Who You Are Is Enough

I am about to take another step out into this big world, and out of my comfort zone. Tomorrow I will return to work. I will be in the classroom from 9:30 -12:30. I will not be taking on any of my other responsibilities yet. My supervisor has been very supportive, and she assures me that I can transition back at my own pace. For now, I will only work 3 hours a day, 2 days a week (Mondays and Wednesdays).

Although I feel a little nervous, I also feel hopeful. I am sure that being with the babies in my class will feel good. Being around children is still one of the most joyful things I can imagine doing. My grief counselor has told me that many parents who have lost a child find it very painful to be around other children. I can definitely understand that. There was a point, when I was still in the hospital and I saw my friend, Sara's baby, that I realized I could go that route. I could have so easily shut down to the children in my life and given into the pain of my loss. But if I had, I would have lost so much more - my ability to do this work that I am passionate about, my bond with my nieces and nephew, my friendships with other mothers. And losing all of that would be devastating in itself. So, I allow myself to give into the delight of being around kids, knowing that to honor Sage means to honor all children. And in that light, my work feels even more meaningful to me.

As I think about returning to work, I imagine the conflicting feelings my coworkers might have about seeing me. There is obviously a strong desire to support me, to nurture me. There might also be some anxiety about how to do that, and concerns about what to say or how to respond to me. I am writing now because I want to offer reassurance and guidance to my dear friends at the Relief Nursery.

First, let me say that I, too, have been in the position of wanting to support someone and not knowing how. In fact, this experience has reminded me of times when people I knew were suffering and I said nothing, did nothing, not because I didn't care, but because I felt so unsure of how to offer my care. The kindness that all of you have offered us has been a deep learning experience for me. I realize now that it is not so much about doing or saying the "right" thing, but rather it is about being sincere and available. Even if sincerity means saying, "I feel so nervous talking to you because I don't know what to say," that in itself is a beautiful offering of honesty.

The fact is, it is not possible to say something that would make this more painful for me. And, similarly, it is not possible to say something that takes away my pain. The pain is there. Last Thanksgiving, my dad gave me some advice that I find helpful in many situations: "You are not God. You can't fix everything." Once we realize that it isn't our job to fix everything, it is easier to relax.

Some people have asked me if there is anything I need in order to feel more comfortable going back to work. What would feel best to me is to be able to engage my coworkers one at a time or in small groups. A large group of people tends to feel overwhelming to me. I enjoy receiving hugs. I really appreciate it when people are able to share thoughts or memories of Sage. It feels good to me to say his name, to hear his name. I do not mind questions about how I am healing. Sharing my experience is something I find helpful and meaningful.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: Please trust yourselves. Who you are is enough. You do not need to figure out what to say or do because that wisdom is already inside of you. And, for what it is worth, you have my compassion, because I know it is not easy to face another person's grief. I am filled daily with gratitude for my life, and for you - the people who touch my life with friendship and generosity.

Fiesta with Friends

Three of my coworkers, Jessie, Loraine, and Katie, spent all day yesterday preparing a Mexican feast of tamales, beans, cactus salad, and hibiscus juice. They brought this wonderful meal to us last night, and then turned our dining room into a Mexican restaurant. They brought all the dishes, candles, flowers, tablecloth, even a CD of Mexican music. They served our food and then spent the evening talking and laughing with us.

This incredibly thoughtful effort was made even more special by the presence of Jessie's daughter, Kayla. She knew and adored Sage. When she arrived at our house, she gave us a hand-drawn card and a little angel figurine, and then she looked at Sage's photos and toys. She talked about him without any hesitation. That is the beauty of children. She didn't agonize over whether she would make us feel sad or uncomfortable. She simply expressed herself honestly, and by doing so, she gave us all permission to do the same.

All Our Life is Dew

One of my co-workers, Blair, brought us a delicious dinner a few nights ago, and she gave me this beautiful figurine. It is a visual representation of how I always felt with Sage, that he was so close he was almost a part of me. And now there is a gaping emptiness where his little body used to fit against mine. My hands don't know what to do. I feel like an amputee. There is the ghost sensation of holding him.

Yesterday I was completely lost in the pain of this. Michael and I walked at Hendrick's park, and I kept thinking of how Sage would have been fascinated by the rhododendrons, the fountain, the humming bird, and everything around him. I heard a child call out, "Daddy!" and I mourned that we will never hear Sage say a word. I was so looking forward to that because I imagined he would have a lot to tell us.

And I guess he did tell us a lot, even without words. I know he felt loved and safe. I know he was excited about learning and exploring the world. I know he liked to visit other people, but that when he needed comfort or reassurance he wanted me to hold him. I know that he was happy most of the time. His papa could make him belly laugh. His Grammy played with him like it was the only important thing in the world to do. He had a multitude of devoted admirers to flirt with at my work. There is some comfort in knowing his short life was joyful.

The poet, Issa, wrote a beautiful haiku after the death of his infant daughter:

dew evaporates --
and all our life is dew:
so dear, so fresh, so fleeting

Some Bonds Can Never Be Broken

Me and Dad carrying my brother's twin girls, Indigo and Jaden.

All of my Dad's letters to me are written on yellow notebook paper. When I was in college, we wrote to each other often, sometimes once a week. I have all of those letters with their familiar handwriting, a smattering of poems and quotes, descriptions of the many things Dad found intriguing or comical or poignant. I kept every letter, knowing there would come a day when I would want Dad's voice, his wisdom and love and teasing affection, and it would no longer be available to me.

I was in third grade when I first realized that my Dad would die someday. Dad had gone into the hospital for a hernia operation. I sat in class with a knot in my stomach, begging for my dad to be okay. That afternoon, a teacher called me into the hallway. The minute I stepped out of the classroom, I burst into tears, certain the teacher was about to tell me Dad had died. She actually wanted to let me know he had gotten through his surgery and was just fine. From that day on, though, the awareness of Dad's vulnerability and mortality hovered always on the edge of my consciousness, often manifesting in dreams. Although I wasn't raised with a practice of prayer, I prayed as much as any church-going child for the safety of my family. That seemed like the only important thing to pray for.

So, here I am, with yellow papers spread before me, hearing and feeling Dad's love, and I am so grateful that I was his daughter. Here is an excerpt from a letter he wrote after I had spent a couple weeks doing carpentry work with him. I was 24 years old.

Know that you leave here with all the love and hope that is in my heart. I know that you will leave with everything you touched being better for your having been here. Sometimes I think that could be why we are here. Never stop believing in yourself, your beautiful ethereal spirit that glows from you, and in unconditional love. I know it exists because I found it in my own heart and it found me. I feel it every time our eyes meet. I know it is real because if it weren't, tears wouldn't be falling on this page as I write. Everything is connected. Some bonds can never be broken.

Other Voices

This is a photo of my dad and his six sisters.

The following is one of Dad's poems that I have always liked, but which now has even more meaning for me. When we join together at the Celebration of Life, we who have been nurtured by Dad and Sage will have an opportunity to tell their stories.

Other Voices

All day I listened to the mountains
wishing they would speak to me
but they answered only with silence
until I walked out among them,
great council of chiefs,
and they spoke to me with many voices.
Chatter of squirrel, whisper of wind,
scream of hawk, leap of trout,
a startled deer's shrill whistle,
and the river's constant laughter.
At last I understood that our story,
like the mountains',
is told best by other voices;
the voices of those we nurture.

--Dennis Faulkner

A New Beginning

Tonight, my teaching partner from the Relief Nursery, Lane, brought us a wonderful home-made dinner of chicken, asparagus enchiladas, a delicious spinach salad, and a fruit tart. She also brought flowers from her garden. What an amazing gift it is to eat food cooked with love.

When we were still in Boise, long-time friends of my family, Carol and Jerry, cooked us a vegetable quiche and offered us hand-picked baby greens from their garden. After weeks of hospital and restaurant food, our bodies are in desperate need of nourishing meals. I know others from my work have signed up to bring us meals as well. Thank you to all those who are offering us this gift. We hope that when the time comes, we will be able to pass this kindness on to others in need.

Although our first days home were very difficult, Michael and I are beginning to settle in here. The lush, green landscape cradles us in a promise of renewal. We have left Sage's things out, visible. We will know when it is time to put things away. When I catch sight of one of his photographs or toys, sometimes I cry, but it feels healthy and right to do this.

A New Beginning

fingering the loose
threads of despair I became unraveled

and spilled out onto the
solid, unshakeable floor

there, on this
unyielding foundation

I formed an
unlikely alliance

from which I drew
the strength

to pour myself
into the promise

of a new beginning.

~Elizabeth Adams

Donations for Sage

This is a photo of the beautiful altar my coworkers created for Sage at the Relief Nursery. Because I took Sage to work with me everyday, they all knew him well and provided him with a loving extended family.

Since the accident, some of you have asked about the possibility of donating money in Sage's name. We have set up a donation account at Selco Credit Union. To donate, you can go into a branch, or mail your donation to:

Selco Community Credit Union
PO Box 7487
Eugene, OR 97401-9708

Please reference the following account name and number:

Sage Carpenter Donation Account #449955

If you have any questions, you can contact Selco representative, Stephanie Smith, at 541-686-5377.

Home

This morning I left my hotel in Boise at about 8:00, and about 7 hours later I arrived in Eugene. The trip was tiring and stressful. I was so thankful to be back with Michael and done traveling. Being home is both a relief and painful beyond words. I am quite tired, so I will try to rest now and hopefully post more tomorrow.

Returning Home

Thank you to those who read and responded to my last blog entry. I was in a very difficult space. Michael left this morning to drive the car back to Eugene, and I'm sure that was part of why I felt fragile this morning. It is hard to be away from him right now.

Tomorrow I will fly back to Eugene, and Michael will be at the airport to meet me when my flight arrives. Some of my friends from Eugene have offered to meet me at the airport as well, but I think it would be best for me and Michael to be alone when I first get back. It is a big step toward acclimating to our new lives, and I'm not really sure what it will feel like to be home. I am so grateful, though, that we have a loving community to return to.

After I am back in Eugene, one thing I want to work on is helping organize a Celebration of Life gathering to honor both Sage and Dad. I have never attended anything like that, and I want it to feel meaningful to all who attend. So, if any of you have ideas or suggestions, I am very interested in hearing them. I envision people getting up to share thoughts, poems, memories, etc. I am thinking we can rent a space and perhaps have it catered. A few people have expressed preferences for dates, and I would like any feedback about that as well. I look forward to hearing your ideas!

I will leave you this evening with a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. Michael introduced me to his writing six years ago. When I read his work now, I hear something different than I did when I was 25. I think he is one of the poets I will always return to.

In This Uncontainable Light

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.

Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?

If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Disorganization

I feel at a loss for words. I think something is shifting in me. Whatever I WAS feeling (strength, courage, hope, or perhaps denial), has transformed into . . . something I don't have words for. There is a sensation of energy in my body that does not allow me to relax. At the same time, I feel tired beyond measure. Nothing seems to bring me comfort or relief.

I know this is "normal." One of my ways of dealing with this is to read about grief, as though learning about it will prepare me for living with it.
I have found several models.
Here is a common one:

Denial /Shock (this isn't happening to me!)
Anger (why is this happening to me?)
Bargaining (I promise I'll be a better person if...)
Depression (I don't care anymore)
Acceptance (I'm ready for whatever comes)

And another:

Numbness (mechanical functioning and social insulation)
Disorganization (intensely painful feelings of loss)
Reorganization (re-entry into a more 'normal' social life.)

So, it seems to me that the initial stage, the shock, numbness, denial stage, is where I have been most days since the accident. Now I am beginning to feel disorganized. I can't say that I'm feeling anger, really. More like panic. The awareness that intense pain is on the horizon, and some fear about facing that.

I feel some hesitation in sharing this. Will it make people feel more uncomfortable talking to me? It is so much easier to write heroic, life-affirming blog entries, to know that I lift people up. I ask myself, now, what I am doing, writing all of this pain. I can only hope that someone else out there who might be experiencing grief can read my words and feel, if nothing else, a little less alone. And I hope that my friends and family can offer me patience while I explore my experience. I know this stage of grief is very important, and it can't be side-stepped. If I let myself go deep into this pain, it will "clear me out for some new delight," as Rumi says.

Ok. I think that is the answer, the little piece of wisdom I have been needing to contact:
I have to TRUST that where I am is where I need to be.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of it's furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
--Rumi