions of Maine, a state which is a three to four hour drive from Rhode Island. When Emma first expressed interest in exploring the University of Rhode Island in Kingston, we visited for the first time, delighting in the state’s beautiful shoreline, its friendly people, and its multiple opportunities for fun and adventure. In the four years that Emma attended URI, earning her BFA degree, we traveled the roads between Maine and Rhode Island several times a year. 

It was there, in Emma’s college state, that we first met the Brophy-Baermanns. Belamy had traveled to Maine soon after he and Emma had begun dating, but we met Miya, Bryan, and Michelle at dinner one evening in Rhode Island. I remember feeling nervous about making a good impression on this family, but I need not have worried. Even though I foolishly ordered the largest meatball I’ve ever seen as an appetizer to devour by myself in front of this fully vegetarian family, and even though Eric unabashedly told his grandfather’s story of cooking up trash can clams or something or other, our first dinner together was full of genuine laughter and warmth. And smiling and laughing alongside us, her beautiful, happy eyes fully open and filled with comfort and admiration for her brother’s new girlfriend, was magnificent Miya. 

There were more dinners together. There was a glorious wedding at the foot of Katahdin, our beloved hometown mountain here in Maine. Love and happiness surrounded our families that entire weekend. Miya stood next to Belamy as his best person. The two of them shared an incredible bond. We cried happy tears, we ate delicious food, we danced and laughed together for hours. Emma had previously regaled us with stories of how loving and accepting Miya was, of how lucky she was to have gained another sister. Miya embraced us too, sharing stories and laughs with Sydney and Paul, warmly hugging Eric and I whenever we saw one another that wedding weekend and at every visit before and afterward. The family came to our home for Christmas Eve one year and when Belamy had to go to bed early, suffering from a migraine, our two families felt no awkwardness at all. We were all one family. 

Miya and I shared photos and posts with one another on Instagram and/or Facebook. I watched from afar as she shared her passion for righting the wrongs of the underprivileged and oppressed. She had moved to Rhode Island from Wisconsin when she was nine years old. She graduated from high school then earned her bachelor’s degree at URI. This year she earned her Master’s in Speech-Language Pathology at Northeastern University. She was working in her field immediately after graduation. She fought tirelessly for people who needed their voices uplifted. She was intelligent, witty, compassionate, and relentless when it came to caring for others. Her family, OUR family is in awe of her and incredibly proud of her accomplishments and her character. As Miya’s Mom has said, “She was all that’s good in the world”. She was at the start of a most illuminating, inspirational career. She was just beginning to soar high with those strong adult wings she had grown. 

This past Sunday morning, we were robbed of a future with Miya. But we will not let anyone rob us of her power and inspiration. She will forever be our Magnificent Miya. We love her so much. 

In memory of Miya’s bright light, in lieu of flowers, donations may be sent to https://gofund.me/7a2cef67 in support of the creation of a scholarship fund in Miya’s memory, in the hope of continuing her work, her passion for helping others, and further spreading the warmth and light she shared with us all. The funds raised will help to establish a memorial scholarship titled Miya’s Voice. 

Smile!

The substitute teacher across the hall caught my eye today and said, “There you are again! Always smiling!” It’s true. I usually am.

Perhaps smiling is my default expression, one I come by naturally. I can’t think back on my Dad without seeing his big bright smile. I still hear my Mom’s laughter when I remember my time with her. Even my Mom’s handwritten letters always included little smiley faces, long before emojis became a thing. Thirty-six years ago when I first met my husband, his smile and laughter were the first of his attributes that attracted me. My daughters have beautiful smiles. My son’s smile is one of my favorites. 

Science studies have increased supporting that a smile spurs a chemical reaction in the brain, releasing certain hormones including dopamine and serotonin. The study of emotions is most interesting and I frequently follow published and casual discussions around the topic of happiness. I experiment with happiness strategies too. For the past 100 days I’ve again practiced the 100happydays.com challenge. This challenge takes me from the weary final days of winter to the first warm afternoons of springtime. Whether documenting family gatherings, good meals, beautiful flowers, or satisfying work, I’ve taken time each day to focus on the fun, the joy, the appreciation and gratitude I feel. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes struggle with darker emotions. Of course I do. I cannot always smile. I am sometimes sad. I miss my parents, I miss grandparents, I miss my three children being little and scrambling onto my lap. Although not very often, I sometimes do get angry. Internet trolls, dishonesty, selfishness, sneakiness, injustice, gossip, and arrogance can make me seethe. I am also a worrier. I fret. I have a hard time getting out of my own head. I sometimes need a nap to give my head, my heart, and my soul a rest. Movies and books help me immensely. I tend to sigh a lot too. Sighing gives me a brief little bit of time to settle, to refocus, to take a deep breath. And when people’s actions frustrate me, I remember a former colleague’s laughter and his words, “People are funny, aren’t they?!” There was never any judgement in this statement of his. He simply would state the fact: people are funny. 

Let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love.   --Mother Teresa

This annual 100happydays.com challenge is sometimes difficult but as with the building of any habit, I’ve practiced this one (for five years) and I have become pretty skilled at it. In fact, the challenge of 100 days doesn’t truly end for me anymore. 365 days a year I demand from myself the act of “keeping a positive perspective”. I think about people, either reliving a sweet conversation, or remembering, often with a chuckle, the all-too-human foibles I witness in myself and/or in those around me. I continue reading others’ faces as I check in on how they are feeling, and yes, I continue to smile often and easily. Although studies say that even a fake or forced smile can benefit one’s health, my smile is genuine. I smile because I am thankful. I smile because I care about this world and its inhabitants. I smile because I appreciate life. I smile because I feel happy. I smile because I can. 

Life is like a mirror. Smile at it and it smiles back at you.      --Peace Pilgrim

Circles of Life

Priorities. Choices and decisions. It’s one thing if you’re trying to decide where to go out for dinner. If the temperature is once again below zero and you’re trying to catch a 7:00pm movie, you might opt to throw aside your budget and dine at that new Italian restaurant across the street from the theater where you’ve heard there are tables set beside a blazing fire. If you have 15 minutes to get to a basketball game and cash in your pocket, you might decide to grab a few pieces of pizza or a red hot dog and some popcorn at the concession stand and call it good. If you have a gift card to a chain restaurant and pay day is another week away, you’ll probably be in the mood for one of the new early bird dinners featured there. And of course, you can always decide to stay home and eat in.

But what if we were talking about priorities for your life? What if your fiftieth birthday was approaching, you’d just finished reading a memoir of a man who was given an expiration date before his fortieth and who suddenly was faced with his own set of choices and decisions, and you woke up on a Monday morning, healthy but feeling a little off and soon to be facing a classroom of 17-18 year olds on a crisp January morning?

First, let’s settle the food question. Today I grabbed an egg, cheese, and sausage wrap and a bottle of OJ at Dunkin on my way to work. There. Breakfast had been taken care of. I threw a container of chicken soup, some mini blueberry muffins, and a cup of jell-o in my lunch bag for later. And dinner is going to be decided upon after school, but it’ll probably involve the package of chicken breasts that I took out of the freezer this weekend.

So next, what am I going to do with that classroom of 17-18 year olds? They have finished a unit, creating a chapbook synthesizing the ideas around Elizabeth Gilbert’s book about creativity, BIG MAGIC. With only four class periods before the end of the quarter, how do I transition to a new unit?

I remember the circles. It’ll be different. It’ll be motivating. I’ll pass out a handout of 30 circles, give them 15 minutes and ask them to think of responses to a question. They can answer the question any way they want or need to. I won’t collect their work. It’s private for them. I do my own circle handout with them. By the end of the class period, we are all talking and sharing and I know I chose wisely.

Let me back up. After giving my students 20 minutes to work on their projects or their personal writing, I shared a summary of the book I’d spent the weekend reading, When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. The memoir of a man exploring the meaning of life, the purpose of our time on earth, a man who first searched for the answer in books as an English Literature major and later who continued the search while becoming a neurological surgeon facing his own death from lung cancer was richly reflective and thought-provoking. I spoke of the irony of reading this book on the same weekend that a dear friend of mine reached out asking nearly the same questions as the author, wondering if her life had positively affected anyone, asking what the value of her life has been… I’d written a response to her and had also thought of my own life--what I had accomplished in the past, the person I had grown to become, the future and all that I want it to contain.

We all began filling in circles to answer the questions: What do I want to do before the end of my life? What is important to me to have done when my life reaches its expiration date?

Keeping my word to protect their privacy, I only asked my students to share with me any insight or observations they had after doing the exercise. Many said they had fewer circles filled in than they had expected. I was with them there. A young woman said she had filled the circles with countries she wanted to explore. Another wrote of how her list had been filled more with desires to inspire others in different ways. We all smiled at the young man who said he wanted to be on national tv for something someday.

I now look at my own circles. Write a book. Travel the world with Eric. Be a fun grandma. Learn to play the cello. Paint like Grammie Freeman. Record an album for my children. See each of my children reach the age of 50.

These are a few items on my paper. I am not surprised by what is on it. I am more surprised by what is not.

What I feel best about is how my life priorities focus upon staying healthy and happy for the adventures of the years that are before me. I have lived a beautiful life in my first fifty years. I am excited beyond measure for the start of my second fifty.

A "Commencement Speech" for my IB Juniors 2017

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow.

Yesterday marked the 100th day of #100happydaysforanne2017! I have participated in the 100 happy days challenge each spring since 2014 after seeing posts from a former student on Facebook or Instagram (I forget which. Maybe it was both). For 100 days in a row Josh shared photos and experiences from his daily life, noting one sight, memory, or reflection that had brightened his 24 hours. It was the first spring without my Dad and after reading up on the movement (go to 100 happydays.com to read more about it), I decided to give the challenge a try.

I could say more about my first three years of participating in the challenge but let me quickly say that this activity has positively affected my perspective in life. It is no exaggeration to say that the challenge has also improved my overall health and well being and has guided my daily choices. I had the rug pulled out from underneath me in 2013 when my Dad died. The two years prior to that had not been easy either. But losing Dad was so profound a loss that I had to start over again.  This challenge of the 100 happy days saved me.

So yesterday on my 100th day, I wore a pretty dress. I celebrated at Dunkin Donuts by picking up the tab of the stranger behind me and at school I was commended by my principal for my flexibility, positivity, and wisdom which was awfully nice to hear. I spent my lunch break assisting a colleague who has also experienced a great loss recently and as we focused upon a creative project of hers, it felt wonderful to contribute and aid her.

Yesterday I also tried to write a commencement speech for you. I wanted to get it written before Emma (Woods) left so she could hear me speak from the heart. I was tired however and I could not find inspiration. But then came today. Okay. So I apologize for doing what I ordinarily never do—-and for what I would be aghast if YOU did—to write a year end speech during the TAKE FIFTEEN time immediately beforehand….WHAT?!?!?! But even the number there is significant…fifteen…

You see, June 15th is the day my father had a heart attack and died four years ago. It’s the day that rug was pulled. And each June 15th since I have allowed the day to come without holding on to any expectation. Some June 15ths I cry. Some June 15ths I am so happy. Today is June 15th and I don’t know what the day will bring. But I’m alive and I am grateful and I am the daughter of the most beautiful man in the whole wide world.

Dad’s dying words were shared with us children. As he was air lifted, with Life Flight, Dad looked out the window of the helicopter to see the bright blue sky and the following words came out of his mouth.

“It’s a beautiful day”.

It’s June 15th 2017. It is day 101.  And whether tears fall or laughter makes my sides hurt, it is indeed a beautiful day.

And I wish that for all of you—for the yesterdays, for today, tomorrow… and forever more.

Acknowledging Grief

This morning I finished reading a book on grief. It’s the fourth one I have completed on the subject since my Mom passed away six weeks ago, and the third that has specifically discussed understanding and coping with grief and change after the death of our parents. The Orphaned Adult by Alexander Levy has been the most helpful of the four texts. Its conversations and shared insights are gently presented with compassion, humor, and wisdom. The book has explored the journey I am taking and it has provided me with reassurances on the subjects of the redefinition of identity, relationships, and faith. The necessities and techniques (for lack of a better word) of grief itself shared in its pages have offered me both comfort and motivating challenges. 

Still, I find myself turning the book over when someone approaches my desk at work. I forgot to do this a few times and caught the awkward expression of a student who read the book’s title before asking me a question about homework. I’ve tucked my book into my bag instead of carrying it into a doctor’s waiting room as I normally do with a novel. 

So, this is why I am writing this note today. I want to be forthcoming about what I have been reading lately. For I am not willing to accept that I am at all ashamed that I have needed to hear the ideas, thoughts, and words of another who has been here before, another who has realized that “grief cannot be done skillfully, artfully, or beautifully”, who sees that “the bereft earn no points for style or difficulty” (Levy 170).

Truthfully, the subject of grief intrigues me—no, not in some morbid manner, but rather from the perspective and reflection upon how our society or our culture approaches the emotions and the pains that come after a loved one’s death. I have read accounts of grief in books of fiction and have compared those to what I have witnessed first hand. In my role as a teacher I have worked with teens who have successfully pushed forward through grief to stay afloat academically. I have watched others crumble after a parent’s death. I have thought, read, and written about grief for several years now. I began my journey with parental loss well over six years ago, when I lost my Mom to the dementia of Alzheimer’s. I grieved heartily back in those earlier years and I shared some of that pain quite openly in discussions with close friends and in my writing which I published to my blog. My Mom was alive but I’d lost her just the same. I needed others to keep me afloat and my cries were heard and good people were there for me. My grief wasn’t comfortable for some and that’s okay— the grief was mine to do with as I wanted and needed, and I did the best I could to take one step at a time through this time of my personal despair.

Losing my Dad so quickly and unexpectedly to a heart attack in 2013 ripped me to the core. In losing him I lost the hold I had to the life I’d enjoyed with both of my parents for all of my 45 years. And although, growing up, Mom had been my greatest confidante, it was Dad who I’d realized I’d had so much in common with—I’d grown to understand him and to understand myself so much more in my adult years. And it was Dad who was the most influential and inspirational role model in my work to learn and to gain acceptance of my changed Mom. My grief for the loss of my Dad was complicated by the matters at hand to help my ailing mother and to clear their home and to tend to other necessities following Dad’s death. I learned many valuable lessons in the aftermath of my Dad’s passing and in the three years that my Mom lived without him. I grew and found the grace that comes with learning to embrace unfamiliar emotions and in finding the support needed to navigate life’s most difficult obstacles. 

I am proud of the growth I’ve made since Mom first lost her memories and through the deaths of both of my parents. But there has been one thing which has nagged at me. I haven’t been able to share these learned lessons with my parents. I have so wanted to tell them how, after they were gone, I started to catch up. I am seeing it all so much more clearly now. That barrier between generations has grown smaller. I now encounter events in life that I once saw them live through and I now have this shared experience, this understanding of life that I want to talk about with each of them. I fully comprehend behaviors and attitudes and our own lives so much more now. As Levy says, “Reality is no longer an orderly sequence from the past through the present and to the future…(it) is much more complex, much richer, that that” (189). For someone who shared nearly everything with Mom and Dad for much of my life, this is such a precious lesson that I wish I could talk to them about now. I do talk to them, actually. I have these philosophical discussions as I step outside and take in the sight of the setting sun or the moon as it rises in the night’s sky. I talk as I close my eyes before bed or as I drive home from the grocery store. And every so often I find that I’m given a sign that they’re listening, and that they both understand. They truly do. I know it, for they too were in my place before—they too lost their parents. 

Levy’s book offered me support and validation of all that I’ve gone through and continue to go through now in my most recent bereavement—it’s tough knowing that I can know longer go visit my Mom, hold her hand, see that twinkle in her eyes, and be satisfied with making her smile. But I do accept the loss and I know that my dear parents are reunited again, as it should be. I am going to take Levy’s advice to continue moving through this grief, to take time to breathe, to make strides to caring for myself more properly, and to acknowledging the fresh and raw pain of missing my Mom and the grief of several other losses I’ve endured over the past five years. I am going return to writing, to reading, to resting, to crying, to exercising, to laughing, to talking, to taking more adventures, to doing anything that I want or need to do. I’m not going to diminish my feelings nor my experiences, instead I’m going to open my arms wide and say to Grief, “Here we go. Let’s do this. I’m ready when you are”. I’m also going to refuse to turn my book over on my desk, because I want the next generation in our culture to see that grief is nothing to hide from. 

Giving Sorrow Words

My mother’s funeral was held the day before our national election for our new president. As we drove to Millinocket, I said aloud to my husband, son, and daughter, “I’m glad this is taking place before tomorrow”. My son asked why. I don't think I ever answered him. 

It’s been nearly two days now since we learned who won the election. I stayed up until 1:45am on election night. Just for the record, I was terribly disappointed as I went to bed. But I didn’t cry. I was sorrowful but I’d lost my Mom eleven days earlier. For me, my inability to shed a tear over the victor’s win made perfect sense. The loss of my only surviving parent had perhaps numbed my emotions for the time being. Or maybe I was simply in a state of shock and disbelief. Either way, the election was to be yet another layer of grief to be added to an already heavy heart.

Taking bereavement leave in the midst of this post election day toxicity has been interesting to say the least. I’ve grown to realize my need to step away from media a bit and I’ve gone back to basics. I’ve spent time outside, listening to the sound of my pups running excitedly through the fallen leaves, and I’ve taken time to talk to Mom and Dad. Inside I’ve watched some tv, cuddling up with my sweet kitty. I’ve napped in the warmth of the sun streaming through my back windows, and I’ve read some books on grief. One of the chapters in Good Grief  by Deborah Morris Coryell opens with a familiar quote from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, a quote I’ve found myself saying in my head often over the past several years. “Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break”. 

Give sorrow words. This is what so many are doing this week—journalists, political pundits, and the quote unquote ordinary folks on the street or online. Friends, neighbors, and coworkers are engaging in discourse, sorting out their own ideas and emotions as they fervently type up statuses and comments to leave on the posts of others. Some people are growing more and more emotional and frustrated and are beginning to pull away from one another. That’s understandable, I think. But in my humble opinion, everyone in one way or another is giving their sorrow words. And that’s healthy as long as it’s done knowing it’s a part or a stage of grief. It’s a necessary step to healing. Denial, sorrow, anger, bargaining, acceptance….oh, I don’t believe that grief has a linear path, but I do see even self-sufficient adults grieving publicly this week. I am too, but you’ll have to understand that my grief is my own response to a catastrophic loss of different proportions. It’s not everyday that your Mom dies, after all. 

Our society tends to rank losses in a hierarchy of grief. This is wrong. Loss is loss and all losses must be grieved in their own right and on their own terms. Grief can be surprisingly deep and painful, especially perhaps when the loss comes as a shock. People feel depressed, resentful, angry, and need help to cope. Their grief should not be mocked. Giving sorrow words is a small step towards healing. When a loss arrives, even one that is expected, the heart and mind still must process the loss.

I process loss, fear, disappointment, betrayal, and other unpredictable parts of life through words—those I read and those I write. I’ve experienced a lot of loss over these last five years, and I have grown to become more self-aware. I say this with gratitude, but it doesn’t mean that this awareness has continued without struggle and vulnerability. Yet, I refuse to give in to fear. A broken heart has more room for  all that is important. I may be overconfident and terribly underestimating what’s ahead of us all, but I fiercely believe in my ability to navigate the hardships of life and in my capacity to be courageous. 

“Life in its very nature…(has) no guarantees of what will happen next…that very unpredictability holds loss at its center….this gives rise to the question of whether it was ‘ours’ to begin with. Our culture and even our world has become so disconnected from the nature of life that we have come to believe that we can take possession and control it…”, writes Coryell (119). I know that I only have so much control in this world but I’ve learned that I can and I do make a difference in my corner of it. And that will continue, no matter who is living in the White House. 

So that’s that. Those are my words concerning the timing of my bereavement leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to return to my regularly scheduled journey with grief. I miss you Mom.