No matter what happens to you, or your current emotions, always look inside -- to the variable nature of your thinking -- to explain your feelings.
When we encounter others who are in pain, we do not know what to do. We do not know how to comfort them. And so we say things to make a really awkward moment less awkward. When we do that, we're actually trying to comfort ourselves, which is understandable, but not helpful.
This Memorial Day Weekend marks ten years since I've seen my little sister. I like to think she'd be proud of the person I have become.
Mother's Day is one of the sweetest days of year, and we should celebrate it. In our celebration, however, let us not ignore the pain our friend and neighbor may be feeling.
I know what some of you may say: Have a baby on your own; adopt; foster. And a few of you may say: Sorry, lady, you should have thought of that earlier. You're just too old. But I want to be a mother.
Those of us with healthy children may, for a time, enjoy the luxury of remaining oblivious to their vulnerability and impermanence. But when a "close call" provides an unwelcome reality check, we can take some comfort in the fact that all parents are, really and truly, in this together
No one tells you that someday you might have to answer questions that don't have answers. No one tells you that you'll have to swallow so many tears to let them cry theirs.
Last week's news is this week's reality. I can't bring myself to write about anything except what happened this past week in Boston -- the explosions and their devastation on Boylston Street at the finish line of our cherished Boston Marathon on April 15, and the helicopter hovering over our condo, whirring all day long just last Friday, April 19 -- until Suspect #2 was captured.
In the aftermath, it is important to remember that our grief is as unique as our fingerprints. Each of us will have our own normal reactions to the abnormal events that we have just witnessed.
As a parent, how can I go on after learning that my very best efforts are not enough to protect my children from the worst kind of harm?
I had been told by a few friends who had been down this path, that to have your parent die in your arms was an amazing experience. One described it as "radiant." I admit I was skeptical, yet in the last hours of her life I didn't want to leave her side.
It is clear that I must now make a new home for myself within my own heart. There I must create a door that is always open, a light that burns eternally, a spark that cherishes my name, and a blessing of continual self-forgiveness.
It took years to finally bring my children to visit "Nana Janice." Maybe I was afraid to cry, afraid to feel too much in front of others. Maybe I was conflicted, feeling that my grief could be seen as disloyal to the mother who gave me a second chance.
Today reminded me that there is a little bit of my brother in every place he lived, every place he walked, every place he laughed, every place he flashed that huge smile that teachers and friends alike thought was contagious.
When you lose your loved one, you must break apart and individuate again. That process can be extremely difficult if the bonding has been strong and enduring.
The Last of the Mohicans was made in 1992, just after my mother (the next to the last of my Mohicans) succumbed to cancer. Very much in Chingachgook's moccasins, I am the last, now, of the Boleman-Herrings.
On this day, as on every anniversary of Stalin's death, I imagine my friend Stefan standing up there somewhere next to a cloud -- and giggling till the tears roll down his cheeks.
For anyone who has suffered a loss, you know that no amount of nice words can heal the sense of grief you experience every day. As I began to grieve, I noticed something very familiar arise in how I related to this process: My grieving patterns mimicked patterns often perceived as obstacles to meditation.
It has now been more than two months since the inexplicably tragic massacre in Newtown, Conn. Anyone with a child in their life who they care for -- ...
In America today, we wear black to the funeral (and sometimes not even then, alas) and then are expected to dress as if nothing has happened, as if our world has not just shattered to pieces.
Twelve years. An entire lifetime ago. Whether by plane, car, ship, train or other means, most of us have taken a long trip of one kind or another. While in the midst of traveling, our habit tends to be to constantly check the time or the mileage to determine how far we have to go until we get 'there,' wherever 'there' happens to be.
I have always said that grief and loss are like a best friend, "It knows me better than anyone, it's reliable and always there when I need it. It makes me angry. It makes me sad. Grief comforts me, loves me and protects me. I will never have another relationship quite like it."
Although we still had some hope, we knew the end was getting close as she penned her final messages to us. The first was "Go get beer and pizza on me." The second was "I was lucky to have all of you." As we got ready to leave the hospital, my mother gave us her last gift.
I've always found the notion of death a challenging one to fully wrap my head around. We will never see her again. My husband lost his beloved mom. I lost the only mother-in-law I will ever know. And, my son has lost his only grandmother.
My aunt is nearly 99. She will not live to be 100. Her photo will not be on the television recalling the date of her birth, with Willard Scott announcing she likes the opera and still volunteers. She will no longer volunteer. There will be no Today for her then.
