Showing all posts tagged Loss

In Identity, Nurture, Personal Growth, Relationships, Spiritual Life

Hinges

Author Julianne HarveyPosted on

We went to a funeral recently, the first one in a long time. The man who died was the grandfather of one of Ava’s earliest friends. I remember him as kind and quiet whenever we met at christenings, children’s birthday parties, or family dinners.

His funeral drew hundreds of people. It was a beautiful service, and I felt melancholy and reflective for the rest of the day after the morning mass. I began to think about my own legacy—what I will leave behind when I die.

I grew up as an evangelical Christian. In that world, we talked a lot about death but the focus was on going to heaven. I was terrified that I’d die and be denied entrance to heaven for some arbitrary reason. I worried constantly about ending up in hell.

When I moved away from my evangelical beliefs a decade ago, my fear of death slowly lost its grip on me. I began the practice of daily guided meditation. Over time, I could imagine dying without feeling a choking fear that God would be angry with me and refuse to allow me into heaven, no matter how hard I’d worked at being good and worthy.

Now, when I imagine death, it feels like a hinge. And life is full of these hinges—areas where we finish one chapter and move into a new one. We all experience so many cycles of death and rebirth. We change, we evolve, we begin and end something over and over.

I had to catch myself from competitive thinking after the funeral I attended. I asked Jason, “How many people do you think will come to my funeral?” This question caused me to worry that I haven’t kept up with enough old friends. That maybe I haven’t given to people as much over the last decade compared to how social I used to be when the kids were small.

Some of this happens naturally as we age. We experience ebbs and flows in our social lives, depending on the season of life we are in. I wrote in my journal to process these feelings, reminding myself that life and death and funeral numbers are not a competition.

The lovely man who died this month won’t ever know how many lives he had touched to inspire hundreds of people to attend his celebration of life. But his family knew. And it meant something to them. Each person who came and who shared their memories helped the family to feel less alone. And the legacy he left will endure. His love lives on in his children and grandchildren.

It’s healthy at hinge moments in our lives to reflect on what matters the most. I realised while writing in my journal that I felt a sense of deep loss when I heard family members speak about this man’s death, because he was so warm and kind and loving. I didn’t experience a relationship like that with my own father, and even though he’s been dead for twenty-two years, I wish I had known that kind of support and care from him.

We can never go back. Only forward. I’m relieved not to feel a paralysing fear any longer when I imagine dying. I think we can practice this comfort level by being more intentional about the other endings and beginnings we experience throughout our lives. With each hinge that opens and closes, we move closer to the final one. We never know when it will come. All we can do is live and love to the best of our ability, and try to remain present and attentive to each day as it comes.

How do you feel about death? Does it cause fear when you consider your own mortality? What type of hinges help you feel more at peace when you think about the end of your life?

In Nurture, Parenting, Personal Growth, Relationships

Grown-Up Kids

Author Julianne HarveyPosted on

In the last couple of weeks, my daughter and my son had birthdays that pushed them into a new category: grown-up kids.

I remember feeling amazed when Ava turned eighteen, and could legally vote as an adult in Canada, but at that time William was only fifteen. I couldn’t envision a future where both kids were adults. But now, Ava is twenty-one, and finishing up her second year of university, and William has turned eighteen, and is about to graduate high school.

It’s the end of raising children. I feel both weepy and thrilled, in equal measure. I can’t help looking back, and remembering when they were small and sweet and asked a zillion daily questions and begged me to read just one more bedtime story. I recall my friend with older children saying she missed their little voices in the house. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but I certainly get it now.

Every ending has a new beginning baked into it. The final chapter of anything feels like a loss when it’s underway, but with a bit of time to get used to the idea, we can begin to envision a new future. I’m trying to summon a sense of pride for the job I’ve done in being a mother to these two precious kids, and I’m longing for that pride to at least compete with the grief I feel that my day-to-day responsibility for their well-being and care is now ending.

I do know that the job of raising kids doesn’t magically end on their eighteenth birthday. Young adults have their own complex set of challenges and stressors, and they need support through these years and all of the many stages still to come. But it’s different now. They both drive, and have part-time jobs, and income of their own. William is out with his friends several times a week, and Ava lives on campus in a dorm eight months out of the year.

It’s time for Jason and I to adjust to the imminent reality of an empty nest. It feels exhilarating to imagine my children navigating their way in the world with confidence and excitement. It’s also scary, especially in those fraught moments when things don’t go their way and it feels like the road is sharply uphill. As parents, we always knew that the job was to take dependent infants and turn them into independent adults. But it seemed like such a long time from birth to eighteen. And now I realise, like so many wise parents before me, just how short those years really are.

Right before Ava’s birthday, our thirteen-year-old cat Flower stopped eating and drinking. He went from healthy(ish, as he had feline diabetes for the last two years) to weak and barely able to lift his head in a 36-hour time-frame. When I took him to the vet, the diagnosis was kidney failure compounded by a bronchial infection and his dangerously low blood sugar. Suddenly we were having a discussion about the end of his life.

Flower was Ava’s beloved pet, that we brought home as a kitten when she was seven. I had to call her in Victoria to break the news, and she walked onto the ferry a few hours later to come home so we could be together when we said our last goodbye to him. William’s cat, Little Rose, went to sleep in that same vet’s office exactly three years and six months before her brother Flower. It felt poetic that the dates lined up so evenly. Sometimes, even when we are in great pain, we can find a trace of beauty in the suffering.

When Ava went to her counsellor to talk about Flower, the counsellor said, “You said goodbye to your childhood pet and then turned 21 in the same week. It feels like the end of childhood for you.” That hit me square in the heart.

We can’t stop time from marching on. We can’t stop our kids from growing up, and turning into adults. We can’t keep our lovely pets alive forever. But we can grieve our losses, and dream into the future, and search carefully for the new beginning that’s hidden inside of whatever stage is ending.

In Nurture, Parenting, Relationships, Uncategorized

Goodbye Little Rose

Author Julianne HarveyPosted on

A few weeks ago we made the painful decision to put our beloved ten-year-old cat Little Rose to sleep.

She’d been sick since late May with what we hoped was only a bout of pancreatitis, but over the summer her health continued to deteriorate. Her appetite decreased. She spun in circles, shaking her head, and eventually falling over. Her skittishness increased. She hid away more and more.

We brought her back to the vet when she lost her balance and rolled down the steps to our basement. That’s when we got the news that her pancreatitis was likely caused initially by lymphoma, some form of cancer which had now spread to her brain. The merciful thing to do was put her to sleep.

I’ve had a lot of pets in my forty-seven years of life but I’ve never had to put one down. Our other pets have been outdoor cats, so nature ended their lives long before they reached the age of ten. We adopted Little Rose and Flower as kittens, when Ava and William were seven and four. They’ve never gone outside (other than on our deck or on a leash), and they’ve both been in perfect health until this May when Little Rose began to hide under Ava’s bed.

When other people told me they had to make end-of-life decisions for their animals, I felt sad for them in a general way but not in a specific way. Now I understand the sorrow they were experiencing. Our pets are so precious to us. So vulnerable when they are sick and in pain.

The kids were at school when I met with the vet and heard about Little Rose’s brain cancer. Telling them was hell. Ava’s sobs tore violently out of her throat. William made little mewing sounds, like his heart was breaking in tiny increments. The four of us held each other and cried until we were exhausted.

We spent one final night at home with Little Rose, cuddling her, taking photos, telling her how much we loved her and thanking her for being such an amazing cat for the last ten years. She had us wrapped around her dainty paw. Silent for the first five years of her life, she made up for it in the last five, by meowing loudly at us when she wanted something. After we moved back to BC, she developed a taste for vanilla ice cream and Pringles, pestering us until we gave her a lick.

She never handed out her affection haphazardly. We all had to work for it, which made it sweeter when she chose to sit with you or allowed you to kiss her velvety head. Little Rose would wait at the top of the stairs for us to go down to watch TV after dinner, meowing if we took too long, then staring at Jason from the coffee table until he said, “Sorry, sweetie” and put his feet up as a bridge for her to walk to his lap.

We all loved her deeply. Our vet broke the Covid rules and allowed us to stay together in the room with Little Rose right until the very end. We were all sobbing, but thankfully we were together, seeing her off into her long and final nap.

I listened to a guided meditation on grief and the woman leading it asked me to tell the source of my sadness what I still wanted to say. I pictured Little Rose’s sweet face, with her tiny pink nose, and I told her, “I’m sorry we couldn’t fix it. You were our responsibility and we tried to save you but we couldn’t.”

Mourning a loved one is an isolating experience. Life goes on for everyone else. People smile, laugh, make chitchat at the grocery store. I feel raw and irritated, with every nerve ending exposed. I know that this will pass. The gaping wound will heal and the scar will remind me of the pain, but it won’t be quite so acute. But for now I’m still devastated and likely to burst into tears with zero notice. Grief is like walking through waist-high mud. It’s exhausting.

It doesn’t seem possible that we now have to live in a world without Little Rose in it. And yet we do. Everything feels colder, harder, more improbable and remote. Coming home to Flower, who has spent a lot of time these last two weeks searching high and low for his sister, didn’t seem real. As William said the first night she was gone, “I miss her every minute.” So do I.

Goodbye, sweet Little Rosie. You were the best. In time we’ll add a kitten to our family to keep Flower company and pour this leftover love into, but we will miss you and love you forever.

In Culture, Identity, Movies/TV, Personal Growth

That Rey Moment

Author Julianne HarveyPosted on Leave a comment
That Rey Moment

We bought Star Wars: The Force Awakens and watched it again as a family this weekend. It lost none of the magic from when we first saw it in IMAX on opening day in December, but this time, one particular moment deepened in meaning for me.

When Rey faces Kylo Ren in the forest and her fingers close around Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber, she crosses over in that instant to her new identity – the person she was born to be but lacked the courage to become before this defining moment. I recognized a profound identification as I watched this dramatic scene unfold, for every one of us has either had that Rey moment ourselves or will at some point.

We all know, deep down, who we really are. But then we must access the strength to step into it, to cross over, to accept that invitation we receive to live as our truest selves. For Rey, in that second she grips the handle of the lightsaber, it’s written all over her face. This will change everything and she knows it.

star-wars-the-force-awakens-wallpaperThese key moments are exhilarating and terrifying, at exactly the same time. It’s thrilling to stop running from our calling at last, but embracing our real identity means walking away from the old one. This involves loss and pain. It’s a bridge we cross, from one inner destination to another, and we can never return in the same way.

The Hero’s Journey requires forward motion. If we stay stuck in the same place, we are not on a journey. We are in a loop. When we finally embrace our own Rey moment, we step from the old, familiar pattern and move on to who we are meant to be.

Now we are moving forward with new things to learn and experience. It’s like Dorothy opening the door to Oz and experiencing every single thing in bright, vivid colour, leaving the black-and-white version of herself behind. There are fresh adventures ahead, provided we are brave enough to go for them. It helps to form a new tribe of other like-minded travellers, who are on their own Hero’s Journey, and can provide support and encouragement in the loneliest spots.

Another helpful practice is stillness. Rey summons the power of quiet later in her fight with Kylo Ren, closing her eyes and taking the time to focus her energy and her mind. This is a requirement for those of us fighting our way through this life in the boldness of our true identities.

Don’t give up. Keep on going. Know that we are all making our way together. We have grasped our unique lightsabers and found out who we really are. Now we must continue to walk this path, even when it’s impossibly hard. Especially then, for we will find what we are looking for if we don’t give up.

The joy and the inspiration is found in the power of who we are meant to be. If you haven’t had that Rey moment of identification, start watching for it. And if you have, keep walking your Hero’s Journey. You are not alone. There are many of us, finding our true legacies and callings, believing that our power and our future lies along this path of who we are and were always meant to be.

In Identity, Personal Growth, Relationships

Real Surrender

Author Julianne HarveyPosted on Leave a comment
Real Surrender

I know I write a lot about acceptance, surrender, letting go of what we cannot change. This is because it’s so damn challenging for me. I think I have it under control, then something else happens to knock me off my game and I have no other choice but to practice this skill once again.

I find it hard to believe when people say they don’t struggle with acceptance. I’ve heard versions of “I just let it go” with a breezy flip of the hair and a general sense of how easy this is. Without fail, every time, I think to myself, “Bullshit.”

Real surrender over circumstances and people is hard. It’s a process, where you don’t get to skip any steps. It’s not easy for a reason. The meaning is found in the struggle. We should be wrestling with what wounds us. We have all been hurt, let down, lost, bewildered.

Real SurrenderWe can’t have it all. That’s a bold-faced lie. What we do have is choices. One after another, day in and day out, then each of these accumulated decisions determines the quality of our lives. Who we spend the bulk of our time with matters. We influence each other.

Wanting a healthy life requires courage. It doesn’t just happen, in and of itself. Our intentions determine our outcomes. We can’t simply float along, at the whim of other people’s decisions, opinions and beliefs, and think that we are in charge of our own destiny. That’s an immature, guarded and small way of life.

But stepping out, as our authentic selves, carries a price tag. You will disappoint some people, many of whom will be close to you. Grieving these lost and broken relationships will be painful. The sharp, piercing sadness will fade, but I’m a few years into it and it never goes away completely.

Especially around the holidays, when opportunities to practice letting go of expectations are all around you. We cannot control what other people say or do (or what they don’t say or don’t do). We must let go of the dream of how we want a situation to be. We just don’t have that kind of power.

I’m learning to focus on the good that has resulted from the losses I’ve sustained. If I make a list of the benefits I enjoy on a daily basis from the hard decisions I’ve made with some relationships, it ends up as a long and rich accounting. Focusing on what has been left behind only paralyzes me in grief. If I want to keep moving forward (and I do), it’s necessary to celebrate what has made my current, joyful life possible, not what or who might be absent from it.

To anyone feeling lost and bereft in these days leading up to Christmas, you are not alone. Surrender. Let go. Allow yourself to accept all that you cannot control so that you can see the good things and people in your life that you feel grateful for.

Try not to fixate on what’s gone and what may never be again. Let it run through your fingers like sand. Turn to those who are there for you – who love and accept you, exactly as you are – for they will make up your future. This is what matters; not what is gone, but what you have gained by your honest choices and what will continue to bloom in the years to come.