Re-reading the following post of January 8, 2010, written two months and five days after Andrew’s death, I am reminded of how far I’ve come since then… I feel everything I felt then but… how can I say… the perspective… the angle from which I see and feel has shifted and for this I never cease to be grateful.
Yes, for when everything in our heart is enveloped in gratitude, everything changes and is transmuted.
Like Love, Gratitude is a great Alchemist.
Thank you Esmeralda, I say feelingly, to myself.
Thank you for staying engaged, interested, vigilant and watchful of everything within and without yourself.
I could not have got this far without the diligence and depth of love that comes with awareness… Awareness of our own oneness with EVERYTHING.
Tigger & Eeyore
A couple of days ago a friend of mine reproached me because:
“We know you are grieving,” he said. “You write about it every day. What about the Law of Attraction, what do you think you get if you keep talking about grief? And how does that help the dialogue about suicide?”
I don’t know how to answer those questions. I don’t have a magic solution or a magic suggestion, but talking about it can’t help but raise awareness. And there must be awareness of something before there can be understanding, I think.
One mother I “met” through the blog, told me that she meets with other mothers once a month at Whole Foods. Over soup and sandwiches they talk about their teenage children, and various teenage issues. She told me that at the next get together she will bring up the subject of suicide.
The contribution I would like to make however, the notion that I want to put out there, is the need to start looking within for answers. The malaise that affects the whole planet has been manifesting in many forms – from extreme weather and natural as well as financial disasters, to the increase of modern diseases such as heart attack, stroke, diabetes and cancer.
If we look at how different our lives were from those of our children, do we feel joy and excitement about the world we’ve brought them into, or trepidation and anxiety for them, for their future?
Would it be too much, too difficult, to stop and think and ask ourselves what is it that we are not addressing? Is it not worth taking the time to try answering that mystical question: “Who am I?”
In the mean time I am grieving. I never knew that there existed such depths of despair as I’m in now. I look at the rest of my family, survivors like me, and I know that they too are enduring their own private hell.
Andrew’s nickname, Tigger, was given to him by my husband because he was always bouncing around. Alas, right now, I am the Eeyore of the story.
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