Witnessing a Family Story

Perhaps a year after we moved into our home and furniture finally made an appearance in our living room, my ex and I purchased two pieces of art. It was a stretch for us, but both pieces brought us pleasure over the years. One piece was a large, glass-blown plate saturated with turquoise, navy, pearl, rose, and fuchsia elegance. Heavy, it sat upright nested in a plastic holder on the console table behind the couch where on bright days it would retain the sun’s heat. The plate witnessed birthday parties, holiday gatherings, graduations, and close to three decades of life passing by. If you believe, like I do, that even inanimate objects can soak in the energy of a home, this one held love and loss, sadness and acceptance, disappointment and relief…and bundles of laughter. That plate appeared in a myriad of family photos as it remained in the same spot for over 27 years until we sold our home and divorced four years ago. It absorbed our stories as much as it absorbed the heat of the sun.

Letting Go to Make Way for New Stories

Awkwardly shaped, the plate was nestled into an ill-fitting cardboard box and stowed in a storage unit. Neither my ex or I had a room that could welcome something that big. And it demanded space and light. So this beauty was hidden, forgotten for these last four years. Fast forward to “Project: Empty Storage Unit,” (referred to in my last blog post, Sneaker Waves-Opening Boxes, Finding Grief.) Cutting through packing tape, I peek into a box without a label. In the dimness, it was as if the glass plate reached up, trying to capture a few strands of light. I closed the lid, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” embarrassed by my neglect, knowing both my ex and I still have no room for this beauty. And I also knew it was time to let go. Time to sell it. Time for this beauty to find new stories.

Growth Through Prior Loss

It is with vigilance that I load the box onto the cart and then wrestle it onto the front seat of my car. It is a tight fit. That offers assurance it will not go anywhere on the drive home. This is the first box I unload. The day is wet and pine needles are pressed into the soles of my shoes, stuck in tire treads and littering the concrete floor of the garage where there is only room to open the driver’s side door. I finagle the box from the passenger side over the center console, double-checking the top, making sure to keep the box tipped up now the tape was loose. It was the bottom that could not hold the weight of the plate. As I was holding firm to the sides, checking the top, it was the bottom that gave way. Glass connecting with concrete creating a brief concert of sound followed by a moment of astonishment. Thick, jagged shards, small needle-size slivers, and the release of family stories spreading out in a bizarre mandala was the encore.

And this is where the growth came for me. Not once did I berate myself. Call myself “stupid.” I simply stood back and assessed what needed to be done (sweep.) And then I thanked this beautiful piece of art for the years of joy it offered. For all it held. Took the photo of the broken plate to share with my ex (who was kind in his response.) And went about the business of cleaning up, marveling at the tinkling sounds and fragment of colors as I swept.

Gifts in the Remnants of Loss

A couple of days ago, I was rearranging the garage to make room for more boxes as phase one of “Project: Empty Storage Unit,” was finally wrapping up. Sweeping out autumn’s debris of needles and leaves, I found one piece of glass that had wandered far from the others. I thought about tossing it (it is very sharp,) but decided to keep it for now. A reminder that life’s gifts can be seen in the remnants of what has been shattered.

Shattered—Look Toward the Heart

I knew this post wasn’t done with the plate story. And yet I would start writing and everything came from my head and not my heart. No flow. Disjointed. Frustrating. A few days passed. I would put down the piece. Pick it back up. Finally I did what works for me—shut my laptop, meditated, did Reiki, asked for guidance. Asked for heart words to come. Then my own tears came. Here is what I offer:

Shattered = Loss

Shattered: my definition. An event/occurrence (external or internal) that happens suddenly to upend your world and break you into so many pieces that even a master craftsperson (therapist, counselor, religious leader, deity, et al) couldn’t restore you to the self you were before the happening. Being shattered is accompanied by loss(es.)

Some examples :

• Diagnosis—Cancer: stage four. ALS. Dementia. A list of diseases in our bodies or our beloveds that goes on and on…

• Prognosis—6-12 weeks…to live.

• Earthquake—Walls shaking. Dishes falling. Freeways collapsing. Cars crunching.

• Tornado—Touching down. Houses upended. Lives scattered across a countryside.

• 9-11 (period.)

• Phone call—7:15am. At work. Your mother saying your father is at the ED. You know before you arrive he is dead. You are 26 years old.

• Accident—Flashing lights, broken bones, paralysis, permanent impairments.

• Violent Crime—Violation, wounds, broken, loss of safety.

• Fire—Frenzy of heat melting skin.

• Abuse—violation, violation, violation.

• Betrayal—Trust gone, broken heart.

• Death—Touchable embodiment gone, gone, gone.

An incomplete list, for being shattered is, by my definition, personal. These are what popped into my head. Some I have experienced first hand. The descriptions, feeble attempts to add substance.

And as I look at this list, these all look “big and dramatic” to me. So, again, you decide what shatters your world, not me. Not your neighbor. Not your family or friends. I always open a workshop about loss with a reminder that “You define your loss, not me.”

Now I feel myself going back up into my head and I don’t want to meander up there in this post. I do want to offer this: When you are shattered, drink lots of water and take multiple doses of self-compassion daily.

Creating Beauty From the Shards of Loss

We do not remain shattered forever. It can lead us on a grief journey that invites us to create something out of the shards of our shattered selves. Years ago I wrote a poem, Stained Glass Wildness. It opened with these lines:

Wildness came

when I lay shattered at my own feet—

bits of color reflecting the setting sun. As

darkness fell.

I slipped through prisms of glass,

entered the willow forest

seeking strength.

I yanked at the shards wedged in my soul

opening up the wound.

My blood mixed with soil…

I would love to hear your reflections on being shattered. As I shared, I struggled with this post and yet felt it needed to be written, however incomplete. Please, send a comment.

UPCOMING WORKSHOP—A FEW SPOTS STILL AVAILABLE!

The Labyrinth Path:

Writing and Walking with Grief & Loss

Please join me for my next workshop on Saturday, November 16th, 1-5pm.

“We all experience grief and loss in life, from the time we leave the nurture of the womb to the leaving of our body at the end of our life, with many other losses, small and large, along the way. Our American society has shied away from healthy grief in favor of quick fixes leaving many with unresolved grief lingering in silence just below the surface, waiting for a chance to be heard. The labyrinth, an ancient archetype representing the metaphor of journey, provides a safe container to reflect on loss.”

For details or to register: The Labyrinth Path: Writing and Walking with Grief & Loss.