I am a veteran. My battle scars were not acquired upon foreign soil, but rather from the internal landscapes of heart-yanking, gut-gnarling and soul-wringing grief ... those less-than-tasty servings from the buffet of life experience.

The first shot hit on the eve of my quarter-life crisis, triggered by a job loss … I got fired. The big “F.” Thirteen years later, my only child was diagnosed with the severe disability of autism. Seven years post the diagnosis of the “A” word came the dissolution of my marriage. The Big “D,” as in D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

I am a veteran of the internal war on grief.But we — me, myself and I — are no longer fighting this war. We’ve reached a détente of sorts. Cockily cruising toward 50, I’ve learned that upon the platter of every eyes-wide-open, well-lived life is this sometimes goopy gravy that starts with a capital “G”: Grief. It’s just there. It’s not going away. As a human being trotting through the daily machinations of living, I am not immune. And neither are you. I’ve learned that Grief can be my friend. Well, more like that not-exactly-welcomed house guest that ends up over-staying her welcome. She’s the cousin who’s fallen on not-so-good times and needs a place to crash … your pad. Dirtying your pristine towels. Wrinklin’ and stinkin’ up your fresh linens. Making scum from your stash of gourmet-herb-infused toiletries. An unplanned interruption …

I learned I can run from, stuff down, chase with food, put my fingers in my ears and yell: “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” for only so long. The longer I deny her presence, the longer cousin Grief stays and then boomerangs back around to kick me in the fannola.

Lesson one. Age 24. Pink slip delivered on a Thursday afternoon. Friday morning cracks, and I’m on a prescheduled flight to lead a workshop on positive thinking, but only after I’ve made calls, sent out freshly typed resumés and stopped by an employment agency before boarding the silver bird.
Three months later, I was tailgating a small moving van from Nashville down the treacherous curves of Lookout Mountain and settling into the bustling sister metropolis of Atlanta. On the next 12 month’s unexpected life agenda: A tension-chocked work environment. The QUICK!-GROW-UP-NOW! purchase of my first home. The death of a close friend and the near-death of another and the death of a relationship I thought was going to be “the real thing.” It was a year of mammoth change and twisting-in-the-wind turmoil heaped upon that earlier job loss. Losing the job was my first real taste of Grief, and, subsequently, I spit the bitter taste into the trash can, bagged it and disposed of it — or so I thought — until I collapsed into a depression of undealt-with doo-doo. “Hello, Grief. It’s time to finally get to know you.” Snarl.

Counselor number one led to a series of talk-therapists throughout (GASP!) nearly two decades. Fascinated with the psychology of the human psyche — my own and others — therapy helped me unravel much about my life, decoding the complex roadmap to that moment in time. I earned some tools and learned to use them skillfully so that I was much more prepared emotionally when the life-piercing ka-boom sounded about my daughter’s enigmatic and challenging disorder.

Living back in Nashville, a young 30-something mother, I’d learned to support myself through daily stolen moments of quietude. Through the body-stretching and mind-soothing practice of yoga. Through daily self-talks with pen and paper purging. And mastering the delicious art of gratitude: naming at least five things each day for which I was thankful. But Cousin Grief was back in the house big time once I foolishly decided to put away my journal, stopped doing yoga and ceased my daily quiet times for self-nurture. I clearly and sadly recall thinking after my daughter’s diagnosis,  “I no longer have time for this,” as I wedged a copy of Sarah Ban Breathnach’s Simple Abundance and my spiral-bound journal into the upstairs bookshelf.

Grief got goopy again when two years into the journey of autism, I developed walking pneumonia during the last month of one winter and two more months onward into Easter. Wake up call. Lesson Two: Get out the journal, keep her by the bedside. Visit her each morning; five minutes, at least. Get thee out of bed and do at least five minutes of downward dogs, sun salutations, child’s poses, etc. Get out five to 10 to 15 to 20 or more, walk in nature and open your heart to the smiling sun. Oh, and meditate. Find one minute, five, 15 or more. Every day. You can do it.

Ten years later, I’m still doing it. And if I don’t, someTHING in my life WILL get catawampus! Add to the above mix of personal life-sustaining daily practice: relationships — friendships, including intimate ones. And for me, the picture is not complete until I connect with what I believe is a power that is
greater than myself.

It’s about filling the well. As mothers, that well gets drained dirt-cracked dry. Life drains all of us, mothers or not, unless we make sure that our well is kept brimming through self-nurture and GRATITUDE. We — our bodies, our spirits, our selves — are the foundation of all the things we want in this life existence. The accomplishments we wish to make through “work.” The sharing we want to do with family and friends. The heart-love we give to charity and to our world. To do, to share, to give, we must first make sure that our own foundations are solid.

In more recent history, divorce came serving its own sordid brand of Grief five years ago. And three years after that, I’d also end a post-divorce dating relationship. And that’s when I declared: “I’m getting good at Grief.” I now know this: I can do this, and I can do it well. I still don’t like it when this life cousin comes to visit, but now I know how to deal with her when another storm of life pitches her, twisting and twitching, through my doors.

I deal by letting myself feel the feelings. Savoring them, even. Feelings are gifts of our human-ness. They clue us on our thoughts. What are we thinking about ourselves and others and our situation du jour that might be causing internal (and external) toxicity? How can I look differently at life and this pile of crap I’ve got on my plate right now? I’ve learned to feel it. Pick through it. Take care of myself while I do it. Find moments of sunshine. My fave is opening the blinds each morning. Even when the window panes reveal a blustery winter’s barren nakedness and the glass resonates the meanness of a frozen world … it means spring will eventually be here. “I will survive” becomes my mantra.

And here’s what I also know: I know I will survive. Because I have. Because life, if you let her, will armor you up to face her challenges. But it’s important to remember to unfasten the breast plate to let in the love that Grief can break open for you to receive. Self-love. A greater love for this world and all its inhabitants. The love that you are alive. A realization, that amid the post-battle remains that you’ve still got the blue sky above. That there’s something, really … there IS something … good about this thing that’s been served up. You can find it. Expand on it. Celebrate it, even. At least eventually after the healing. “The bad times” can be transformed into “the challenging times.” Times that present an opportunity to uber-experience life kinetically and emotionally. Suddenly the teeny-tiny, little and the great, big things, the blessings out there in our wide, wide world become ultra techno-colored.
 
Even if it’s that you survived another day. Another year. Cousin Grief has handed you another opportunity to grow bigger, to expand your heart. To maybe even become a tad wiser … Good Grief. Who’d-a thunk?