Seven

Yesterday I spent the better part of the day going through my son's things. I am the mother of an only child, thus I was want to save every little item he ever created. I recall from my years in a strong and wonderful support group there was this recurrence of the year seven. It seemed to me, people had the capacity to act at the seven year benchmark.  We are in year seven and I finally have the capacity to work my way through 20 years of memories. Coincidence, possibly. It doesn't matter why, it just is.  This time, seven years later, I was able to manage the memories and not quickly turn into a puddle of tears.

I consider this a gift.

I am grateful for capacity.

I have come to this point by way of consistent support and love from family and friends, through counseling and medication, through exercise and meditation, through prayer and faith. The sources of my persistence are nearly endless.  When the fear takes hold, the practice I found and still find most helpful is the Buddhist practice of being in the moment:  A deep breath to bring me back to the present moment... nothing more, nothing less. The moment. Life saving, literally.

Today, I stand in love, in faith, in trust. 

Seven years.

Seven years after death... death is real, its concrete.  There is no longer the expectation of the car driving up the driveway or the door opening and hearing, "Hi Mom, what's for dinner?" The dreams have subsided, the memories dim and time takes its toll on us as it does everyone else. The absence is still there, and very present. But, I don't have this weeping wound that presides over my daily life.

There are often knives that prick the wound and cause my soul to bleed.  When I hear the news and the newscaster so flatly reports an 18 month old was swept away in the flood torrent, a 10 year old drown in the car that fell off a bridge, a young girl shot in her neighborhood. The bottomless sorrow comes to the brim of my being and flows out in tears of sorrow. My heart aches with the knowledge of  the journey before those who lost their love.  The journey is theirs to walk, barefoot on the burning asphalt, pelted by hail, spit upon by the heartless and lost in the darkness of loneliness. There is no escaping the journey... I pray they are strong enough to make it through.


A ten year old boy drowned in a car that fell off a bridge. Shouldn't that make you want to scream? 

Shouldn't you feel the stab in your heart for the love of another human being.

My thoughts explode.

Life was taken.

A human died.

A child, a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a cousin, a niece, a nephew, a companion, a friend.

We ache.

We cry.

A little piece of us dies.

We are unsure of what to do. 

What happened to normal you ask.

Normal is gone.

Normal as you knew it will never be again.

Yes, you will survive.

Yes, you will hurt.

Yes, you will want to die.

Yes, you will grow.

Yes, you will thrive.


I have been loved.
I am grateful.
Yes, grateful.

My life is what it is. 
It may not be what I wanted or what I expected,
but there is joy.

There is joy.

There is gratitude.

There is a thankful heart.

Seek and you shall find.