New Year's Reflections

Every time a new year rolls around, we make our list for all of the things we want to change or make better. Some people vow to stop eating junk food, exercise more, and some people decide to change their attitudes, or even their jobs. However, there are some people like myself, who just wish that sunshine and happiness will find their way into the coming year. The last two years of my life have been filled with bump after bump and shrouded with sadness, death, rebirth, and learning to live a new way of life. In 2013, I came face-to-face with cancer and watched as it grabbed a hold of my mother and she wilted from me. I quit my job in June of that year and worked part-time, which allowed me more time to spend with her. I savored every moment that I could with her as cancer ravaged. I saw her the day before she died, squeezed her hand and told her I loved her and it would be ok. I could not be with her when she took her final sweet breaths of life. I chose to remember her in the day when her cheeks were pink with happiness and her smile warmed any bad day I had . I chose to keep those memories close to my heart. A few shorts months after mom died, my dad left this world tragically to join mom in heaven. I held his hand and kissed his forehead as I know his mother, Josephine, came down, scooped him up and brought him home. Even after my miscarriage a few months later, I promised myself that I would do the best I could to go on. I promised my mom I would continue my life, and to make sure that happiness remained no matter what adversity I was met with. I sustained and moved slowly through the last two years because my parents taught me about courage and standing up, and no letting anything get the best of me. The last two years have also been a scary time, when I feel my wobbly feet start to become firm and planted, shooting up like an Oak tree and I realize I am now totally in control of my life and no longer have my parents as my wingmen. It has been during these past few years that I finally realized, I may not have my wingmen, but when they left this earth, they gave me their wings, so I could fly. They gave me a great gift of a future with no boundaries, no nets; just freedom. This year, I added two beautiful memory ornaments to my Christmas Tree. I bought silver wings for mom, and gold wings for dad.

I learned on my new grief journey last year that I am not alone. I met many people who have taken the same journey through grief. Myself, as well as several other people I met in France at the writing retreat had recently lost their fathers. Somehow, we met thousands of miles from our grief, joined together, and opened up our notebooks and let grief in. When we did, we opened up the battle scar, we examined its uniqueness, and saw it had beauty. It had merit, and having it made us warriors for the future. I bonded with my sweet grief warriors and will always hold a special place in my heart for my friends, and the beauty of friendship and laughter, which we all really needed. One of the beautiful ladies I met in France was Nannie Flores. She too, had lost her father to cancer last year, and has a mother who was diagnosed with cancer as well. As the New Year approached, Nannie made her own reflections on grief and the past few years and has gratefully allowed me to share her message: “In 2013, both my parents got diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. I painstakingly watched my mother lose her hair, her crowning glory. And I held my dad's skeletal hands as he slowly drifted away in eternal sleep. I had to be strong for my family, especially my then 10-year-old brother. 2014 was a little less morbid. I met my soulmate, climbed Mount Pulag, bought my first car, traveled Europe alone, went to a writer's retreat in the French countryside and started a new, more challenging career. I've come to learn that once you've hit rock bottom, there is no way to go but up. May 2015 give us all the driving force to move forward Oh, and hug your parents today, and every day from here on out.”

We should take the beautiful memories of the people we love and imagine the New Year as a promise from our loved ones above to help guide us to good things. “Where there is death, there is life.” Let beauty and happiness come back into your life and sunshine will soon find its way to your cheeks and sink into the new holes in your heart. Happy New Year Friends!

"Wild" by Cheryl Strayed

Attention my grief-stricken friends. Are you looking for a tender, soulful book that will help you deal with the stages of grief with clarity and beautiful insight? Then, you need to read the best-selling nonfiction memoir "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed. It's one woman's journey alone on a 1,100 mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail after the death of her mother. The author starts out as a weary, promiscuous, depressed 26 year-old woman four years after the loss of her mother and moments from the end of a marriage. She happens across a book at an REI store one day about the Pacific Crest Trail; a mostly desolate stretch of national hiking trails that starts in New Mexico and runs the entire length of the west coast all the way up to Canada. After dabbling in drugs sleeping around and divorce, Strayed spirals out from grief and makes a decision to hike 1,100 miles alone on the PCT in order to deal with her grief. What she finds in herself, in others, and in nature will stay with you long after she puts her brown hiking books away and packs away her writing pen. You will have the opportunity to explore grief, journey with the author, feel the weight of grief in her 40-pound backpack, and might be surprised what you find at the end of the journey. I could relate to the author in regards to the loss of her mother and realizing pretty early on in her journey that the worst thing in life has already happened so why not hike a trail alone. "The death of my mother was the thing that made me believe the most deeply in safety; nothing bad could happen to me, I thought. The worst thing already had" (Strayed). "Wild" was an incredible book. It had a hypnotic, cathartic rhythm that I felt deep in my soul. It was heartwarming, heartbreaking, and poetic. The author has a way with words in exploring the past and shedding new light on her life as she hikes through New Mexico all the way up the western seaboard until she reached "The Bridge of the Gods" in Oregon. As I read through the miles with Strayed on the trail, I too was on her journey learning how to take grief and use it to create positivity. The book has many important lessons for people in life dealing with the loss of a loved one due to death, the loss of a loved one due to divorce and lastly, the loss of yourself and how to find your way back. I finished reading the book during the same week in September that Strayed finished her hike some eighteen years earlier. I laughed, cried, sobbed, wailed, and breathed with Strayed. Her prosy narrative was just what the doctor ordered for my weary, grief-stricken soul. The earthly, poetic language washed over me like holy water at church and the words were Band-Aids over my fresh grief wounds.This book was fantastic! You know a book is fantastic when you cry at the end because not only was it life-altering, but you’re sad it's over. Before I read this book, I lost my mother, my father, and an unborn child. I was at a crossroads in life. I was not sure where to turn, who to turn to, and not sure what the future without my parents would hold." I may not have hiked a trail for 1,100 miles alone but I too took a journey in order to heal and found myself. I journeyed 3,500 from home alone to join other women on a healing, restorative journey to find myself and I found my mother instead. I found my mother in the trees that were wide-open and full of hope. I found my mother in the wind. I heard her call to me in the laughter of little children one afternoon as I meditated in the wet, green grass. I found my mother joining me during evening yoga sessions and when I opened up my hips and raised my arms to the sky, I let grief out. I found my mother in the photos I took throughout my journey, showing up as a beautiful purple light that swelled around my face and comforted me. I found my mother's spirit in other women on my journey who made me feel the love only women can radiate out from their souls. I found my mother on the Eiffel Tower in Paris as rain trickled out of the sky and formed goose pimples on my bare arms telling me I should have worn long sleeves. I found my mother staring at me through the deep, charcoal eyes of a French horse named Romeo. I found my mother in English breakfast tea at a Café in Chantilly, France as the warm, soothing feeling washed over me when I drank it. I found my mother staring back at me when I looked in the mirror after crying and for the first time in my life, I was happy I looked like my mother. I found my mother in the brillantly colored vocal Rooster that woke us each morning and welcomed us each night. I found my mother in the yellow and black Butterfly that floated into our writing salon, and delicately balanced on the wooden coffee table for over eight hours. And, I found my mother literally in the subway station in Paris when the locket containing her ashes fell off and I finally found her laying behind me on the ground. I found out I do not have to let her go, because she never left me. Award-winning actress, Reese Witherspoon a few years ago picked up the book “Wild,” and read it in a single day. It moved her so much that she called the author and told her she wanted to make a movie based on the book and that she would play the lead role based on Cheryl's life. She promised the author she would keep the integrity of the book in-tact. On December 6, 2014 "Wild" hits movie theaters nationwide. So far, the movie has been favorably reviewed and critics are talking “Reese” and “Oscars” in the same sentence. I saw the movie trailer the other day and it looks like it will be a beautiful and restorative journey for everyone who has ever lost something themselves and will go to any length to get a piece of themselves back. You can view the YouTube trailer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tn2-GSqPyl0. Thank you Cheryl Strayed for telling your story. Thank you for letting people in, for opening up your hips while falling down and letting grief out. You let your grief run onto the pages of your book and I am so grateful to you for writing every bleak and painful moment that you had the courage to share. You helped me grieve well. To learn more about Cheryl Strayed, please visit her website: http://www.cherylstrayed.com/. Grieve well friends, read "Wild," and then go see the movie. Christina

The Mission of The Grief Project

Thank you for wanting more information about the “The Grief Project” blog. The last seven months have been the toughest months of my life, with the loss of my mother last December, the sudden death of my dad in February, and my miscarriage at 2 ½ months this past May. I did not fully understand the depths of grief until this past year, nor have I learned more about how resilient the human heart is. I am also grateful for the out-pouring of love and kindness that all of my friends (you guys) have given me and for the constant support you have shown. With your kind words and caring letters, emails, and generosity, I have tried to grieve well. For when we grieve well, we heal. Healing does not mean, we can ever go back to the person we once were before tragic loss, but we can find ways to take our grief and move forward finding a new way of life through the ups and downs that the loss of a loved one will do to us physically, mentally, and emotionally. My hope for this new blog is to share my journey through grief, and showcase a guest blogger each week, who will share their journey into grief and how they were able to cope initially and how they are doing now. Grief is hard, whether it’s been a day, a month, a year, or thirty years. Grief never goes away, but we can learn how to not let it in. Recently, at a yoga and writing retreat in France, the yoga instructor said as we sat with our hips and arms open, that when we open our hips, we let grief out. A few days later during a moving afternoon meditation session, full tears rolled down many of our cheeks. After class, we felt better. We let grief out. Join me in this project and grieve well. I will be posting a different guest blogger each week and topics will include the loss of a parent, significant other, child, close relative, or friend. Grief connects those of us who have lost a great burning light that once in our life and now is physically gone but not gone from our hearts and minds. I will also be reading and reviewing books on grief that readers might find helpful when dealing with tragic loss. We are all connected. Death binds us in a cosmic way. I hope through my stories and other encouraging stories of hope through grief, you will not feel alone. I hope this blog will offer others a chance for healing and light. Take this light and let its healing energy burn in you bright and strong. If you would like to take part in this blog, please tell me your story. You can use the questions below as aguide to help you tell your story. If you have a blog, website, or have published works, please let us know this as well. I also need an email address, so I can get written consent from your prior to posting your blog entry. You may also send one or two photos that will accompany your blog. Queestions: 1. Your name, age and gender 2. Who was the loved one that died? 3. How did they die and when? You do not need to give all details, just general information. This part is hard for many to write, so if you choose to not complete this part fully, that is ok. 3. How did your initially grieve? 4. How has death changed you? 5. How do you deal with the loss now? Blessings, Christina Ruotolo

Memories of Mom and Dad

I was one of those naive people that believed my parents were immortal, even though my biggest fear in life has always and still is the death of my parents. It was something I used to have nightmares about. I would wake-up covered in sweat screaming in the darkness of the night for them. I was afraid they were dead and I would never get to hug them again. Once I knew it was only a dream, my mom would lie next to me, hold me close and whisper in my ear, "don't worry sweetie, I'm not going to leave you for a long, long time." Then, she would rub my sweaty hair from my head and hum as I felt back to sleep. Maybe this fear of death is why I was never a good sleeper and slept on the floor in a sleeping bag in my parents’ bedroom for more years that I would like to admit to. I felt safe next to them. I knew if they were there, nothing bad could happen to me. My parents were everything to me; the two most wonderful people that graced this planet. I have never known two more loving, generous, kind, selfless people that my mom and dad. They taught me so many things. They taught me how to be a better person by helping feed the homeless, or getting less presents at Christmas, so others who were less fortunate could have more under their tree. They taught me how to love people the right way, and we never ended a phone call or visit without saying "I love you." They taught me how to show kindness, give to others in need when I can and not judge people because you never know what things they are secretly dealing with. They also taught me to value friendship, to be how to be respectful, and to be kind to even your worst enemies, because they are probably hurting inside and dealing with things we may not realize. They wanted me and my brother to grow up with love and compassion in our hearts for ourselves and for others. With compassion and love for life and people, we would succeed in this world and they said, that is what they wanted to teach us. If you were lucky enough to know my dad, then you knew you would never go hungry. This was the Italian way and my dad lived this philosophy until his final days. If you needed food, he would show up with bags of canned chicken, rice, soup, and especially bags of toilet paper. My dad also had a little hoarding problem with buying socks and underwear, so if any of my brother's friends, or my boyfriend came over, they always left with a bag of new underwear and socks. I laugh when I think about this, and I think I finally understand what dad was doing. Not only did dad want to feed your soul with food, he also wanted to make sure your butt was always clean, and your feet were always warm. I guess now that I think about it, this must be the recipe for a good life. I know this sounds strange, but I have been blessed the last 15 years since I moved away for college, with never having to buy my own toilet paper. Every time mom and dad would come for a visit, or I would go home, I always left with canned chicken and toilet paper. I just looked in my pantry last week, and cried when I saw the last 12 pack of toilet paper sitting there, sad and lonely on the bottom shelf. It made me sad to think after it's gone; a piece of him will be gone from my home. I am contemplating whether I should keep just one roll and encase in a plastic cube with a mini hammer and a sign that says "in case of emergency, break and use- Love dad."

If you were lucky enough to know my mom, then you knew, you had a steadfast friend and supporter for life. My mom was a cheerleader for everyone who was lucky enough to know her. She was generous, kind, loving, protective, supportive, and made sure everyone else's needs were met before she did anything for herself. My mom was that mother who worked a full-time job, and would be up until 3am frosting 100 cupcakes for the bake sale or baking her famous "Yankee Bean bake," for all her friends when they celebrated something great, or mourned the loss of a loved one. My mom loved books and once she read a great book, would often give it away so someone else could enjoy the journey. Mom would be so tired when she put me to bed for the 5th time, but always had the strength to read me as many bedtime stories as I wanted. As a child, she was poor, and they did not have enough money for books, so she spent many of her days huddled in the corners of the library reading everything she could get her hands on. When she had children, she told me I could always have a book, and many times I chose a book over a toy, because it meant so much more. I like to think this is why I am a writer, because mom was generous enough to give me the gift of stories. My mom was also a skilled multi-tasker, managing to run a large department at her job with ease and efficiency. Many people told me how much she did for that company and her employees that went above and beyond her role. I was in awe of her every time I watched her in action. I would see her sitting in a navy blue chair in her office the size of a closet typing away on one project and taking to a client on her earpiece. Then, she would run to the copier, grab a paper off of it, run back to her computer, and furiously type things in in one foul swoop. No matter how cluttered her desk was, she knew exactly where everything was at. She also made sure every employee felt important. She was secret Santa every year to the dozens of workers, making sure they had a little something special in their box for several weeks. She would give them note cards, fuzzy socks, bookmarks, books, mini snow globes or mini stockings filled with the "good chocolate." Mom always wanted people to feel special. She gave gifts that always had meaning behind them. I cherished our shopping trips, which happened often. We would be in a store, and she would be looking for a specific kind of candy or a particular item at Hallmark, because she had overheard a friend/employee say he/she liked that item. She wanted to surprise them with it, even if there was no special occasion attached to it. Mom was also involved in so many charities and events around town; she spread herself thin, but loved every minute of being a Red Hat member, a Dazzling Diva, or raising money for the Red Cross and serving on their board. She even was a Senior Reagent with the Moose Club. I am now a proud member too!

So, as dad made sure your belly was fed, butt was clean, and feet were warm, mom showered you with the warmth of a hug, a special treat, and a warm heart and you knew you had a friend for life. The last few months, my brother and I have had the daunting task of cleaning our parent’s house out. It is a small, modest brick home; with very few updates that had been made in the 42 years that they lived there. As I sift through the boxes of memories and find cards people wrote mom thanking her for a gift or a note to dad thanking him for a good deed, I finally realize the answers to so many questions that I had over the years. Why did they not get a new washer and dryer when the old one broke? They knew the lady who owned a local laundry mat and supported her business by going to do their laundry there every Saturday. They didn't own nice furnishing, just basic tables and chairs, and a non-formal, brown couch. My mom and dad shared one car for years so my brother and I had reliable cars when we moved away for college. They wanted to make sure we had money for groceries or enough money to take piano lessons, or buy art supplies drum sticks or enough money to go on the class field trip to DC. This is why they went without getting the dishwasher fixed, instead washing the dishes by hand with no complaining. My parents lived without many things, so others could live "with." Today, I thank them and remember them every time I pass rows of toilet paper or sock displays in stores, or feel it in my heart when I volunteer at the shelter or give my friend a special gift, I know they really wanted. As I pack my bags for my up-coming trip to France tomorrow, I made sure to pack a bookmark and writer's kit mom gave me, and plenty of the socks and underwear dad gave me. I may still be lacking a proper French vocabulary, and my Yoga is still a little wobbly, but my soul will be fed by the food of France, my butt will be clean and my feet, toasty warm. Thanks Mom and Dad. Bon Voyage! 8-5-2014

Jumping Off The Cliff Into Grief

This is what I know for sure. I am 36 years-old and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Three weeks ago, I contemplated filling my gas tank up, grabbing a few bottles of Diet Sunkist and driving the opposite direction of home with no particular game plan. I was not sure where I would go, but for the first time in my regimented and planned-out life, I was willing to leave it all behind, in order to find myself.I have been lost for a while now, and I need to find the old me as soon as possible. *** Nine months ago, my mother, who was the most important person in my life, died of a rare uterine cancer. 111 days later, I had to take my father off of life support from a catastrophic aortic aneurysm rupture. A few weeks after that, I found out I was expecting my first child. Through all of my grief with mom and dad’s death, for a brief, fleeting moment, I was elated. I saw hope. However, hope, I have found out in my life is short-lived. 2 1/2 months into my pregnancy, we found out there was no heart beat and our little baby, or what they called the “embryo,” had died. Two days before my first Mother’s Day without mom, I had surgery and my little silent baby was lifted to heaven and placed in the loving hands of its grandparents. Grief does not even begin to describe my state of being. I have so many emotions spinning inside me; I feel as if I will fall to the floor and never have the strength to get up again. *** I stand at the gas pump, wearing black patent heels and a black dress with tiny white polka dots. I let the soothing, waves of wind wash over me. The sky is a soft white with tiny tendrils of pink clouds scattering across the magnificent day like bales of hay waiting to be sent to the grain mill. I smile for a moment feeling the energy of my mom coming down from the heavens patting my cheek with love. I just finished officiating another wedding ceremony on a day that was so glorious and bright, I wondered how it was possible. How can it be so beautiful all around me, but inside I am a raging black sky, angry and minutes from dropping down into a tornado and taking the world into my vortex of grief. I know I am supposed to be sad. I know I supposed to hurt, but this is ridiculous. Just as the tornado of grief was about to drop down and suck me into its core, I remembered what my Reiki healer Kara told me, in order to fully grieve the loss of someone dear to use, we must "Grieve Well." Grief should be full and open like a tornado. It should take you, suck you in, roll you around and take your breath away. Grief is not sitting at the base of the cliff and not jumping in because of fear. You have to jump and build your wings on the way down. On the way down is when you learn the lessons of grief. So, there I was again with a Diet Sunkist in my hand, a full tank of gas, and a heavy heart. I knew what I had to do. I had recently been accepted in the Cambridge Summer Yoga and Writer’s retreat in Picardy, France for two weeks and had declined once I found out I was pregnant and due to my teaching schedule for the fall. After I lost the baby and my class was cancelled, I took that as sign. I emailed the director and accepted the invitation she has still kept open for me. I called my travel agent, booked a flight to Paris, bought a big, white floppy hat and a French phrase book with CD. I decided I need to grieve, and what better place to do that than France. I speak very little French; my Yoga leaves a lot to be desired (thank you 20 years of dance for some pointers), and my writing submission on death got me accepted. I took that as a sign too. One week from today, I will board my transcontinental flight, try to not run away from grief, but to meet it head on, with a glass of French wine, a notebook, this blog and my vast library of memories.

The Grief Project- August 1, 2014

Welcome to the Grief Project The first time that someone close to me died was in November 2010. My best friend of 10 years, Michelle, “Shelly” died at the age of 41 from Lung cancer. She fought a two year battle and I, as an adopted caregiver for her young son, fought right next to her. She died before she was able to do so many things. She did not want to die. Her body could not fight anymore and it gave up. At the end, she withered away to the arms of God as the sun was pushing its way to a new day. I was mad at death. I was sad because of death. I was afraid of death. I was not happy that I was introduced to Death that day. Little did I know it would soon find its way into my life in ways I wish were not true. I will never forget the way I felt when Michelle died. The sky was a clear, azure blue and the occasional passing cirrus clouds floated by as I passed out parking passes to patrons at work. I was grateful to be outside. The sound of wind, traffic, and work were able to distract me from the searing pain my heart was feeling. The air around me was cool and leaves swirled around me like rain. The cold wind whipped my tear-stained cheeks, but I held my tears in. I had to work and I would cry later. I planned Michelle's funeral, picked out her attire, the funeral home and cemetery. Her obituary was the first one I ever wrote. I wanted to write it. It was my final gift to her. A few day later, I wore a black dress, held her son’s hand and walked with her husband and son down a packed church isle and I wept inside. Not only did I weep for the loss of my best friend, but I wept for her husband and son too. There were so many things that she would never see. She would not see him graduate Pre-K and sing a line from the alphabet song, or watch him lose his first tooth. She would not see him learn to finally ride his bike with no training wheels or catch his first baseball in the soft catcher’s glove I bought him for his 6th birthday. She would not see the elation in his face when he finally learned how to write his name. She would not see him grow tall and strong, or kiss his first girlfriend at the front door. She would not place his graduation cap on his strong-minded head and watch him graduate or walk off to his college dorm no longer letting her kiss him on the cheek. She would miss it all in a physical sense and see it only from that floating cloud. The list could go on forever.

The night she died, I sat her son in my lap and told him, even though he could not yet grasp the concept, that mommy had gone to heaven to live with Jesus. I told him as my mom told me that when we die we become a star and when we miss them so much out heart hurts, we can look up in the sky, find the brightest star and wave to them. I bought him a blue balloon, his mother’s favorite color and a few weeks after her death, we let it off to fly to meet her in heaven. Grayson later told me that his mommy was sitting on a puffy, white cloud eating a bowl of her favorite vanilla ice cream with long, flowing blond hair. He also said that when you go to heaven, there is no cancer or pain and its "sun-shiny." The beauty of Grayson's mind helped me initially grieve, smile and know his mom's light watches over him everyday. Michelle’s death changed me. It made me tougher, but not in a good way. I spent an entire semester in therapy trying to wrap my head around death and I came out no better than when I started. I took my pain from her death, wrapped it up in a little ball and shoved it to the side. I told myself I would come back to it later and try to work through it. I still grieve her death to this day and every time her precious son hugs me and calls me his “little sister,” I don’t understand death. I need more answers. Now, after the most tragic seven months of my life, I am finally starting to understand death, grief, and pain and trying to find a way through its abyss. This is the Grief Project.