The Star Thief by Andrea DiNoto (author) and Arnold Lobel (illustrator)
I go to bed at 9:00. That’s usual.
I wake several times, restless during the night. That’s unusual.
The first time, it’s just after midnight. A full moon lights the darkness and I get out of bed and quietly slip out to the porch. Thin cloud wisps play hide and seek with the moon transforming its white light into pink and yellow emanators.
I smile and think of my son Michael who continued on eight years ago. I can feel his presence.
I wake again at 2:15, 3:33 and, at about 4:30 I get out of bed. I have a thought that Michael’s trying to get me up!
I’m a solid sleeper (well, except for a keen every now and then) and wonder what’s up. And then I remember. Oh! On a walk two days ago, I ask, “Hey Michael, will you let me know you’re around?”
Well, when I wake at 4:30, I grab my phone (unusual, I sip hot coffee and then meditate before doing anything). The first message I see is one from a friend. My friend is a professional intuitive and out of the blue she writes and sends what she hears Michael saying.
It is like receiving the best gift ever.
So, I think Michael was trying to get me up to read the message.
I’ve been missing his physical presence and processed a little more grief this past week. It’s my first time in 18 years living where I raised my kids and that means that emotional hooks are here to be acknowledged. And today is Michael’s birthday.
I’m celebrating by talking about him (here) and with friends and family as we recall his lively, outrageous at times, bright-light personality. Oh my gosh, the stories!
Michael’s unexpected passing has helped me unlike anything else in my life to live with presence, lightness, and fullness. I am grateful that I believe that he is still here in spirit and that it is possible to maintain and grow a relationship with someone who has passed on.
I believe I am at a peaceful healed place because I’ve mourned and continue to honor my grief whenever it arises. I've learned how to do that from others who know about loss. Like Tom Zuba.
Tom has been learning to live life with the death of his 18 month-old daughter Erin in 1990, his 43 year-old wife Trici in 1999, and his 13 year-old son Rory in 2005. He says, “If you want to heal, you must mourn.” And on his blog he offers ideas on ways to do that:
Well, just before I wrote this, I ran a mile in the rain in honor of Michael’s birthday. And tomorrow, I’ll do it again.