C.S. Lewis does few brilliant things in A Grief Observed. Highest in my estimation is the use of questions with very few answers. He has a curious mind and allows it to ponder all the awful Whys, What ifs, How coulds, and Whens of his bereavement.
At no point does he try to universalize the process of grief. Even for himself, he doesn’t claim to find consistent ways of moving through the journey. When a turn in the valley appears to mimic a previous pass, he recognizes that it is in a different sequence and therefore carries fresh meaning, pain, healing, or various mixes of all. Each day is particularly exhausting, sometimes in the excitement, sometimes in the grinding, and sometimes in the slog.
It’s a book unabashedly about an individual grief and, in that way, more honest than most of the literature on the subject I’ve yet come across.
I rejected “widower” almost as quickly as I came one. I met
a woman (how many of my stories go like this?) who lost her husband four months
after Mary died. We lunched and smiled and said “F you” to all the things that
were supposed to bring us down. We weren’t widow and widower; those terms were
for old folks in empty houses. We were badasses on missions from God.
I’ve learned that I must integrate the two to become a
Baddass Widower. Losing Mary fundamentally changed our family. It shook me down
to a place of necessities. What do my sons need? Then, a more important
question: What do I need? It took me twelve months to figure out that I need to
love and trust myself.
I can’t know, but I believe Mary also deprived herself of
self-love. We loved each other, our marriage, our children, and the life we had
built together. I lost much of that when I lost Mary, I was left with gaping
holes that I thought were filled with love. In this lacking of self-love we
were also missing out on a love for God. The Divine Spark is a connection with
God and all of Creation. It’s individual and universal. To love the universal,
one must love the individual.
My struggle lies with loving my ugliest pieces as I try to
understand, master, and integrate them. It’s like my favorite poems, the ones
that find beauty in stinking roadkill or redemption at the bottom of a
forgotten and filthy toy bin. I have to take strength from the bully, extract medicine
from the wounds, and spend a moment to polish my armor with pride before going
into battle.
“Widower” is one of those ugly things. From Merriam-Webster: “a man who has lost his spouse or partner by death and usually has not remarried.” I didn’t want to define myself through someone else’s death, but that isn’t a choice I get to make. The fact is that I’m twice the man I was before death began burning down every assumption of what my life would look like. I cry more, apologize more, and love those around me a lot more. I’m physically, mentally, and spiritually more robust and balanced than ever. I’ve overcome over two decades of alcohol abuse. I’ve started to treat myself as someone in my care, whom I want to succeed.
I don’t see how I’d be here if I hadn’t become a widower.
That’s part of me and I now accept it.
An old, familiar companion continues to be a source of growth and peace. Soccer has forever been with me. Through every shift of life I’ve been able to return to the pitch and let go of those things that no longer serve me. Any upgrade I’ve achieved in psychological, spiritual, or emotional realms has translated into my game. Healthier and more beautiful relationships guided me into managing and coaching roles. Meditation and mindful breathing turned my body into a power plant, Soccer isn’t my form of self care, it’s the joyous payoff I can cash in when I’m taking care of my self.
I’ve got the pedal down on self improvement now. I’m a more positive leader and playing with more skill and raw strength than ever. I get to play alongside the best teammates who always have my back and let me have plenty of field time.
Releasing pain, being present, and loving myself manifested in last night’s game. I forgave my bad passes, ran with ease, and picked myself up without anger after some very hard knocks (well, there may have been a verbal bomb, or two, thrown…).
I’m blessed to have the beautiful game in my life.
Last night my son wrote these words and enthusiastically read them in front of strangers and library friends. Instant tears, but I held back the flood. The prompt had been to write three things on a blindly-chosen color sample: A wish, a secret, and what you are most grateful for. After so many mistakes, lost tempers, and raised voices, it amazes me that I’m raising strong and compassionate creatures who lift me up as often as I do it for them.
For my own part, the secret was a real challenge. I’ve shared so much of myself publicly and with friends that I knew I wanted to take this moment to dig a little deeper. Sharing with strangers can be easy, but I was self-conscious as some of the participants knew me from library visits.
“I’m lonelier than I let on.” It was how I felt. It’s not always how I feel. In my efforts to be more present I’ve given myself more space to feel. Sitting here typing I’m entirely at peace, the sun is above the horizon and lighting my kitchen beautifully, the old fridge hums its cranky song, birds sing gently, and I’m happy with no one around at all. Soon, my boys will be up and everything will change. I will change with it and let go of this perfect moment.
Last night was another perfect moment. Saliym Malik of Brevity Bookspace led a poetry workshop introducing Brandywine Hundred Library patrons to Kwansaba, an African-American form of praise poetry. Seven lines, seven words per line, and 1-7 letters per word on a subject you wish to raise up in love.
Unschooling all the way, we had only planned to check out a couple books, but my elder son was drawn by Saliym’s Pied Piper routine into the program. I awkwardly caught up as the group was meditating their way into a creative mind space. My younger confidently trailed unawares with an open graphic novel as his only concern.
Saliym’s energy quietly and quickly drew all of us into his guidance. What followed was beautiful. I found a warm ember under long cold assumptions that my poetry writing days were far gone. I was inspired by exposure to this simple form and scratched out a couple poems. Most exciting was doing this alongside my boys as they asked for help with spelling, letter counting, and line breaks. I never needed quiet to write. I ignored countless teachers droning as I scribbled during class, ran back and forth to an open journal at the server’s station while waiting on tables, and sat alone at noisy bars with that same journal when inspiration struck or conversation lacked.
Writer’s block had gripped me before I met my late wife. I don’t know why, but I have hardly tried to write poetry in 15 years. I promised Mary a poem. I hand wrote her love letters, apologies, and thank you notes, but never followed through on that poem. I regret that and maybe it’ll be enough to write it now and let go of that regret.
I thought of that when Saliym asked us to write about a person, place, idea, or moment that we cherished. Again, I found myself more in the present than the past, and the thought of condensing a lifetime with Mary into seven lines was too heavy to lift.
I’m sharing my creations below. I’m pleased with how I began to flow as the exercise progressed. I’m pleased to find some of the old music still playing. I’m pleased with how it felt to stand up and read out loud. However, I do wish “treasure” had one less letter.
I love my sons’ poems. The younger is a wild little editor just going for it and the elder runs as deep as a subterranean river.
It feels so good to have poems strewn about the kitchen floor as my sons come looking for breakfast.
April has been good to us.
Have a God blessed day,
Jason
I have five nieces. At least two of them have found me spontaneously crying this year. All of them have been present for me and my children during a most challenging and miraculous time.
When I met Mary she was already an aunt to these wonderful little girls. She was Aunt Mary.
Mary and these girls fueled a fire in me that had burned since I was ten years old, a desire to be a dad.
I wrestled and played silly games with the youngest and argued politics with the teenagers.
After my sons, they’ve become the closest connection I have with Mary in the world. Their memories and tributes to their aunt share much of what I remember and always bring new energy to fading images. Their youthfulness honors Mary’s and mirrors the attitude I have towards my journey.
I went to a concert with niece Emily this weekend. She’s 25, the same age I was when I met Aunt Mary. We talked about music and all the bands Mary and I had introduced her to, about how she copied all the music from my laptop one day and I gave her a speech about “unearned knowledge.”
Just before we met up, I was ambushed by the thought that Mary should be here for this, that it was flat out wrong that she wasn’t driving to D.C. with us to see Beats Antique. I wept and it still feels a little wrong. Mary and I were most connected when we listened to, danced to, and discussed music. From Patsy Cline and Cécile McLorin Salvant to T.Rex and Rage Against the Machine, I never knew anyone with musical tastes as broad as mine until I met Mary. Although…the nieces are getting there.
I discovered Beats early in 2012 and quickly shared the music with the nieces. In 2013, Emily lost her stepfather, my dear brother-in-law, Rich. That same week I talked Mary into backing Beats Antique’s Kickstarter campaign for their A Thousand Faces – Act 1 album. It’s a musical reinterpretation of Joseph Campbell’s “A Hero’s Journey.” In widowhood and single-parenthood I have cast myself as the hero of my own story.
I have been blessed and tested by many powerful goddesses on my journey. Mary still serves as a guide through my nieces. Each of them shows me pieces of Mary’s light and brightens my darkest paths.
Delaware Art Museum was an integral part of my life with Mary. She introduced me to the Museum and I spent many hours there with my sons, with Mary, or all of us together. Since losing her I have often taken solace in the galleries, Labyrinth, Kids’ Corner, and Sculpture Garden. I’ve been there with my boys, with friends, and on my own.
The Museum has decided to dedicate one of their magnolias to Mary’s memory. This tree sits in the Copeland Sculpture Garden where we’ve danced to live music; watched movies; picnicked; played soccer, football, and Frisbee; enjoyed tacos, falafel, and tons of food truck fare; and strolled countless miles taking in sculptures new and familiar.
After a year of dramatic changes, we’re getting to remember Mary in a place that transcends the life that was and the life that is. Mary and I often walked the Labyrinth at the change of each season and there could be no more fitting time to dedicate her tree than on the day of the Vernal Equinox. In recent years, there has been snowfall in Delaware on the first day of spring. Mary always loved that. “Bring it on!” was her response to the winter weary.
I have welcomed many people into my life who didn’t know Mary. I’ve connected most deeply with people who have also experienced loss, but not exclusively. I’ve tried to share my memories of her here and in person. I look forward to introducing family and friends, old and new, to give them an opportunity to share more of what Mary has meant to us.
I have shoveling, church, and childcare to attend to this morning, but my mind is on a psychological death.
I thought if I embraced the journey instead of fighting it or easing into it that I would have an easier time. That was stupid. At times all I can do is sit in the pain and confusion and put my trust in God to see me through. It gets hard when responsibilities call and children are hungry. I struggle to focus on the pain, to keep my mind and body calm in the storm and wait for the sun to break through.
I’m learning to let go. So many of my answers have been delivered to me. So many of my needs have been met without my action or thought. I’m living a truly blessed life. I’m learning that the pain is a blessing, a way for me to be better and give me the opportunity to produce good in the world.
Assumptions and expectations took a beating in 2018. When I suddenly lost my wife I had assumptions about how I would rebuild my life. I assumed I would find a new wife and that we would have a slightly inferior life to the idealized marriage I had with Mary.
After a few months, I gained confidence and moved those expectations a few notches toward the goal of having a stronger marriage than I had before. I found independence in my adventures with my sons and enough patience to wait for “the one.”
Ten months a widower, I met someone who asked for “intentions” in place of “expectations.” It seemed easy enough, I’d been intent on treating humans as individuals deserving of love. I’d been gifted boundless love and intended to share it.
In practice, I started to actively take note of my expectations and assumptions and substitute them with clear intentions. This became painful as I felt my future imposing itself on my present; or rather, my expectations were getting in the way of my intentions.
I’m working hard to curb expectation and live an intentional life. It has lead me into new ways of thinking and being. It has disrupted my thought process and made me happier than I would have imagined months ago, regardless of many pitfalls along the way.
Do you still want a new marriage?
I don’t know. I’ve got so much yet to discover about myself. I’ve got impossible things to accomplish. I’ve got a world of possibilities and the curiosity to pour myself into it. I’ve got a house full of boys who thoroughly enjoy being in a house full of boys. I’ve got a lot of love around me.
It could be that easy to define my 2018, but that’s not how it went. Mary started to get sick at the end of January and spent six days in the hospital before passing into the hands of God on February 12th. Miracles began before she left this Earth: from the maturity and bravery of her 6- and 8-year-old boys to say, “I love you” before she passed, to her holding on until friends and family from all over were able to come and do the same, to the peace that God brought me before her final moments, and to the connection with an eternal love that she left me.
That connection is a super power. Paperwork, memorial planning, giving her eulogy in front of hundreds of people, spending that same night alone with my boys…it all just came to me.
That connection remains unbroken, but doesn’t shield me from my own brokenness. In fact, it’s given me the courage to face my broken parts. That is how I might define my 2018: The Year I Faced My Darkest Parts. I’ve found strength by diving into my weaknesses. I’ve found love by embracing my fears and spending real time exploring them. I’ve started to find myself through a lot of muck piled up inside.
I don’t know why God took Mary, but I’m certain both of them would want me to continue to grow, learn, search, lead, and, most importantly, love.
On July 27th, 2018, I had a few beers with neighbor friends as our children played together. The night went longer than it should have and I had more to drink than I should have. My sons gave me a hard time as I tried to bring them home for the night, only a short walk away. I lost my temper immediately and threw our house keys into the darkness, telling them they’d be sleeping outside if they didn’t find them. Finally, with keys recovered, we got home and continued to bicker, with me becoming more belligerent. Over some perceived slight I went into a complete rage and smashed a chair on the floor repeatedly, screaming for their attention. I succeeded in the clear goal of terrifying them. They were screaming in fear and I shut myself in my room. After a couple weeks of really struggling as a single parent and increasingly losing control of my drinking, I lied in bed and stormed with confusion until I fell asleep.
My boys woke me a short time later, “Dad, the police are here.”
I don’t know why I was calm. I don’t know why I felt sober. I don’t know why I was able to quell their concerns so quickly. Maybe I know exactly why: I could have lost my children that night.
I went on to be angry at the neighbor who called, the police, and finally myself. I was too embarrassed to share the full truth. I slowly started to work on myself, a job I thought could be carried out privately. I was wrong. Not until I started sharing my worst stories and deepest fears was I able to get my hands around them and start to understand. Three months later I stopped drinking completely. A couple weeks after that I publicly dedicated myself to becoming a better parent. I’ve found people who listen to and challenge me. I’ve lost a lot of that anger.
And even with all that I had put this story away. The Orange Rhino Challenge had called me to reveal it weeks ago, but I chickened out. Then my elder son told the story of that night to new friends in front of me. I was immediately defensive and felt the embarrassment again. I was able to look at it more clearly this time and see how many things I had done wrong leading up to that night. Not sharing that story was a lingering mistake in the way of my self betterment.
