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MartyT

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Thank you for the article about the theory of grief. I guess I have issues in all of the cathegories. 

I have been on a trip recently, on my own, and I felt more alone than ever. Coming back home everybody looked forward to see me excited, and I struggled so much to deal with their dissapointment, which is mine too. I guess I still naively think I can fix this. I think that doing things will transform my feelings. It is not happening. I still do things, anyway. 

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

From our friend and colleague Peggy Haymes:

What Do You Do When It's All Just Too Much?


Sometimes it's just all too much.
 

 

That can be true in our personal lives when too many extraordinary demands or deep losses pile up. It feels like too much too muchness.
Caregivers often feel this way, which is why one of the early books written for caregivers of people with Alzheimers was called The  36 Hour Day. 

Increasingly, people are feeling that way about government and political events. In my office, at church, among friends, I am hearing the same thing. People feel just overwhelmed. Whether you are for the political changes or against them, the pace of change is leaving many people feeling overwhelmed. There's no time to  process one change before another one comes.

So, a few survival tips for the  days when you feel overwhelmed.

1. Monitor what you take in. Many of us feel that we need to keep up with everything, but with nonstop news cycles that can become all we do. Our emotions don't get a chance to breathe and our brains don't get a chance to process. Allow yourself a news fast. Don't  worry, whatever  you need to know about will keep coming around, and someone will probably post it on Facebook for the next three years.

2.   Monitor what you put out. None of us can respond to every demand  that comes our way. If you're involved with caregiving you may need to say no to some things that in other times you'd gladly take on.   Don't feel guilty for taking a vacation.

There's a wonderful scene  in the Hebrew scripture story of Elijah. Fearing for his life (and overwhelmed with a bit of self-pity himself) Elijah flees into the  wilderness.

An angel meets him there, offering him bread and water. "Take, eat," the angel says, "lest the journey be too much for you."

I've loved that image  because that's exactly what we need to do sometimes: step back, rest and refuel lest the  journey be too much for us.

3. Break it down into smaller parts and take concrete actions. We feel overwhelmed when there is so much to do or the things we need to do are so big. Start breaking it down into bite-sized pieces. (By the way, be realistic about what  is or isn't under your control.)

After you have broken it down into more manageable pieces, start taking concrete action. Do one thing, no matter how small that thing seems in the grand scheme of things. When we take action we counteract the feelings of helplessness that can come with being overwhelmed. 

Feel free to share this with friends who might find it useful.

Until next time,

Peggy

 

 

So you don't  miss any announcements from Peggy, you can subscribe here.

 

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Amen heartily to all of that!

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Another gem from our friend Peggy Haymes:

 

The most embarrassing thing I’ve done… this week… so far

by Peggy Haymes

Monday morning.

I'm rather proud that I'm getting an early start on my lengthy one mile commute to the office.

Briefcase packed, cell phone in my purse, jacket on - I'm ready to go.

Except I can't find my keys.

I usually put them on a coat rack just inside the door. They're not there. They didn't fall to the floor beneath the rack. I check my pants pockets. I paw through the dirty clothes to check the pockets of the clothes I was wearing the previous night.

I check the kitchen counters. The dresser in the bedroom. I check in every room of the house and then I do it all over again. No keys.

By now it's time for my first client who, thankfully, is running behind herself.

As I try to figure out the mystery of the missing keys (thank you, Nancy Drew) my hand brushes against the vest I'm wearing. It's a cute vest, and being as it's from Eddie Bauer, it has lots of pockets.

One of which holds my keys.

I still beat my client to the office and all is well.

Later I thought about what a great life parable that was. We search high and low for something while in reality, it's been with us all along.

We read a hundred self help books. We talk endlessly with friends and family and coaches and therapists, all in a quest to find that missing something.

Direction. Peace. Hope.

The great family therapist Virginia Satir was completely flummoxed after World War II. She began seeing people who'd survived Hitler's camps. She was overwhelmed by their stories and felt completely helpless to help them. She thought about it and meditated on it and even prayed about it.

What could she offer to them?

One day she realized that she'd gotten it all wrong. She felt helpless in helping the victims of those camps but in truth, they were survivors. If they didn't have some kernel of strength inside they wouldn't have made it through, much less making it to her office.

Her job was to help them reconnect to that strength. Her job was to reconnect them with what they already had inside but had just forgotten.

(If there is a single story that guides my work as a therapist, it's this one. If you're able to make an appointment and make it into my office, you have more strength inside you than you know)

We run hither and yon looking for answers but never take the time to stop, be still and listen to our own voice of wisdom. We've gotten disconnected from that voice through the years, or maybe we never had a chance to connect in the first place.

If you want to start listening, journaling is a great way to start. Ask that wisdom to write a letter to you, and see what it says.

You may need someone else to help you listen, whether a wise friend or good therapist. We learn early on to discount our own wisdom so it helps to have someone who can provide a different perspective. Or tell us if we really are full of it.

What keys have you tucked away in your pocket? 

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Let Go and Let Be

BY PARKER J. PALMER (@PRJPALMER)COLUMNIST

When I was in my twenties, I wanted desperately to become a writer. But for several miserable years, I labored under the misconception that this meant putting words on paper that would (1) get published and (2) be praised by the critics as great or better than great.

I’m sure you know what came of that! I wrote very little, and nothing worth reading. My inflated notion of what it meant to be a writer left me frozen in fear of failure.

Then I read some words that changed my life:

“A writer is distinguished by the fact that he or she writes.”

I don’t remember who wrote those words, but they triggered an “Aha!” moment that still makes me laugh.

Suddenly it all came clear: “To become a writer, I don’t need to write world-class stuff. I simply need to WRITE! Hoo-ha! There’s an amazing idea! OK, here we go!” And so it has been ever since.

I blush to confess it, but I’ve had to relearn that lesson in recent years as I’ve begun aspiring to be a poet. It’s taken me a while to realize that this does not mean I need to be as good as Mary Oliver or William Stafford. A poet, I suppose, is distinguished by the fact that he or she writes poetry!

So here’s another one of my poems. In dark times, I often find solace at the ocean. But somehow, the Atlantic in winter brings me more peace than balmy breezes and a blazing sun on a tropical beach. This poem comes from an experience of seeking consolation on “the February shore.”

 

“The February Shore”
by Parker J. Palmer

Let this stillness settle on
the surface of your mind—

The figured sand, its fossil prints
and hieroglyphs held fast in memory of ice…

The surf-flung pools framed here and there
as mirrors to behold the shining day…

The ice-glazed rocks that lose their weight
while floating in mirage of glancing sun…

Upon that sea of cold foreboding blue
a second sea of sequined, dancing fire…

Over all, the silken air,
the seamless and forgiving sky…

Now let this ocean breathe for you,
beat your heart and pump your briny blood,
heave your sighs and weep your sea-salt tears
that flow beyond the rim of earth
farther than your anxious eye can see—
while under all, incessant surf
insists on letting go and letting be.

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WOW! 

CLIMBING THROUGH THE CRAYON BOX, SEARCHING FOR SAUDADE.

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My wife is dead. An unknown heart problem in her 40s. The shock of her sudden death has sent me digging through crayons trying to identify my emotions.

Blue Denim holds my cold, clenched fists of anger. Royal Purple radiates the bruise that oozes under my skin. I like green, so I draw each green crayon across the paper, but none calm me like being in Yosemite. Shamrock is too bright. Granny Smith Apple too warm. Forest Green comes close — grainy and gray like grief.

The colors of sorrow are the primaries. They’re also a thousand shades. They take me to the edge of what should have been if she had been allowed to live. I color the hard sky Steel Blue because I no longer believe the True Blue crayon. I color the earth Rojo Oscuro and Maroon because it’s stained with the blood of my dead.

In the left corner, I swirl three dark colors — Timberwolf Gray, Silver, and Black — but my darkness is different. It’s Pewter. Charcoal. Midnight Slate and they don’t make those crayons. When a person dies, life is reduced to colors without form, the tohu va vohu (תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ) of Genesis, the chaos before there was light, but I feel no assurance that light will return.

I color outside the lines because grief has erased the boundaries of polite. Destroyed my belief in cause and effect. People say, “Work hard. Follow the rules, and happiness will come.” That curtain in Oz has been yanked down. Compassionate people die. Hateful, greedy, pompous people don’t. At least, not often enough.

Crayons do not speak of ethics, only emotions. They don’t say she wasn’t supposed to die. They don’t say the doctor missed something. They don’t say the paramedics messed up and didn’t restart her heart soon enough, which is what they are trained to do. Isn’t it?

People say, “She’s dead. You have to move on.” They’re right, in time. But her death was wrong and I am not going to accept it. I will never be okay with it, and I will carry this anger the rest of my life. But somehow I will learn to live with it. Color me Cantankerous Cardinal.

I am a bucket of emotions, swept along in a flood that surges from one feeling to the next, and I can’t control them. I am Vicious Violet. I am Raging Red. I am the Buffaloed Blues.

What is the color of loneliness? What is today’s shade of despair?

I have been broken by something I cannot see or name. This is deeper than melancholy. It’s the Portuguese saudade, of desperately longing to reach out and touch her hand once more. Hug her warm body close. See love for me shining in her eyes. But she is never coming back, and I fear that if I look in too deep, I will find that only emptiness is left.

What crayon is going to color that?

I try every crayon in my box of 96. My paper is a rat’s nest of colored streaks and swirls. While the crayons have helped identify what I’m feeling, they aren’t helping me dream of what comes next.

I create my own colors and find hope in the wonder of Impossibly Peach. The iridescent sheen of Indigo Bunting. The passion of Totally Mad Magenta. The delightful shiver of Elusive Moonbeams.

~ Mark Liebenow  

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Grief's Grenades by Christina Rasmussen

I wish I had better news about what happens to our mind after loss.

I wish I could say that when grief destroys everything the brain rejuvenates automatically.

But the destruction grief causes our brain doesn’t go away on its own.

Our brain does not bounce back and evolve without our help.

My brain was a battlefield for many years after loss.

It was scared, depressed and above all stuck in an infinite loop of appalling thoughts about myself and my life.

And I got used to living there.

In the battlefield.

With grenades.

And traps.

I don’t understand how nobody told me these words after loss,

You have to work on your mind.

Then I could have asked.

What do you mean by that?

They would have said,

You need to become conscious of the thoughts you think every day. They are not yours…they are grief’s thoughts.

And I could have become aware of these grenades that were firing inside my brain every day instead of just accepting them as mine.

They weren’t mine. They were grief’s.

But as time went by I made them mine.

And I became grief-like.

I lost my lifelike self.

I am going to keep this short and to the point.

Every morning when you wake up check in with yourself and ask this question:

What am I thinking right now?

Write it down.

Is this thought mine or grief’s?

Answer that question and if it’s not yours replace it immediately with yours.

Here is an example.

Here is a thought first thing in the morning.

I don’t want to get up. My life sucks and I miss him too much to function.

Which part of this is grief speaking and which part of this is you?

It might not be easy to tell at first because grief has been forcing these thoughts on you for a while.

Here is how you can tell.

Take the thought apart.

Did you love waking up in the morning before loss?

If the answer is yes, then deep down you do want to wake up.

And the thought that you don’t want to get up is not coming from you but from grief.

Now to the remaining thought.

My life sucks.

I know it feels like your life completely sucks right now, and this may feel true and it might be true.

If this was my thought I would keep this part as my own. No denying that. Life does suck after loss, sorry.

Next, we move into the last part of this thought,

I miss him too much to function.

I know you miss him, but is it true that you can’t function?

I think this is grief speaking to us telling us not to bother to go out and do life.

Let’s change this whole thought now to make it our own.

“I USED TO LOVE MORNINGS, BUT IT’S BEEN HARD LATELY. I MISS HIM SO MUCH, BUT I WANT TO TRY TO AT LEAST FUNCTION TODAY.”

Do you see how we shifted this thought?

If we did this with just a couple of thoughts a day that’s all it’s going to take to not be stuck in the waiting room of grief.

Don’t let grief think for you, not even for one day, not even for one thought. 

GRIEF IS SNEAKY. VERY SNEAKY. BUT LIFE IS SNEAKIER AND MORE ALIVE THAN GRIEF COULD EVER BE.

Here’s to your own thoughts today and every day after loss.

Promise me.

With thriving thoughts,

Christina

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Exactly!  That is why I warn that self care is so important, ESPECIALLY when you don't "feel" like it!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Good one from Christina Rasmussen:

The Hurricane That Lives Inside

March 10, 2017 

Over the years I dealt with anger after loss in many different ways and continue to do so. What I didn’t realize until today is that I have developed a pretty detailed way to deal with it. Someone from my Life Starters community asked me about anger today.

What do we do with it?

How do we deal with anger after loss?

I never really wrote or shared about this before. About this thing I know you too have felt.

The feeling of being angry when our lives are stripped away from us by some force.

When this force (some call it destiny) comes in and takes away the people we love, we feel anger. Rage even.

And let me just say, it’s a physical thing first and foremost.

Then when it’s not expressed it becomes something that resides inside of us more permanently.

More intimately. But without intimacy. Without any love.

Today’s letter is about anger.

The kind we are ashamed to share with anyone.

The kind that no matter how loud it is we manage to hide it.

When a human can hide a hurricane inside their chest you can’t even begin to imagine the magnitude of the inner destruction.     Read on here >>>

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Grief Makes You Crazy

http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/grief-makes-you-crazy2/  

I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you…grief makes you crazy.

IMG_2289 I suppose that may be a bit of an exaggeration. In reality, it only makes you feel crazy.

In the beginning, you feel totally out of sorts – like lash out at everyone, cry over everything, wear the same sweatpants for a week insane. Then over time you only feel a bit odd every now and then – like that time you refused to throw away your dead mother’s old hairbrush or when you started crying in the middle of the Target sock aisle over some random grief trigger.

No? Just me? Let’s move on then.

Fortunately, I also have good news — when it comes to grief, crazy is the new normal.

It looks different on everyone because we all experience grief in our own way, but on some level, we all struggle to understand ourselves and the world around us in the face of profound loss.

Think about it – it makes total sense. Whether the loss was sudden or you were able to anticipate it, as soon as you understood and accepted that someone you love was dead or dying you began the grueling work of grieving. If ever a rationale for temporary insanity was needed, one could certainly be found among the range of reactions and emotions associated with grief and loss – shock, numbness, sadness, despair, loneliness, isolation, difficulty concentrating, forgetfulness, irritability, anger, increased or decreased appetite, fatigue or sleeplessness, guilt, regret, depression, anxiety, crying, headaches, weakness, aches, pains, yearning, worry, frustration, detachment, isolation, questioning faith – to name a few.

Understandably, many will find it hard to acclimate to these emotions. One day you’re walking along like normal and the next day you feel like an alien has invaded your body; your actions and reactions have become totally unpredictable and confusing. In search of something familiar you look to your primary support system, your family and friends, but they seem changed as well; some avoid you, some dote on you, some are grieving in ways you don’t understand, and some are critical of the way you are handling things. Everyone is searching for the new normal.

The first few weeks are foggy. You wake up each morning thinking maybe it was all a bad dream and you muddle through the day trying to make sense of life without your loved one. Just when you start to get a grip (or not) you are forced to step back into your pre-grief life. It seems absurd that the world would keep moving in the face of your tragedy, but it has. Sadly most grievers can’t abandon their duties for long – parent, employee, bill payer, pants wearer – you now have to figure out how to continue to exist in the roles that have been yours since before the death.

Alas, that is not all. You must also incorporate new roles and duties, the ones you inherited when your loved one died – mowing the lawn, balancing the household budget, single parenting, closing old bank accounts, dealing with insurance, taking in grandchildren. God never gives you more than you can bear? We’re seriously testing that theory.

Sometimes even more disorienting is the emptiness felt by those who have fewer responsibilities as a result of the loss. Perhaps you have spent the past year dealing with treatments and prescriptions, appointments, prayers, and hospice. Now that’s no longer necessary and a life put on hold to be a caregiver must be restarted. Or perhaps you’re a parent whose life was previously made colorful by a child and fast paced by the duties of parenting. Now you find yourself waking up in the morning to rush through the before school routine, only to realize there’s no one to hurry out of bed or call to breakfast.

Life is forever changed and things feel meaningless, gray, and empty.

This is when you really start to feel crazy (you’re not). Friends don’t know what to say to you anymore. You are supposed to be back to work, school, the PTA, but you don’t feel the same. You’re worried you are alienating people by talking about your loved one and the death. You’re confused about your purpose. Everything you knew about life has changed. You’re questioning your faith and life’s meaning. You’re wondering if you are supposed to be getting better and you can no longer see the world in color.

We here at ‘What’s Your Grief’ like to talk about a condition we call ‘Temporarily unable to see rainbows’. Have you ever noticed that many of the resources, articles, books, and materials created to help people who are grieving use images of people staring off at sunsets, standing on a beach, or gazing at the clouds? These images inevitably lead Litsa and me to a conversation that goes something like this…

Eleanor: You know, my grief never looked anything like that.

Litsa: Yeah my grief didn’t look like that either.

Eleanor: As a matter of fact, my grief would not have been impressed with that sunset at all.

Litsa: Mine either. My grief would probably have wanted to punch that sunset in the face.

No thrilled about sunsetThe irony is, when you are in the throws of grief you may really struggle to find the beauty and the joy in life and it may be quite unlikely that you would stop and admire the beauty of a rainbow or the vastness of an ocean. Those who cannot relate to these images begin to worry, what’s wrong with me that I don’t have such a zen perspective? The inability to derive joy from things that were once pleasurable can feel a lot like depression and it can be frightening.

Don’t worry you’re still not crazy. These are normal feelings. I know because I’ve experienced my own grief and I know because I’ve heard hundreds of other grievers talk about the same types of experiences.  (If you’re worried that you are actually experiencing a psychological disorder like depression, anxiety, or PTSD – read this and this and this)

You’ve probably heard people say, ‘the first year is the hardest’, this is sometimes true.  Quite often, the second year is no picnic either, but at some point, things should get easier. The intense and unrelenting distress of acute grief will be replaced by less frequent moments of sadness, anger, and frustration. You will still have bad days, but you will know things are getting better when those days are outnumbered by ‘okay’ days.

This does not mean you are ‘getting over it’, moving on, or forgetting. An important part of healing is discovering the role your loved one will play in your life after their death. Of course at first, you hold on very tight, afraid if you let go your loved one will disappear completely. You hold on to items (not crazy), you leave rooms untouched (not crazy), you pay their cell phone bill so you can continue to hear their voice on their voicemail (not crazy). These things are not crazy and you may continue to do some of them forever, but some you will eventually let go of as your grip slowly loosens and you realize that nothing short of amnesia could make you really let go.

And slowly…slowly…the faded colors of life become more vibrant. The world unthaws and you start to find beauty peeking through in places you would never have expected it. Your season of grief has left you weary but stronger and as you walk out onto the sunlit path you glance back as the form of the person you used to disappear. You know you will never be the same and you begin to accept that you must integrate your loved one and your experiences and continue to live…a little bit wary, a little bit wise, and a little bit crazy

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18 hours ago, enna said:

God never gives you more than you can bear?

The verse is continually taken out of context.  In the referenced verse, it's referring to temptation/sin.  It's not talking about grief.  It's not even talking about the over-bearing in-law or the impossible-to-please boss.  It's not talking about stretching your paycheck.  There are plenty of people that have committed suicide that apparently felt life was more than they could bear.  I think the Bible wants us to explore avenues as to how to deal with things...turning to the God of all comfort, bearing each other's burdens, helping each other, etc.  We are to be a community, we aren't meant to carry the load alone.

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Sometimes,  when life gets unbearable, i pray, "Lord, please lessen the burdens and lighten the load because I am not handling like these other people say that I should.  Abba help me I pray! I pray that many times for this vessel is weak and God is strong enough to handle it.  ... Just my opinion...  - Shalom"

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"But then my brain got used to hard work and running away"

Boy was that me Marty. I wish I had  this article to read six years ago. I think it would have helped my journey be softer.

Thanks for sharing it.:wub:

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For Some Things, There Are No Wrong Seasons

BY PARKER J. PALMER (@PARKERJPALMER), COLUMNIST

I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had at least one “hurricane” in his or her life — a destructive personal experience that seems beyond redemption at the time. In this poem, Mary Oliver does what she does so well, drawing lessons from nature that can keep hope alive even during our darkest days.

In 2004, a tornado ripped through our neighborhood in Madison, Wisconsin, damaging houses and toppling many old trees. No one was hurt, but property damage was extensive.

At the time, I was going through my third major bout of clinical depression. I found it nearly unbearable to look at our yard, where we had lost a lovely maple and a towering white pine — the devastation “out there” mirrored so closely what was going on “in here.”

But slowly, very slowly, the still-standing trees began to recover, “pushing new leaves from their stubbed ends.” And slowly, very slowly, a new life began to grow in me.

So for me, this poem evokes deep feeling. It reminds me of hard times and of the fact that eventually, I was able to reclaim hope. Today I read Mary Oliver’s closing lines as a sort of prayer for all of us:

“For some things / there are no wrong seasons. / Which is what I dream of for me.”

“Hurricane”
by Mary Oliver

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything
. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.

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This is not a new article but it showed up in my inbox!

"I am not asking how many items are on your to-do list, nor asking how many items are in your inbox. I want to know how your heart is doing, at this very moment. Tell me. Tell me your heart is joyous, tell me your heart is aching, tell me your heart is sad, tell me your heart craves a human touch. Examine your own heart, explore your soul, and then tell me something about your heart and your soul."

http://www.onbeing.org/blog/the-disease-of-being-busy/  

 

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Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Grieving For Society

 
Blue%2BNight.jpg
The Call to be Creative
 
When I was swimming in the minestrone of grief, one of the realities that helped me cope was the sameness of life outside my house. Everyday I could mindlessly commute to work, do my job, come home, watch TV, and sleep.
 
Then 9/11 happened, a few months after my wife died, and my grief was swept into the larger grief of the world. I had no sanctuary from death. Because I didn’t have cable, even TV was no longer a refuge because of its unrelenting coverage of the terror and destruction.
 
What do we do when it’s society we grieve when its fabric is being torn apart?
 
What happens when we no longer trust our institutions or the people running them to do what’s right?
 
Those who grieve can tell when people act like they want to comfort them, but who really don’t care. “Your wife died so young! Such a tragedy. Could you hand me the sack of potatoes?” We learn to detect the false fronts that people present and we’re able to spot the brazen, poppycock promises of the flim-flam politicians, the nithering nabobs of negativity who want to stuff people into tidy boxes of “us” versus “them.” Life is messier than simple agendas. The world is more complex than two-step solutions.
 
They pull the veil of fear over our compassion for others
 
When we don’t know the people in our neighborhood, when we aren’t helping to take care of each other, we become people who look out only for ourselves. We forget who we were.
 
We need artists of truth who stand up in the face of the diatribes of hate:
 
- painters who continue to reach into the darkness and bring back the light.
- musicians who play the songs of protest and hope.
- writers who create the stories of courage and heart.
- storytellers who fire up our imaginations because we are not limited by what we see.
- solitaries and mystics who dream the deep resonance of souls.
 
We are all creative and compassionate in our own ways, and we have a responsibility.
 
Turlough O’Carolan, the blind Celtic harpist, was asked in the early 1700s why he composed songs of joy in the midst of such dark times in Ireland. He said that when it is the darkest, that is when people need to be reminded that the dawn will come and the sad times end.
 
Our flame still burns, my friends. Today’s darkness will not put it out.
 
 
Posted by Mark Liebenow 
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  • 4 weeks later...

Finding Benefits in Loss: Not Easy, But Maybe Worth It
by Mark Hendricks

"Of all the sensitive topics I will discuss here, this is possibly the most sensitive of all. What I’m going to talk about now is finding benefit in our losses. I am sure, based on previous discussions I have had on this topic, that some of you will be instantly sickened and repulsed by the idea. Some of you may be tempted to tell me off in no uncertain terms. I know where you’re coming from. The first time I read a research study suggesting it might help to find some benefit in my son’s death, I thought it was the stupidest thing I ever heard. I’ve changed my mind since and I’ll tell you why."  Read on here >>>

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