Good luck and goodnight Abigail. We love you so much.

Image credit: Abigail holds a bird given to her by her medical team. 

It's given in honor of finishing her last round of chemotherapy and with the message, "Spread your wings and fly." From her Facebook photo album. 

I first posted this 9 years ago on 7-29-14 soon after Abigail continued on. Reading about her makes me smile and realize again that who we love becomes part of us. Inseparably so. 

“Where’s the pizza?” my husband asks.

We eat dinner out. He wants to make sure one of us brought the leftovers in from the car and put them in the refrigerator.

“I don’t know,” I respond from my reading chair as he walks over and takes the pizza box resting under my book off of my lap.

Oh.

He smiles gently though doesn’t mention that I still have my sunglasses on. I notice them when it’s hard to read while squinting over Jalaluddin Rumi’s poem about night travelers who search the darkness instead of running from it (Search the Darkness, The Pocket Rumi, edited by Kabir Helminski, p. 53).

I’m dwelling on the part where Rumi says that night travelers are full of light.

Here it is again: adversity is a harvest opportunity. Those night travelers are full of light from a practice of softening and opening while in the darkness of pain.

I think about Abigail, and that she knows about this type of harvest. (I meet her about a year and a half before she is diagnosed with cancer and while I am in treatment for lymphoma. I’m now stable.)

She just died.

Abigail passed from complications during an autologous stem cell transplant. She is thirty-one.  

I’m sad and shocked. I knew she was very sick. I knew about stem cell rescue statistics. So why does her passing feel sudden and unexpected?

Because she thought, spoke, and lived like she wasn’t sick. Well, it’s more than that. She lived a moment as the best ever, even at her sickest. She had that kind of life-loving spirit.

Even when her stem cells are being drawn to save for re-entry later, her “no big deal, I can do this, wait, I can do this with humor and acceptance” comes through. As if giving a White House tour, in a video she says:

“Welcome! Here I am at the hospital…blood being drawn. Stem cells! As you can see, I have a corner view.” She gestures to large windows and raises her eyebrows in jollity, making me wonder if she’s at a five-star hotel. With a click of her tongue, a nod, and grin, she closes with an Edward R. Murrow mimic. “Good luck and good night.” Then she smiles like an Olympian who has already won a gold medal.

And just a few weeks ago when her healthy stem cells were being reintroduced into her body, a group of nurses gather to sing happy birthday. Abigail opened to the love, raised her arms, and directed their song as if conducting a choir.

Abigail was happy.

Overflowing happy. I see it in her short simple videos: a close-up glee of a sparkler aflame, pleasure in seeing rowing crews glide by on a river outside her window, sounds of the Pacific lapping on the shoreline, a recording of her beloved Stanton’s Daffy Duck voice. And the video of a butterfly visit and request: “Butterfly, tell me your secrets.”

I think that butterfly gleaned from Abigail’s secrets. I imagine that large black swallowtail gathering and sprinkling golden pollen dust in a Roald Dahl BFG blow-dreams-into-hearts way. That's how Abigail's attention felt. Being happiness was giving it.

Her happiness is confident and evident in our conversations. Even ones about tough topics.

We talk about how both her brother and my son died unexpectedly. She says, “You know how when someone dies they’re still here?” I smile and tell her about the day a hummingbird flew into my school classroom and landed at my feet when I am in early grief about my son’s passing. Her face lights up as if she knows that bird. She speaks with a heart-connected sparkle in her eye, “I feel my brother nearby like that.” And then we share beautiful and quirky ways we’ll visit loved ones after passing on.

She calls around the end of June.

She talks about the coming stem cell capture procedure. She’s thinking a lot about that. Well, not that exactly. She’s thinking about love. And those who love her.

She hopes so much that they feel her love. I listen to what I believe is one of the most precious soliloquies I’ve ever heard about her deep and abiding love. Her voice sings in joy.

In love.

She loves them, and she knows they love her. She can feel it.  It’s like nothing else matters. There is nothing else to do.

I feel like I’m part of a privileged awareness.

I take in her message.

She thanks me for listening and ends with what she tells everyone she meets, “I love you so much.”

I miss Abigail. I think of all those people missing her right now. Her fearless journey reminds me that love enlarges when I face difficulty with an open heart in community with others. Her passing invites a high calling: face your joy and despair at once.

With inner brilliance beacons, Abigail shows us how. 

Published 7/29/14. 
Republished in celebration of beautiful Abigail, with love and tenderheartedness for her Mom, JoLynn.

NOTE: Pondering that comment Abigail made about visiting someone in quirky ways after passing on—twice in the last months, my phone rang for a FaceTime call invite by Abigail while I was in the middle of a call. Why hello, Abigail.

Ten years ago Michael left, and love grew.

Clouds eyes. Terry and I walk the beach (8/21/16).
I took this picture at the place we put Michael in the sea.

Today is a special day. Ten years ago Michael passed on.

This morning when I woke, I smiled. No tears. I feel grateful.

My first thought was for someone I love.

My second thought was for someone I love.

And then, as if I created my own gratitude feast, I remembered so many others who were there for me this day ten years ago and since. Because I’m aware that I’m not alone in my life experiences and that all others experience loss and joy, I understand that you likely know people like this in your own life.

So…

Is there someone in your life who no matter how many times you ask to be held and listened to is there every single one of a zillion times as if it’s the first time and most important moment, and that you know he’ll be there for the next zillion?

Have you ever found yourself looking at your daughter and all at once seeing her as a child, sibling, spouse, mom, aunt, cousin, sister, friend, and teacher? You know—for a moment you get a glimpse into what it looks like for a human being to have unfathomable love, willingness to learn, strength to persevere, humility, and an ability to accept life in all its marvel and messiness. Have you ever seen your own child like this?

Have you ever paused for a moment when you do something of merit and think of someone you really care about, someone who married and loves your daughter and their sons, and remember with gratitude and joy to dedicate that merit to him?

Sometimes, do you stop whatever you’re doing because you remember that there is someone who was there for you on the hardest day, which was probably her hardest day, too, and somehow she took the lead? You know, like looking up at geese in formation flying a rigorous route north and she sees a need to take the apex of the arrow despite wind shear. And then she holds the apex for a long, long time, even letting a tired bird fly on her back. Do you know someone like this?

Do you know someone who would respond to the unexpected death of a loved nephew in his home and then, unable to reach the parents, attend to what needs to be done as if that nephew is his own child?

Is there someone in your family who has a blend of tenderness and strength, someone able to hug and hug and hug and love no matter how much of a shit a cousin can be, and feels he is her guardian angel?

Have you ever had a moment when you remember calling a friend and asking her to drive you to the airport, and that friend is at your door five minutes later, silently holding your unbearable sadness with grace and comfort that carries over year to year?

Do you know someone who has the ability to sit quietly with loss? Like a friend who sits with you the day after your son dies and a few days before your son’s funeral saying nothing except when you say, “I don’t know if I can go to his funeral,” and she replies, “You’ve lived your hardest day. Every day from here is easier. You can do this.”

Is there someone in your blended family who, during an unexpected event, steps forward and says, I can help, and she does the work of organizing a funeral?

Do you ever look at your children, and even though you’re not married to their dad anymore, feel so much gratitude for that relationship because of those precious children?

Do you sometimes experience overflowing best-thing-everness when you hear stories about what others love and see in the people you most love? Or you're at a memorial like my son's and through their eyes you hear the kind, silly, fun, loving things he said or did and feel so grateful for their stories?

Are there listeners and teachers in your lives who know when to hug, when to offer another perspective, when to show up, when to let you wrestle with angst, and when to send messages that they love you to bits and are there for you?

Have you ever realized that you probably didn’t adequately thank the people you work with when something happens that meant they needed to step-up and into doing their job and a little bit of yours for as long as is needed?

Have you ever had a remembrance long after someone took responsibility to do a task you couldn’t do, like make and pay for a flight, and then realize that you forgot to thank that nephew?

Have you ever received a book that holds teachings that reach out from the pages and somehow help your heart soften when you feel yourself growing bitter and angry and years later begin studying with that teacher?

Do you ever think how fortunate you are to have siblings who have shared your childhood and understand in a way no others do?

And then, do you think about the gift your sibling's children are to your children and how working with these family relationships is practice for relating to families everywhere?

Is there a person who, when you feel horrible, finds and says while hugging you, "You're doing great," and because it's her and you feel her love, you wear that mirrored message with a bit more bravery?

Are there people in your life who when life dips dangerously deep, write cards and messages to you, and then you realize that for over 57 days straight, someone wrote to say "I see you"? Have you had this experience?

How about this, I wonder: Do you have people who, on the anniversary of an event, are there to creatively say, "I'm here," or "I remember?" 

Do you know people who, because you decided to show yourself in all its muddiness, ask you to be with them because they know you'll listen and hold, not fix, their hurt? Has that happened to you?

Have you ever been part of caring groups who know how to hold the good and the awful, and listen, and be, and listen again, and again, and again, and sometimes call you sweetie, love, dearheart, honeybun, or Sue?

Have you had the experience of finding a friend who, in some inexplicable way, becomes a conduit of connection and opens you to wonder about the energy of love, and then somehow you feel like you hear the wind talking or something like that?

Have you experienced the death of a child only to discover that he lives on? And then to discover that as he lives on and grows inside of your heart, his love also grows inside every being he ever touched and every being that person ever touches, and yes, on and on? That legacy is so much bigger than passing on a family heirloom? 

Do you think about death as an awareness of life and, like me, begin to realize the preciousness of knowing that your legacy is love?

And then this, do you think about things you learn from relationships?

I do. 

Here’s one.

I’ve learned that when a relationship (people, places, things) ends, there is an opportunity to use my pain and all the difficult feelings to deepen my relationship with life—to be with whatever life brings. 

It might appear that my practice of living with this thought has improved my life. Maybe it has. It works for me to think of my life experiences this way:

“A difficulty visits? Use it to be awake to life itself.”

And live and love and think of others.

A love letter to my Texas pals before tomorrow's giddy-up

From Anders Arhoj's studio. Visit him here.

My relationship with Texas started in the late 90s when I flew to Dallas (from Ohio) for art consulting. I remember a rough flight, the kind where the plane swings broadly side-to-side. With uneasiness stirring, I thought, “Oh, unfriendly air.”

Little did I know.

Strong wind has personality. It was a Texas spring blowing with abandon. Five climate zones converge in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and that’s a mighty fine meet up. Think of it as one heck of a hug.

Today I’d smile while thinking that air thought differently: “Howdy Texas! Looks like we have a rodeo!” 

I had no idea that ten years later I’d be living here.

Or that “unfriendly” would be the last adjective I’d use to describe being here.

When I think of Texas now, I think of beautiful people.

I’ve fallen in love. Deep love.

Which is why I’m here writing tonight, on the eve of driving away on our next adventure (we’re headed to Florida). I’m calling your names. One-by-one. Slowly, I’m letting memories of you come. You’re here.

I’m joyful and sad at the same time. 

I am so happy we met, that we found each other. I even believe I came here to be with you, to heal and grow in your love and wisdom, to ride that buck of a cancer project. (Thank you. I’m stable and feel my healthiest ever. I love being alive. Thank you.)

I wrote last month about not being so good at letting love in. Well, guess what? I’m good at it now. I’m so good at it.

Because I feel all of your love. I’m letting you in.

And right now it’s hurting.

Why of course, I know that you’re forever in my heart, in my cells (thank you Thay for helping me understand this). And that our relationship is not ending, it’s transforming.

But, the grief part. That’s different.

Letting go of the luxury, the pure luxury of sitting in your presence, walking with you, studying with you, tending the garden with you, practicing yoga next to you, reading books with you, tap dancing next to you, sitting in the clinic counting love chemo drips along with you. Well, that kind of sadness in missing you is coming like a wave.

(Time to take a break to blow my nose.)

I told some of you this already. But I need to hear it again myself to embolden my ability to ride this detachment river. It’s about feelings. And being able to stay with them.

Having feelings for me is a lot like that kid’s book, We’re Going on a Bear Hunt by Helen Oxenbury and Michael Rosen. When a brave family comes upon a difficult landscape such as a mucky swamp, they exclaim something like this, “Oh! A swamp, are you afraid? I’m not afraid. We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. We have to go through it.” And they do: splish, splosh, splash, muck. They don’t stop in the middle, they keep going. It’s the same for feeling any emotion.

Why go through the swamp, high grasses, or raging rivers of my experiences? Because unexpressed feelings show up later, in other events. And I know way too much about that. So I’m feeling this as it arises, and using that energy to write.

I feel myself settling and my tears ending (for now). I better understand the bigger picture of friendship.

I recently reread Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s book, Gift From the Sea.  In it she says that a good relationship has a pattern like a dance. The partners do not hold tightly because they move with confidence in the same pattern, moving and nourished by the same rhythm. She references a favorite verse as she describes this dance, one I've memorized:

“He who binds to himself a joy

Doth the winged life destroy,

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.” – William Blake

I know what to do. Kiss the joy, Susan. Let go.

I realize that “there is no place here for the possessive clutch, the clinging arm, the heavy hand; only the barest touch in passing” (Lindbergh, p. 96).

Tomorrow early, I’ll smile and drive into the rising golden sun. Of course, you'll be riding with me.

Scary. I found a special gift my daughter made and didn't remember it.

Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings by Edward McLachlan. 

This is an illustration from a book based on a British children’s animated television program. It featured Simon’s magical chalkboard-come-true adventures. Read more about it on Burgin Streetman’s terrific blog, Vintage Kids’ Books My Kid Loves. 

I was startled on Tuesday while packing. (We’re moving to Florida.)

This is what happened:

I found a book my daughter created and surprised me with on my 50^th birthday. In it are pictures and writings celebrating my life submitted by family and friends.

Vaguely recalling the gift, I carried the book to my chair and sat and read it. Slowly and consciously. I looked at each photograph and drawing. I read each remembrance. It took about an hour.

I laughed with joy. I felt like I was awake and alive for my own eulogy.  

Here is the shocking part: I didn’t remember having ever read it. It felt brand new. How could that be? Of course, I read the book when I received it.

I realized that I did not take it in. It seems that 13 years ago I was not able to feel the encouraging and nourishing messages, the kindness and love.

Through self-exploration (with help from teachers), I uncovered a wall around my heart made of invisible blocks made up of hindering patterns and habits from past experiences. Inner wounds are past experiences that block my understanding of the world, others, and myself. 

Leonard Cohen’s song Anthem gives me insight.

His song suggests that there are already cracks in my heart (from life’s wounds) to let the light or insight in. I’m already honed to receive love. Those wounds have a purpose.

So now when someone says something encouraging or nice, no deflecting. No changing the subject or minimizing or puffing up the message. I pause to be with it just as I am aware of other feelings. When someone gives, I attend to it without fuss. I allow the words or actions to seep into those cracks and transform me in a way that helps me remember something important: to send this love I feel to all others.

NOTE: Authors such as Brené Brown, Harville Hendrix and Helen Hunt, Harriet Lerner, and Thich Nhat Hanh offer insight into the difficulty to receive love, which also affects the depth of being able to give love.