WordSisters

Category: grief

  • The WordSisters Celebrate 10 Years of Inviting You into Our Lives

    In 2012, when Elizabeth and I launched WordSisters, we weren’t sure where this adventure would take us or if we could keep up the discipline of posting once a week. Our original motivation was attracting agents and publishers, but soon we were blogging for the pleasure of writing. We had things to say and stories to share. 10 years later we’re still writing!

    Through the years, more sisters in writing joined us: Cynthia and Bev are regular contributors, while Brenda, Jill, Jean and Rosemary have occasionally posted. 

    Our insights arise from our lives—mothering, working, aging, living through COVID, reacting to events in the news, planning our futures and setting goals. I’m proud of the breadth of topics we’ve covered and the connections we’ve made with strangers all over the world . 

    Most of all I’m proud of us for persisting. For being here long after many bloggers have faded away. 

    One of our strengths is the variety of voices, styles, and subject matter each of us brings. In that spirit, here is a collection of best-of posts. I hope you’ll enjoy sampling them. 

    Thank you for being our readers.

    Ellen

    No More Guilt with Every Bite 

    What Work Would I Do if I Were an Immigrant?

    Elizabeth

    I Didn’t Come This Far

    Until It Becomes Personal

    Cynthia

    Shake the Marbles

    Broken Dreams

    Bev

    Let the Hope Shine

    When It Comes to Your Age, Do You Share? 

    Brenda

    Confessions of a Pandemic Parent

    I’m (Not) Sorry

    Jill

    Opposing Thumbs

  • What’s Your Reason for Getting Up in the Morning?

    When I was a young kid, my reason for getting up was to play with my four younger sisters. Then in my tweens and teens, it was to hang out with my friends. In college, it was to get to my classes; in my early 20s, it was to get to work.

    Then, in my early 40s, after the untimely deaths of my parents–my dad after a year-long battle with cancer, my mom in an instant after a stroke—it was to distract myself from my grief. Every morning I woke up, got dressed and walked to my neighborhood coffee shop where I followed Julia Cameron’s advice from The Artist’s Way and wrote morning pages. Doing so was definitely my lifeline, one thing I could control and a way of coming to terms with my grief and guilt, as well as my fears.

    Eighteen months later, once my grief had ebbed, work once again became my reason for getting up. Somedays I was so driven to get started that I turned on my computer on my way to the bathroom.

    But now that I no longer work full-time, I’ve been pondering my reason for getting up. Pre-pandemic it might have been to attend a board meeting, enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend or, pre-hip pain, walk the Stone Arch bridge across the Mississippi—all activities that connected me to others and the world in which we live.

    Now, my reasons rarely involve connecting with others or the outside world, especially because COVID means doing it in front of a screen rather than in person. It’s hard to get excited about more screen time. As a result, getting up can sometimes be the most challenging part of my day.

    That’s why, while writing my recent Aging with Gusto post, I was excited to discover the concept of ikigai (ee-kee-gahy). According to the authors of the book Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life, ikigai is a Japanese concept that combines the terms iki, meaning “alive” or “life,” and gai, meaning “benefit” or “worth.” When combined, the term means “that which gives your life purpose, meaning or worth.”

    Minnesotan Dan Buettner talks a lot about purpose in his book, The Blue Zones of Happiness: Lessons From the World’s Happiest People. So does fellow Minnesotan Richard Leider whose newest book is Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Old?: The Path of Purposeful Aging.

    While I’ve been tempted to pooh-pooh the power of purpose, data shows that having one can make a difference, not only to the quality of our lives, but also their length.

    So, now that I’m of a certain age (only six years away from the age both my parents were when they died, I’ve become determined to do all I can to extend not only the length of my life but also the quality of it.  

    That’s meant turning inward by once again writing morning pages. At first, they were filled with recriminations, accusations, reprimands and wouldas, couldas and shouldas, all of which undermined my ability to identify—and perhaps more importantly—fulfill my purpose.

    But slowly, over the past 18 months, my pages have begun to fill with more positive thoughts (the sun shining on the bright white snow is beautiful) and simple delights (this cup of coffee tastes great). And while COVID is still interfering with many of my hopes and dreams, I am—morning by morning and page by page—finding new reasons to get up each day.

  • When Death Becomes a Mystery

    When Death Becomes a Mystery

    We know that we are going to die. We read about death in the newspapers. People we know and do not know. Obituaries are posted on social media.

    The further away a death is from me the less I question it. It’s just a fact. People die.

    But then Sam Spratt died. He was 25 years old. On Wednesday, May 19, 2021, he was in a car accident and died at the scene. He was our neighbor and Juan and Crystel’s caregiver for over four years. Death suddenly became a mystery to me. Why did Sam die? Was he done living his life? Did he accomplish all that he wanted? My world instantly felt less safe. I was nervous getting in my car. Now I knew I could die. If Sam could die, I could die.

    There is no more do-over for Sam. What he did in this life is done. Or is it?

    Sam’s funeral was overflowing with young, middle-aged, and old people. Friends, neighbors, relatives, high school classmates. Attendees spoke about how kind Sam was. How understanding. The deep conversations they had.

    Juan and Crystel experienced the same with Sam. Sam was 12 years old and the kids were 5 when he started nannying for us. Monday to Friday he came to our house while Jody and I were at work. He even spent an occasional overnight when Jody and I were out of town.

    Sam and our children became a familiar sight throughout the Richfield community and parts of Edina. For years they pedaled their bikes to dentist and orthodontist appointments, Tae Kwon Do, swim lessons, movies, library, restaurants, bowling, swimming pool and the neighborhood parks. Sam took on the additional responsibility of Juan and Crystel’s friends for play dates in our backyard swimming pool.

    I was compelled to write a blog post about our experience with Sam when I read a parenting book that warned against having a teenage boy babysit – the children would be at risk.

    With intention, Jody and I welcomed Sam into our home and into our lives. We were blessed to have this teenage boy responsible for our children’s safety.

    On Easter five weeks before he died, Sam walked down the street to our house to visit with Juan and Crystel. He was planning to come to their graduation party in June. “He wouldn’t miss it!” he said. The three of them chatted as they would do, cajoling and teasing each other. Juan and Crystel were ‘his kids.’ He had taught them how to read, made sure they brushed their teeth, and that they weeded the garden.

    Now he’s teaching Juan and Crystel about death, grief, and loss. How to navigate when a loved one is no longer with us.

    His death continues to be a mystery to me. I’m still asking questions. Still pausing my mind when I pass the area where he died.

    Sam was right, though. He did show up for Juan and Crystel’s graduation. I finally looked at Juan and Crystel’s picture boards at the end of their graduation party. Juan had many photos of himself, Crystel, Jody and me on his board. Prominently displayed in the center was a photo of Juan, Sam and Crystel.

    I’m reminded of Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day.

    Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

    Tell me, what is it you plan to do

    with your one wild and precious life?

    I nurtured two souls, Sam can say. I gave them my heart and they gave me theirs. To that end, I taught them love for another.

    Sam Spratt October 17, 1995 – May 19, 2021.  Never forgotten.