Category: Healing

Living with Mental Clutter

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BW Rose

After running to and fro and working like crazy over the last few months, I decided to work from home this week. I needed to not rush through the morning. I needed to not spend much of my day talking, talking, talking. I needed to use the time usually spent in commute and hustle and bustle out of and back into the house in silence and with far less movement.

With my guys gone during the day, I spent a lot of time alone. I thought I’d spend the extra time writing—or at least making sense of the clutter and chaos in my home office. 

But I didn’t. 

In my spare time, I chose to binge watch a series on Netflix, play around with planner tools, and sign books. 

I have far too many thoughts crammed into my head to write or think clearly. Unlike the physical clutter in my office, I can’t easily organize the mental clutter into files or keep, give away, and toss piles. Decluttering the mind requires a bit more intentionality—prayer, meditation, journaling, discipline, and the ear of a trusted friend. It certainly takes more than a day or two.

Since I am lacking the bandwidth to deal with any of it right now, I decided to live with the jumble of thoughts, words, and feelings for a while. 

That’s simply the best I can do at the moment. And, you know what? That’s okay. 

About the Image: The rose featured in this post was given to me by my 8-year-old cousin, Mikayla, for Mother’s Day. It happily lived among my sunflowers for more than two weeks.

Redbuds and Enduring Grief

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Redbud3

Today marks 10 years since my sister Karlette took her last breath. As I showered this morning, at about the same time I got the call, I told myself grief would not win today.

I enjoyed a beautiful church service, had dinner with my guys at one of my aunts’ homes, and took a moment to appreciate the tiny pink blossoms of the redbud tree in front of her home.

Interesting that in all these years, I had not seen the tree in bloom before. I’m certain that God led me to the pink blossoms–especially today.

I had my own notion of grief.
I thought it was the sad time
that followed the death of someone you love.
And you had to push through it
to get to the other side.
But I’m learning there is no other side.
There is no pushing through.
But rather,
there is absorption.
Adjustment.
Acceptance.
And grief is not something you complete,
but rather, you endure.
Grief is not a task to finish
and move on,
but an element of yourself,
an alteration of your being.
A new way of seeing.
A new definition of self.  –Gwen Flowers

Sunflowers and Kindness | “Life Be Lifing”

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Andrea Farthofer Sunflower

Based on the sighs I hear and the withdrawn, faraway looks in the faces of others, I know that many of us are not okay. I’m not sure if this is part of post-Pandemic languishing or malaise or if this is just life doing its thing. The reality is life can be stinging and burning at times, or as my blogging friend Kathy says, “Life be lifing.”

I wish we would admit that more. I wish more of us would be brave enough to tell the truth of our mental and emotional states. It would certainly make our loads a bit lighter, and maybe, it would free someone else to be open about their struggles. 

It’s not that misery loves company. We all need to know we’re not alone on the icky paths in life and we need to know we can navigate them and come through on the other side. We can survive these roads if we know we’re not alone, better yet if learn to walk them together. 

So, let’s do each other a kindness. Be honest about our feelings, and let’s check our judgment and leave space for others to be candid with us. 

About the Image: This gorgeous abstract sunflower features the work of my Wildflowers friend, Andrea F. She thought of me and my love for sunflowers while working on it. Like Sheila’s art, shared a couple of days ago, this piece sits in my planner and brightens many days!

Shhh…I Have a Secret

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Painted Daddy WM

The soul of the father
is steeped in joy. —Edward Guest

I have a secret. 

It’s not a good one, but it’s one I’ve held in my heart all day. I wanted to talk about it, but I thought talking about it would make me sadder and make the listeners sad too. 

Today marks one year since I last laid my eyes on my living and breathing dad. After spending nearly a week at home (in New Orleans)—with EMTs being called and hospital visits almost daily—my sister and I were about to drive back to Huntsville. Reluctantly. We visited him in the hospital and whispered our good-byes. 

My heart aches when I think about our quiet good-bye. He deserved one last, good celebration, with a lot of fuss and hoopla.

I knew his sojourn was coming to an end, but I pleaded with God to restore his health and give him just a little more time–for all the selfish but lovely reasons. 

Having been down this road twice before, I also I knew I was in denial. I prayed for the miracle, though He had already given the answer: It was time for him to rest. It was time to let him rest. 

Six days later…he took his last breath at home (thankfully) and left a nagging ache that I have been processing for almost a year now.

I am learning how to walk in the world without him, to cherish his gifts and celebrate his joy. That’s the thing I carry with me when I miss him most. His joy—a joy that delightfully danced across his spirit. 

My last gift to him–mere weeks before his death–captured that. At least, I hope it did. 

Thanks for letting me share my secret. It feels good to let it out. 

#ThursdayTreeLove | Winter Care

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Beckra Leaf

Cherish the winter. Cherish its quietness, the time of going within to rest and heal. Cherish this time of preparation that must come before new life. Cherish the hope that lies beneath the snow.  –Melody Beattie, Journey to the Heart 

This morning, as I was reading the passage above, I realized why I feel a bit on edge: this winter has been anything but quiet and restful. I have been busy, busy, and busy beyond busy, but as of this moment, I am taking a page out of Melody Beattie’s book (pun intended) and strategizing ways to find rest and quiet in the middle of the busy. It can be done. I mastered the art of stillness in the midst of madness before and, by the grace of God, I can do it again.

The strange thing is that I began to accept this level of “all the time” busy as normal. Everybody seems out of control with busyness, and no one seems really okay with it. I see the desperation for respite and healing in the eyes of many as we cross paths. I hear the frenzy in their voices. The rush to “normalcy” during the height of pandemic has affected us in significant ways—especially (I think) those of us in (all levels of) education. 

Therefore, we must be intentional—jealous even—about protecting ourselves and not allowing our jobs, our communities, and even our own aspirations to define what should be normal for us. We must take the reins (again) of our own lives and drastically eliminate the unnecessary.

It seems cliche, but it isn’t: take care of you. 

About the Image: The beautiful leaf image was shot by my pen friend, Rebecca R (Beckra). It isn’t amazing how we can see in the leaf a whole tree?

I am joining Parul Thakur for #ThursdayTreeLove every second and fourth Thursday of the month. If you would like to play along, post a picture of a tree on your blog and link it back to her latest #treelove post.

Dark | Sit with It

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Sunflower from Arizona

I am sharing a piece I wrote just a few moments ago during a writing circle session. I chose the prompt “I wish” for the group, hoping that a fanciful tale of unicorn dreams and butterfly wishes would fall from my pen. Instead, after being unable to write about my feelings for weeks, this spilled out:

I wish I could take this darkness that has settled into my being over the last few weeks and kick it straight into oblivion, into the abyss from which it sprung. It has robbed me of sleep. It has taken my calm. It has driven me to consuming way too much chocolate and to long-overcome habits of rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth and impatience with the world. It has made me so unlike me. I wish I could pull myself up to dance on clouds and sing on rooftops and never, ever apologize for being too joyful. I wish God would release me from the grips of darkness. I wish He hadn’t invited me to let it steep. To let it all rise to the surface—the grief and vile feelings, the suppressed hurt and trauma that I have stuffed too far down because I don’t have the energy or capacity to deal. I wish I didn’t have to confront the darkness. I wish I didn’t have to do the hard work of grappling with it and wrestling with it. We know Light wins. Light always wins, so why not skip the drama and just win already? Ugh! I wish I didn’t have to sit with the darkness, especially when just a flicker of His light is enough.

About the Image: My sunflower-loving, Wildflowers: Blooming in Community friend, Jamise L, sent the beautiful photo-card to me shortly after my father’s passing. Having lost her own father five years ago, she is well-acquainted with the journey. Her note offered comfort, love, and a shoulder to lean on. Thanks for the sunshine, Jamise!

My Golden Reminder to #facethesun

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Golden Hour 1-B

Today is the fourth anniversary of my sister Lori’s passing, so, predictably, I woke up in the grips of sadness. I wanted to spend the day in quiet contemplation, perhaps, dreaming in purple, but Monday means necessary work. I was not exactly looking forward to a long “working meeting” day and wondered how in the world I would get through, but God reminded me that work is sacred and that as long as I continued “working for Him,” He would do His part in helping me feel safe, focused, and strong enough to get through. 

After a gloomy weekend, the sun is shining brightly, an invitation for me to glow in the moment. I am thankful for this moment. Though grieving the loss, I am grateful for Lori’s beautiful life.

I crafted the sunflower in today’s post for the Week 36: Golden Hour prompt for 52Frames. Unable to find a good “golden hour” to shoot in, I spent a figurative golden hour with this sunflower. It is just the image I need to have in my mind–a sunny reminder to change my focus or #facethesun [the Son of God] when I encounter the unpleasant moments of life.

Sunny Blossoms | Sunflowers at Her Grave

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“Shine Brightly.” PhotoArt by Diane W.

Some time ago I shared a short sunflower poem written by rupi kaur on the blog. I think of this poem often—whenever I think of my sisters, my friend Julie’s oldest daughter (who was also my student), my pen friend Eileen V’s daughter, and others who passed far too soon.

As I was noting the darkness in my office one stormy morning this week, I mentioned to Julie that I need to transfer my sunflower wall back to my office at work, and she began telling me her special sunflower story.

She planted sunflowers at her daughter’s gravesite. For some time, she tended that garden, a necessary act as she worked through those first shocking moments of grief. The garden grew and grew, as gardens do. Eventually but unsurprisingly, she was told it had to be scaled back (out of respect for other decedents and their families). She was able to chuckle a little when she shared that part, as there has been by this time enough distance between the shattering pain of losing a daughter so young and the present moment.

The image of a gravesite bedecked in sunflowers reminded me of the statement my blogging friend, writer Ellen H, made in a comment on one of my recent posts about grief—

Beauty is both stunning and sad. —Ellen Hawley

There is a cost to beauty, so while I marvel over the amazing grace God showers on mothers who lose their daughters, I am keenly aware that the loss leaves a wound that never heals. As Julie says, “it’s a club to which no mother wants to belong.”

Even so, I thank God for Karlette, Lori, Témar, and Alanna. Though there is sadness, I am in awe of the stunning gifts of their brief but brilliant lives.

despite knowing
they won’t be here for long

they still choose to live

their brightest lives

rupi kaur, “sunflowers,” from the sun and her flowers

About the Image: The sunflower art in this evening’s post comes from a photo-art journal crafted by my swap-bot pal, Diane W (aka midteacher). I shared most of the beautiful journal on the blog a few years ago, with a promise to come back and share four of the images in individual posts. I’ll get to the other three…eventually.

Seven Favorites from World Watercolor Month | Faith and Butterflies

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Watercolor 30-2022

World Water Color Month 2022, Day 30 (July 30, 2022)

If I had to choose one favorite from the images I crafted for World Watercolor Month 2022, I think this Spice Bush Swallowtail would be the one. I worked this one on my father’s birthday as I thought about him and all the gifts he gave me. 

“Faith,” the poem below by Ullie-Kaye seems an appropriate fit for this butterfly, since the journey with grief is also a journey of faith. 

faith
ullie-kaye

faith does not begin where fear ends.
she comes when you are still lying in
the bottom of the gutter. hands trembling.
doubts running rampant. seas stormy.
breath insufficient. darkness winning.
thoughts blurring. skies fading. more black
than blue. obstructed view. no way through.
there. in the absence. in the tragedy.
in the emptiness. in the wreckage that made
its way into the very marrow of your bones.
in the fire that could not be drenched.
in the thirst that could not be quenched.
in the wounds that would not heal. in the
heart that could not feel. in the broken.
the lost. and surreal. that’s when she comes. 

I hope you enjoyed our seven-post trip into photo art and the beautiful words I encountered daily. 

WWCM 2022 Collage

Here’s a collage of the photo art posted for World Watercolor Month, including the three extra (butterflies) I posted on the blog (but not on Instagram). Do you have a favorite?