Tag: Grief

You made a difference…


Ironically, I’ve heard this quote twice this week – casting very different circumstances on someone’s life (although one was just a movie character).

Clearly, as a species or individuals, I think it’s common to want to look back on our lives and feel like we made a difference.  On a level, I think that’s noble.  But let’s look at ways to accomplish that goal, and what – in the end – really matters (IMHO).

I saw the new Jack Ryan movie this week. [SPOILER ALERT:  skip this paragraph if you want to see the movie…]  The main villain shares with someone during the movie that he feels like his life will have made a difference.  We find out later that  orchestrated a worldwide criminal plot, on behalf of his country and in memory of his son’s life, lost in war as a hero for his country.  Noble cause – to want to have made a difference.  Even noble in wanting to do so on behalf of one’s dead son, or one’s country.   I think we can all agree that it ends there, in terms of nobility.

But his story echoes this common theme:  finding self worth and value in life by making a difference.

The second time I heard this quote came today.  A friend died unexpectedly this week – as of yet, we don’t know the circumstances behind his death.  But, an early co-griever shared these words about our common friend:

You’re someone who cared
You were gentle, sweet, and kind
You made a difference

What an awesome way to be remembered : as caring, gentle, sweet, and kind.  I’d add that he was also authentic and passionate in life.  And he did make a difference.

Now, here’s where you might expect me to highlight a series of accomplishments on the same “scale” or “grandeur” to mirror the movie character’s goals in life. Well, I’m glad to say that’s where I think those three simple sentences are enough…more than enough. While there’s no Nobel Peace Prize, or national publicity on his accomplishments…does that really matter — for any of us?

Mike made a difference in the lives of those around him. He made relationships, telling stories, and celebrating others a priority.  He listened.  He was vulnerable.  He invited trust and showed compassion.  He understood that we are all connected — all living things — and took great pride and joy in that fact.

For me, there’s no better way to be remembered.

At times, with my life experience, I’ve honestly  believed that nobody would come to my funeral — that I would die alone, not having made a difference.  I also found my identity and self-worth primarily in my work — what I did — not who I was, or how I lived out my life.  I’m very grateful that I’m now able to see life so differently — through the powerful witness of others and through my own life experience.

I’m grateful for the lives of friends like Scott, Mike, and Phil who remind me that in the end, what is remembered is how we live, not what we do or what we accomplish.

I’ll  close here with some sacred and inspiring thoughts from a singer and poet I had the fortune of meeting last year at a conference on Asset Based Community Development.  Her words are both comforting and joyful.  Thank you Barbara for your gift…

I Wish That I Could Show You

Lyrics: Based on a quote by Hafiz 

I wish that I could show you
Whenever you are lonely or walking in the dark
The astonishing Light of your Being

When I Die

August 2011
©  Barbara McAfee

When I die I know there’ll be singing
By my friends all gathered around
As their sweet voices fade behind me
I will join with the One Great Sound
And I’ll stand on a sunset hillside
Just like I did in that dream
Join the multitudes there who are singing
The song inside everything

When I die I hope I’m not frightened
But it’s not for me to know
What awaits me there at the threshold
What’s required in letting go
Every time I leave home
Or someone I love
Or a place sweet and holy
Each night as I slip into slumber
I am learning how to die

When I die I’ll fall into a hammock
Woven of each song I’ve ever sung
I have sent them all forward to catch me
On the day that my life is done.
I will slip into that great mystery
As I did in the cool lake at dawn
I will swim those eternal waters
Let the current of love take me home

When I die I know there’ll be singing
By my friends all gathered around
As their sweet voices fade behind me
I will join with the One Great Sound

Link to her latest CD, with these two songs…

Butterflies and peppercorns…


Remembering mom's love of fresh peppercorns...
Remembering mom’s love of fresh peppercorns…

At church today, we talked about how symbols, signs and stories remind us of people and places in our past.  Sometimes the simplest image, smell or sound can bring back a flood of memories and stories…sometimes these are good recollections, and occasionally they haunt us by reminding us of something in the past.

Roses and Peppercorns
Roses and Peppercorns

 

 

 

For some odd reason, my mom had a great personal passion for fresh peppercorns. She would acquire these on her many trips around the world, bringing them home for her use.  However, this generally meant they went in the freezer for years to come – of course, in my mind, defeating the point of freshness.  Nonetheless, one of the distinctly fond and funny memories from last year, after my mom’s sudden death, was going through her house and finding all of her blessed peppercorns.  They were so much a part of her story that as kids, we kept some red ones aside…and when it came to laying her to rest, sprinkled them on her casket, along with the fresh red roses that the group of mourners had left.

It was our personal touch, a way to remember her passion, her uniqueness, her quirkiness.  I have a mason jar full of some of her black peppercorns in my kitchen today – not to be used, but to remember her story, to have her present in the kitchen, to honor her life in a small, unique way.

 

Likewise, I found out that week after her passing that she and I shared a love of butterflies.  For me, butterflies were a part of my recovery story – they signified transformation.  One of my dark, lonely Sundays in Greenfield in the height of my addiction, I remember looking out the window and seeing a butterfly near the window, on one of the Hosta plants.  For me, it was a symbol – in that moment, I remember thinking “it’s all going to be ok.  My Higher Power is looking out for me.”

So years later, to know that I shared this passion for butterflies with my mom gave me a connection I never had while she was alive.  She had this amazing blouse/jacket in her collection of clothes, with embroidered butterflies.  It was classy, bright and colorful – just the way I wanted to remember my mom.  I actually have the jacket now, and wear it on special occasions like Mother’s Day, and her birthday…  And, when I had my first tattoo designed, I had the tattoo artist use some of the images and shapes from her jacket as inspiration for the butterfly on my forearm, entertained with the Jerusalem cross that mom wore so proudly…and I now have in my possession as well to remember her by.

Butterfly Jacket
Butterfly Jacket
Butterflies and mom's Jerusalem cross...
Butterflies and mom’s Jerusalem cross…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By no means do these items replace the person, or represent the fullness of their life story.  But, they are gateways to their stories, reminders of their ongoing presence in our lives, as Angels watching over us.

So thank you for helping me celebrate the life legacy of Carol S. Wyman – her love of family, travel, people and nature.  She was far from perfect…so I don’t mean to idolize her blindly.  But, she will always be my mom…and I will always be her little boy.

I love you mom.

Entertaining Angels Unaware


This is perhaps a different twist on the scripture passage Mike Mather offered for my grandmother’s funeral, as I shared her gift of hospitality….to anyone, but particularly to those emigrating from Poland. She had spent years teaching emigrants English and US Citizenship under Rooselvelt’s administration.  (Hear her story firsthand  from her 95th birthday party!)

A natural extension of her work there was to open her home, with Pop-pop, to house, feed and nurture the body and soul of Polish people, given her fluency in her parents’ native tongue and her proud heritage. (Hear her talk about what it was like growing up in Philadelphia as a first generation Polish-American, including recounting the Lord’s Prayer in Polish.)

This week, within days of Mee-maw (Blanche) passing to the other side of the curtain, a friend found her first penny from Blanche.

Last night, I was watching Les Miserables with some dear friends, and felt my mom and Mee-maw’s presence. I bought one brooch for me (two masks/theater motif), one butterfly to match my mom’s silk jacket I wear and my tattoo…and wanted one more for Blanche.  (Well, for me to remember their life, love and legacy….)

I ended up buying an amethyst-colored brooch (one of her favorite stones) when L. (behind the counter at the gift shop) gave me three options…but as she pointed to one, she said accidentally…Blanche, instead of whatever word would have been normally to follow.  Wow….

L. had no way of knowing my grandmother’s Americanized version of her first name, Blanche…for Bronislaw. And I know Blanche was pointing for L., because L. shared later that she had lost her 45 year old daughter this year…to a heart attack. My 71 year old mom died in January…of a heart attack.Blanche's Brooch

If we listen to the Spirits or Angels or whatever term is comfortable for you…I believe they talk to us. Some in pennies, some through others, some in signs.

Our Angels want us to know that they are ok…and that we can grieve, but move on and live life to the fullest. They are smiling down, dancing and laughing with us.

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