Category: loss

Love & Death

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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Ebb & flow. Effort & ease. Holding on & letting go. Stretching & releasing. Prayer, purpose, & fuck-its. Presence & distraction. Limits & overcoming. Learning & serving. Self & community. Surrendering & rising. Resisting & meeting your edge. Moment by moment. Staying with it. Embracing & releasing. Individual & universal. Tears & triumph. Grit & gratitude. Yoga & grief. Frustration & faith. Stories & realities. Change. Transformation. Agony & growth. Ownership & detachment. Rage & freedom. Purpose & passion. Emptying into fullness. Letting go to make space. Holding on for balance. Two feet, two hands, one head, one heart, one world. Experience & opportunity. Challenge & ecstasy. Heaviness & hope. Anger & angels. Now. On the mat & off the mat. Child’s pose & high mountain. Transformation & dropping expectation. Fear & facing it. The mirror & a taste of magic. Squeezing & expanding. Landing anew. Theories & truth. Desperation & trust. Doubt & doing. Never done.

We Lose More than the Person We Love

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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Often, we don’t realize we’re losing it until we have. In the midst of turmoil, loss and grief, we lose more than the person we love.

You lose everything about that part of you that freely gave. And so many parts of him: the shoulder where you melted, the lips you kissed to taste life, the eyes which switched on your internal light and fed you a better reality than you can imagine today.

The guy who losses his business or wife loses his pride, confidence and security. It changes the way he walks, shakes hands, even how he orders a beer. Timidity sneaks in.

When a woman loses her love, she loses her story, identity and sensuality. Her soft side hardens. Her walls of protection crumble and she stands vulnerable.

I’ve lost a few things—I mean besides my job, marriage, home, and oh yeah, the greatest man I’ve ever known. I lost my mind that protected me and told me, finally, everything’s going to be ok. The mindset that said life is fair or unfair, fucked up or not worth living slipped away in the night.

I lost my ability to be ungrateful or bitter, along with my patience (if I ever had any) for trivia or drama. Gone is my judgement for how others live their lives (well, mostly). I’ve given up my craving for attention or outside direction and faced the fact there will be no intervention.

I’ve taken on an eagerness for another’s story, a presence in moments unfolding before me. I’ve learned the value of walks in the woods and talks with angels.

In spite of all I’ve lost, I’ve come to own myself. It’s quite a gift once you allow yourself to feel it—to own your power, accept grace and the divine opportunity to pay it forward. Heck, it’s a little bit like magic.

The Emptiness

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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Grief is an empty bowl, an empty flower vase, emptiness. Grief is the thing I try to get over, go through, set aside, embrace, honor, resist, or even reclaim. Grief grips me. I try to fall into it like a lover, but in grief’s arms, I’m a hormonal teenager. I determined to rule the world, but I can barely drive a car. I lose my keys, my purse, and my glasses. I’m losing my mind.

Grief’s the gift that keeps giving—pennies from heaven, feathers, and hearts in clouds. I’m earning a new language in a foreign land. I thought I’d travelled before. Not here. Here, grief harasses, condemns, and consoles. Consoles? Yes, and recreates itself each day. Grief is an alien growing in my body, as a friend of mine once said about her baby. It was funny then. I look for the humor now.

Grief grows in the womb of my soul. I never wanted to be pregnant with this (like my friend), and like her, I can’t terminate it.

Grief doesn’t die. It’ll transform. I’ve seen it before. I’ve been down this road where I’m dropped off like a hitchhiker in my own life, with no determined destination.

I could take the bus. Or walk, but to where? I can’t just sit here, but I do. I sit on the curb of life and cry until I’m an empty bowl. I say: Ok, God, angels, guides, Mother Mary, Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, and all my loved ones on the other side, fill me.

 

 

Sitting My Ass Down into Acceptance

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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It’s hard to move forward when you keep one foot in yesterday. Or two. Or cling to it like a child clings to her blanket.

I determine to stand, as if my decision could claim the light and calm the crashing waves in my heart. Unfortunately, it’s not a matter of sitting on my ass, then choosing to stand. I’ve been thrown, no… I dove into the Grand Canyon of grief. I’m clawing to climb out. It’s not like the 12-mile hike out of Havasu, a side canyon I once trekked out of with a boyfriend.

Grief is the triathlon of emotions. Swimming a mile is merely the beginning. Yet, I think I must be done—every time. It’s all imaginary and arbitrary: the race, the time, the power, and the control.

Grief isn’t giving in, but it’s letting go and allowing. Oh, how I hate that! I beg, “Coach, put me in!” I want to be in the game, but I’m injured. I want to run and compete, but I can’t even stand. Please, at least let me play!

Injuries often require physical therapy. I’m in grief therapy. No, I don’t have an actual therapist. Although I consider it, I like to save those appointments for when life crashes in on me and I don’t know what to do.

Experienced in grief, I know what to do. Sometimes, I just tire of doing it.

I must practice acceptance. When I hurry, I think, “Ok, I’ve accepted that. I’ve grieved. Now, back to my goals.” Grief smiles, right before she bitch slaps me.

Like an almost healed sprained ankle can do when too much weight is put on it suddenly. Pain shoots straight up to fire off those neurons that scream, Fuck! Ouch! Ouch! Shit! Fuck! Damn! Ouch! My eyes fill with tears of pain, shame and anger. Pain is the signal to sit my ass back down and do some more healing.

It’s easier to deny or pretend I’ve accepted the emotional pain of grief, but like physical pain, pushing oneself too far or too fast has consequences.

So, today I’m back in grief therapy. I cry, write, pray, walk in the woods, and dance in my kitchen with my man who died seven months ago. I learn to accept a little more—the thing I least want to accept: he’s gone.

Screaming in a Cemetery

Alice Lundy6 Comments

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Yesterday, I lay in the grass in a cemetery. It’s a habit I’ve taken up since my boyfriend’s death. I let the clouds speak to me. Then, I rise.

My dead boyfriend tells me he has to go now. It’s time. It feels like he’s trying to break up with me. I say, “No, you said you’d stay with me.” I want to say forever, but he never said that, did he?

I can’t tell many people of our conversations—not because they’ll think I’m crazy (although it’s a consideration), but because they don’t believe. They look at me the way I look at my eight-year-old neighbor Parker when he says he has a black belt in karate. Or the way my stepbrother looks at me when I talk about God, condescending and a little self-righteous. He tells me he doesn’t believe in “the flying fairy.”

His response doesn’t diminish my faith so much as make me sorry he’s missing out. I feel no need to defend or explain that which can’t be proven, yet is as real to me as the sighting of a rainbow.

Like rainbows, stars and dragonflies, my dead lover, my friend, my twin flame Kevin comes to me. Truth is, I don’t give a damn if it’s fantasy. It’s mine. My connection and conversation with him continues. I’m in a world that feels like home, but it’s impossible, right?

Yes, impossible, like the love we had. Impossible, like all the words, experiences and sex we compacted into the two years lived like a decade. Impossible, like the fact that we knew each other for 25 years before either of us considered the thing that transformed us both. Impossible, like finding that kind of love in our fifties. Impossible, like he’s dead.

Kevin tells me he has to go. I beg him. “I still need you. Please don’t go! I’m not ready!” This is the third time we’ve had this conversation since his death, compared to the dozens of times he’s said, “I’m here, Icey. I’m here. It’s real. I’ve got you, Icey. I’m here.”

This—what feels like a break-up—was instigated by me the first time in June on the beach in Belize, the place I thought I’d go to drop off my grief. It was about as easy as abandoning a two-year old. Impossible. Kevin said, “I’m not leaving you, Icey.”

He called me Ice and I called him Fire. I keep melting, but he never goes out. He sends me signs, like the Capricorn Bar (he’s a Capricorn) on our morning walks at that yoga retreat. There are a thousand more I won’t say for fear you won’t believe anyway.

Yesterday in the cemetery, he told me he had to go. He’s not being cruel or saying he won’t come back, but he’s in a whole new world, too. He’s telling truth. I feel like a kid hearing, “Fido’s gone to heaven.” It’s a truth I’m not ready to hear, or am I?

No, I’m not. If Kevin was physically present, I’d cling to his ankles, seduce or guilt him into staying, though I never needed or wanted to resort to manipulation in our relationship on earth. He wouldn’t go for that kind of crap and I’m not that gal.

Still, in a cemetery I scream, “Don’t leave me!” I’m washed with peace. With love. His love. God’s love. And my mom’s—who’s also on the other side.

The second time Kevin and I had this conversation was a couple weeks ago. I was an emotional wreck. He said his presence wasn’t helping me, so he should go. Everything he does is about helping me. I told him it was. Then, I embraced his love all over again, like he convinced me to do in life.

Life—I have a full, beautiful, blessed one even with the loss. But, just because you know how fortunate you are doesn’t mean you feel it. Just because you stand on a beach in Belize and stare at turquoise water doesn’t make the noise of death subside.

However, I can see I’ve progressed. It’s weird to move forward in pain. It no longer chokes me, but God, how it hurts.

Kevin cannot wait for the pain to go away and in a sense, he never will. But now, I need to let him be in the world beyond.

I’m home now. It’s a day later. I decide…no, I’m overcome by a peace, a release. He says, “Yeah Icey, yeah, I got you. It’s ok. It’s going to be ok.”
 

Dear Grief Stricken

Alice Lundy4 Comments

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Dear Grief Stricken,

I’m so sorry for your loss. I know your heart is hurting. Yes, other hearts hurt, too. But, let’s talk about you. You had no choice in this pain. Your loss was thrust upon you, like being thrown from a car or poison injected into your system. Everything changed.

People will tell you you’re not alone. The truth remains, although others suffered similar or stand by your side, your grief is etched with your name. Deciphering how you deal with your pain and the people around you resides within you. Yet, I tell you, you’ve got a thousand angels standing guard for your heart alone, even if you think there are none.

Still, the path you must walk can only be carried by your feet. The vision forward and the meaning you give the past—all yours. The tears you shed run down your face. The memories play like movies in your mind.

How long this takes is your journey, but that doesn’t mean you get to choose a time frame or how deep you’ll delve into the pain. You’ll go as deep as it pulls. But, baby, you’ve got this.

Sometimes it feels like you’re a candidate for the looney bin. So, be it. If you can’t go crazy over grief, when will you let go?

You’ll be tested. I won’t tell you it’s going to be okay or don’t cry or don’t laugh. I’ll not advise you, knowing the line at your door for that.

I simply say, and I’m paying it forward here: I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry your heart is hurting. May it hurt less tomorrow.

 

 

Regaining Radiance

Alice Lundy6 Comments

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“Past, present, future—it’s all the same.” That’s what the psychic said my dead boyfriend said from the other side. Now, as I peruse old journals, I see it’s true. What I struggled with then—all the thens, is what is what I struggle with now, just in different forms.

The chapters of my life repeat: ch.1 I’ve Got to Get it Together, ch.2 How Can I Get it Together?, ch.3 I’m Getting it Together, ch.4 Hallelujah!, followed by ch.5 Storm Ahead or, Shit, I Didn’t See That Coming, then ch.6 I’m Falling Apart, often followed by I Can’t Believe I’m Fucking falling Apart Again! leading full circle to I’ve Got to Get it Together and How Can I Get it Together?

Here, bingo! Ding! Ding! Ding! This is the most important chapter, yet maybe my least favorite. It comes after the crash. It’s picking up the pieces of my heart and personality, my shattered identity after making the Dry Diving Team. It feels like my soul is being crushed, but it’s being called.

How Can I get it Together? comes right after my ego gets bitch slapped and my heart crumbles like coffee cake. The floor of my life’s foundation is a mess. My illusions prove untrue. That’s when my soul steps in like a kind, noble queen. She says, “Well my child, that’s done. Now, who would you like to become?”

It’s my moment of choice. When I was younger, my ego would rise, broken, but determined to be victorious. I didn’t take the queen’s hand, but rose on my own two feet—thank you very much! I struggled and won!

In other versions of the critical chapter, I had no fight and knew it. I didn’t even possess the courage to end it all. I hibernated, sometimes for years. I hid in my own dark cave and didn’t encounter the queen.

The queen is my soul. She’s here. She extends a hand. She offers compassion and wisdom. She waits with me and wipes my tears. The queen comforts me. She smiles with a radiance she says belongs to me. She whispers, “Honey, you’ve already got it together.”

She plays music and movies, awakening me to the drama and intrigue of life. The queen—my soul—she tells me a secret: “This is what you came for.”

Practicing Acceptance

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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My now-deceased boyfriend Kevin and I lived cities apart and saw each other in bursts—days, weeks, even a month together—all in vacation mode, immersed in our love. Sometimes we went weeks without seeing each other, although we typically talked several times a day.

In a way, I’ve accepted his no longer calling. Yeah, in the way of listening to his voice mails over and over. Think I’m wallowing?

Maybe, but I think of wallowing more as misery. My grief therapy can be bittersweet. It’s the juxtaposition between yeah, it really was that wonderful, extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime kind of relationship and now it’s over.

Kevin was the ideal man for me. He was crazy, sexy, cool. He was my person I’d been searching and going through all those fools for. The proof is in his letters, voicemails, text messages, his shares with me on Facebook, and The Boyfriend Log ap I kept on my phone.

I tracked our relationship from day one—determined not to deny and put myself in a deep hole over some asshole again (i.e. get hurt). The evidence is there, all green and orange, amazing and happy, day after day. I didn’t make it up. It’s not like the guys I look at after a break-up and see all the ways I deceived myself.

Still, there was no way I could see the red sad symbol I’d chart on March 4, 2016. I must acknowledge not only the depth of the loss, but the greatness of our love. It wasn’t grandiose, but it was grand. It still is. I hold onto it as I let the reality of Kevin’s sudden and unexpected death sink in.

I walk in cemeteries and see proof of people dying and leaving loved ones to go on. It’s a path people have walked since the beginning of time.

I’m walking it, sometimes in circles. No worries, it’s not a race. There’s no winning or losing. Acceptance is a practice, like yoga. I stretch into it, some days stiffer than others. I’m present. I’m willing.

Yet, my mind darts to yesterday and my heart constricts. I resist owning what I still find difficult to fathom: my great love has died.

 

Embracing Contentment

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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Kevin (my boyfriend who died in March) conveyed a contentedness I’ve rarely witnessed. Ok, sure, he screamed obscenities in traffic and don’t mess with his sales leads!

But in the mornings, he sat quietly with coffee and me. Sounds simple, but that’s not a comfortable setting for everyone. These days, quiet for many means on their phone or computer. For me, quiet is often writing or praying.

I’d forgotten how to just sit in peace and contemplation, without restlessness, resistance, chatter, or distraction. Kevin didn’t like it if I grabbed a book or a pen, or God forbid, my phone. He wasn’t into texting. He was an old fashioned guy, in that he used the phone to call and talk to people.

Often in the mornings, we talked. Occasionally, he prayed aloud for his sales days. He wasn’t trying to distance himself the way many of us do.

The cool thing about Kevin, among the thousands I could tell you, was his ability to be fully present.

We’ve come to let people off the hook for being on the phone, in a hurry, rushing to be somewhere, and never fully arriving.

Kevin arrived in his life. He liked where he landed. In the mornings, contentment shown on his face like the rising sun and the birds at the feeder, the ones he taught me to take an interest in.

Kevin wasn’t striving to impress or mentally manipulate me. He knew how to just be and allowed me to do the same.

It’s morning now. I’m at home. Without Kevin. I sit with my coffee, watch birds at his feeder, and embrace contentment in an imperfect life.

 

 

 

 

When an Introvert Grieves

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People say, “Don’t isolate.” What if I connect to peace, the divine, and my loved ones on the other side in solitude?

Being with others—anyone, at this point—feels confining. Solo, on my deck, with my dog, or walking in the woods, I’m free to let my heart and mind converse while my soul steps forward.

When I’m alone, my beloved talks to me from the beyond. What?! You say the girl’s gone bat shit crazy? When I’m alone, I don’t care because even if it’s make believe (I know it’s not), I’m continuing a relationship I never wanted to end. Neither did he. Maybe that’s why we’re so lucky.

I’m lucky. I’m loved by so many. People want to reach out and comfort me in my grief. In gratitude, I try to reach back, but it’s an uncomfortable stretch for me.

I make that stretch because I live in this world. Being with others grounds me like a teenager in love with a boy her parents can’t understand.

Once grounded, I try what works within those parameters: socializing. But, small talk is like eating sand. Maybe because I was in sales for so long. Now, I can hardly tolerate what I once did so well for a living.

I’ve shifted. If you don’t want to go deep and be real, I’m not interested. I’m not saying I can’t be. It takes work for me to come outside of my mind and be fully present with you. I strive to listen and ask questions, due to my craving for soul connection—or at least erasing the mask of personality and finding the point where we’re the same.

It appears people in this land of extroverts enjoy people’s company regardless of the depth of conversation. Maybe that’s not true, but I’ve found a lot of people not so into being real. They only pretend to answer questions about who they are. Deflection is a mastered art in socialization.

So many people wear masks and shields when they enter the world. It makes sense. We’ve all been hurt. Sometimes it’s unconscious. As authentic and present as I strive to be, I keep my old shields handy. They go up readily and rightfully in the company of certain individuals. Don’t we all do that, even a little bit?

I feel it and I’m tired. I don’t want the weight of my shield and the mask no longer represents me, but I don’t yet know what does. I’m transforming.

I like being at home, alone, naked of my armor, and free to just BE: happy, sad, angry, blissful, and bereft. Here at home, I feel secure and comfortable—the safety extroverts get out there with other people.

Let me be clear: I don’t like a lot of people. So, now you know. I spent my life trying to like everyone and judge no one. Kevin helped me to see and accept this truth and many others about myself. I judged myself for not being like Kevin or my sister Jayne. They seem to like most of the people they meet. I find it fascinating and impressive, but I no longer pretend I feel the same.

I don’t like a lot of people. That’s true, but it’s not that I dislike, disrespect, or wish them any harm. It’s just that their company doesn’t spark anything in me. Nor mine in them.

Then, others light me up, turn me on, ignite my energy, and help me remember who I aspire to be (ME!) and who I am without my mask or shield: a beautiful soul playing a role on earth. I recognize the same in them. Although I despise the word tribe, it fits.

I come from a small tribe. Currently, it’s a tribe of one plus. In my tribe, we hold private ceremonies. My dog, God, guides, angels, and loved ones on the other side, even Mother Mary, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus Christ are invited.

If I share this truth outside my in social circles with unspoken conventions, I feel self-conscious, pretentious (even though I’m only sharing my experience), and defensive (as if I have to prove what you’ll never believe). Why?

At home alone, I relish my introvert status. I feel no dispute in who I am. Well, that’s not quite true. I see my inner conflicts and sit with them. I read (solo). I write (solo). I pray, walk and think with myself and my (imaginary?) man. I never enjoyed anyone’s company so much as when Kevin was here. I still do. It’s my private heaven.

I know he’s dead. I’m grieving in my weird, wild, introverted ways. Let me.

Let me be alone with him. Let him whisper in my ear, make jokes, send me signs, and dance with me. Maybe I’m crazy. “Crazy, sexy, cool!” Kevin says.

Is this why they say, “Don’t isolate”? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m an introvert. I like my company.

Here’s the other thing I find happens to me—as an introvert, surrounded by extroverts (people I love). I say yes on their behalf. Or, I say yes trying to convince myself it’s all about the attitude or energy I bring.

So, I find myself in the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s new Toyota Avalon. I’m uncomfortable. Can you direct some air back here?  Not so fucking much! Geez, I’m freezing. I recognize this as a small form of a panic attack, although I don’t believe in such things. But, if a panic attack is like Get me the fuck out of here! Why did I come? I want to go home! This is stupid.

Just breathe, I tell myself. Alice, just breathe. Then, eat. You need some food. I breathe. I eat. I mentally cuss out the waiter. Where’s my goddamn beer?

Don’t worry. I’m not turning into a drunk any more than I’m going to be fat. It’s just that I have an insatiable appetite to feel good. Right now, it’s sometimes cheap leaps. I allow myself because I know myself.

I’m an introvert and a rebel. Basically, I spend time alone thinking of how I can shake up the world. I want to fight the big things—racism, poverty, electing money, the prison industry…but right now I’ve got the ghost of grief on me. That works well for my introvert self.

But, the rebel in me? She likes to slam doors, burn bridges, jump on the back of motorcycles. My rebel self likes to walk away from relationships and jobs. She wants to prove her freedom. I do what I want!

I see her eating and drinking like she doesn’t care. She cares deeply about her health, but she’s so fucking scared that anything can happen to anyone and she just has to hold it together until the next time it falls apart. See, this girl in me, this rebellious, introverted writer has a broken heart the size of the canyons she ran through in her New Mexico childhood.

I’m trying to get that girl back. I remember being that little introvert, the rebel who abandoned Campfire Girls to build a fort in the canyon behind Mountain School.

In third grade, I ditched school to play in the canyon. Even though I got caught, I’ll never regret that day.

Or the ones where I lingered on the edge of cliffs while resisting the temptation to jump into death, darkness and the earth floor of the canyons.

I have within me a need to go to the depths of my grief alone. Just like the teenager who ran her way through more canyons than I can count.

Don’t worry. As was the rule, I’ll be home for dinner. Or I’ll call.

Please don’t worry about me when I isolate. I’m not alone.