My real hero lived in my hometown, in India; my hero was closer to me, closer to my life and more real than reel.
The stages of grief were not meant to tell you what you feel, what you should feel, and when exactly you should feel it. They were not meant to dictate whether you are doing your grief "correctly" or not. They were meant to normalize a deeply not-normal time.
I've been thinking about Kade a lot lately, about what his story means and how, at only 16, he'd died as a result of other people's ignorance and violence. What might have happened to us if he had made it? What might he have made of his life? I don't know.
How do we live with our reluctance to engage in family and faith rituals that once gave life, and the season, meaning?
Sixty is not the new fifty. Sixty is what it is: beyond middle-age. I'm not saying this to be mean. It's just that my friends here in the Baby Boom Generation don't want to talk about it. Sixty is hard to accept. So are the AARP envelopes that go in the trash unopened. Heck, we have concerts to go to. We have skiing to do. We have online classes to take.
"What do you write?" Any writer will tell you that this is the first question asked when people find out what they do for a living. It's not like iden...
Speak of my late husband. Go ahead, I beg you. There is an old Jewish proverb that says "As long as we live, they too will live; for they are now are a part of us; as we remember them."
Companion yourself. Care for yourself. Listen. Reach out where it feels good to reach, curl in when that is what you need. Make this season as much of a comfort to you as you can. And when it is not a comfort, know we're here. All these other grieving introverts: We get you. We understand.
I will let my thoughts turn to friends, neighbors and all of those who are hurting and impacted by grave loss. I will consider the strength and trust that so many of them have shown. As I go down my list of blessings, I will make sure to count my many new friends, as well as the rich lessons they provide the rest of us. And I will be truly thankful.
All those dusty skulls staring at you were the people who built the incredible places where we like to get drunk and stumble around as we travel through this amazing continent. That's a pretty cool connection, make no bones about it.
A few weeks before his death, Jon and I were with Martin Luther King Jr. at a small gathering in Selma, Alabama. King asked Jon and me -- and a dozen or so others -- to speak briefly about our feelings and problems within the civil rights movement.
The End-of-Life meeting at the nursing home was held in the Serenity Room at noon. We were summoned, my mother and I, by the team who have been caring for my father for five years in the dementia ward. We showed up late, my mother and I, arm in arm, like diminished Rockettes.
In his timely, thought-provoking book, Death and the Afterlife, Samuel Scheffler argues persuasively that the taking for granted of such a collective afterlife underpins our valuing or caring about our various activities, projects, and involvements.
Above all, show your love. Show up. Say something. Do something. Be willing to stand beside the gaping hole that has opened in your friend's life, without flinching or turning away. Be love. Love is the thing that lasts.
It had been two and a half years since I received his last report. I didn't want to bug him, but my time is very short. I desperately needed a sale.
I visited my mother just a few months before she passed; that was about two years ago now. We went out to dinner in a restaurant attached to a casino....