Taking Stock at a Stranger's Funeral

"He died. I am SO sad and angry. I know you two will get it, to some extent, so thank you for letting me vent." That was a text another woman and I received from a friend whose therapist had died just days before.

I guess I have a little handle on what it means to grieve, but I'd never experienced something like this. Most of us haven't. Our therapists are many things to us: guides, listeners, challengers, comforters... They are our secret-keepers and the knowers of the deepest things we'll share with anyone, sometimes including our partners. They aren't the people who say goodbye after a session and disappear from our lives. That's not how it's supposed to work. We are the ones who are supposed to make that call.

But as my friend can attest, unfortunately we don't always get to.

The three of us decided to attend the memorial together. One of us was there to grieve the therapist who had earned her trust and made her feel like she was the most important person in the world. Two of us were there to support her in any way we could. Also, since there is generally no HIPAA-approved section for grieving clients at a funeral for a therapist, we decided to attend as a herd to obscure her relationship to him.

As it turned out, our anonymity was insured by the hundreds and hundreds of people there to remember him.

So...that's how I ended up at the funeral of someone I didn't know. What's next, though, is what I learned from it.

Just like wedding crashing and sitting in a court when you have no case in front of a judge (both of which, oddly, I've done), attending the funeral of a stranger is a window into a life that you rarely get to see. It's an opportunity to observe without seeing it all through a lens of personal loss.

I learned about a man whose family was as devoted to him as he was to it. I learned about a man who took care of others and who had mastered the art of taking care of himself in the process. I learned that he was, by all accounts of those who spoke of him, someone whose presence in others' lives won't be extinguished as long as there is someone to ask the question, "What would he think of that?" when there's an important life decision to be made.

To be honest, I marveled at how many lives he had touched so deeply that they would come to honor him in death. To be even more honest, I wondered if what I have done so far has been "enough"; if what I have given has had any lasting impact; and, if how I've loved has created more love.

Maybe that's what it all boils down to: Is how we live and love creating better life and more love? It's not a perfect measuring tool, but it might be a good way to take stock of how we are in the world.

I didn't know this man, but by the end of his memorial, I felt like I'd gotten a taste of how the ways he lived and loved had created more of each. I better understood my friend when she said that she felt like the most important person when she talked with him. And I decided to be more conscious and conscientious in my connections to others.

I wouldn't presume to know the answer to the question, "What would he think of that?" related to any of this, but my hope is that out in there in the universe somewhere is a sigh that might respond, "I think that's good."

"It's That Time of the Year Again": Recognizing Emotionally Important Seasons

Every fall, I'm like "Oh, I LOVE FALL!!" I love the leaf mess, the last bonfire wisps, and the hint of chill that allows me to sleep with the window open. But, every spring, I'm like "I love Spring SO MUCH!" I can never quite wait to get into the garden or to will the perennials to poke their heads through some dirty snow. Summer and winter...sorry, I'm not so in love with you, although I definitely like you a lot.

I've noticed another time of year that gives me feelings, though. It's mid-August to mid-September. In Minnesota, it's that no-person's time between summer and fall, so I don't necessarily have a socially coherent smell or sight to associate with it. Instead, I have the memories of leaving, moving, starting new, changing, comforting, struggling, coping, failing, hoping, and wishing things were different at the same time I was wishing them to be better.

Those memories are tied to a few other things besides time of year, too. There are Daughtry songs that still, eight years later, cause me to tear up or get pissed. There are Evanescence songs that still pour strength into me and remind me of how much emotional landscape I've crossed. There are certain events, like the first day of school, that I had to learn to share differently. Then there's my daughter's birthday, the first one I ever had to navigate as a separated person.

I'm assuming that other people have these times, too. I assume there are times that remind us of when someone was born, when someone else died, or when something amazing or tragic happened in our lives. So I'm wondering, how do you head into those times of the year? Do you dread them? Do you take time to acknowledge what you're experiencing so many years later? Has it even been years or is it still fresh and palpable?

For a few years, I was definitely in the dread camp. I wanted to enjoy that summer-fall conjunction, but just couldn't quite get there. It was fraught with re-experiences of anger and sadness and fear. Inevitably, I'd hear the song September and all the old stuff would wash over me.

Over time, though, I've learned to sit with the feelings when they come. I tell them I see them, that I can honor where they've been. I also try to make new memories that hopefully, over time, can provide a new resonance and perspective.

How do you experience residual feelings that are tied to events in your life? Definitely share the good ones, but also know that it's okay to share the not-as-good-to-downright-awful-ones, too.

www.touchingtrees.com
jennimcmc@touchingtrees.com

Shepherd Fly: How I Found Peace in the Buzzing

This past spring and summer, I was fortunate to be able to do quite a bit of hiking. As an exercise, it's my absolute favorite. It's like getting to dance through a movie; each step is carefully choreographed and the views, smells, sounds, and experiences are new and filling.

Many times this past warm hiking season, like in years past, I found myself with an irritant in the form of a fat black fly who was determined to buzz my head and threaten to bite me. In other times, I would have swatted like crazy at that guy, hoping to scare him off so I could get back to being blissful. "How dare he interrupt my forest bath and my communing with Mother Earth?" I'd think. "How dare he claim any stake in my experience?"

This year, though, I chose a different tactic. Not only didn't I swat, I didn't even try to ignore him. I just listened to the buzz and, when no human was listening, talked. I said things like, "I know. You don't really care for me being here. I'm just gonna keep moving on and I'll be out of your hair soon enough. Thanks for hanging out with me."

I didn't get bitten even once by those guys this year. Instead, each one flew around my head, to the right or left side of my shoulder or behind me. They buzzed like crazy. Then, after about twenty steps, each one reversed course and left me alone.

Every time it was quiet again, I wondered, "What was that about?"

Was he my shepherd fly?

Toward the end of the warm season, I reflected on the role my shepherd fly had. He picked up on my presence, tried to warn me away, expressed his frustration and irritation, and eventually let me go. He joined me for part of my hike, and then he wasn't there anymore. I didn't fight him; he didn't bite me.

What a great metaphor. It's easy and clear. The hikes represented all of life, right? Some are short; some are long. Some are easy; some are quite difficult. Some encourage connection; many have difficulty.

What I learned from my shepherd fly is to be patient. And to be respectful. And to trust that the buzzing will stop sooner if I don't make it into a bigger deal than it is. I learned that the buzzing will bother me less if I understand that it comes from a place of protection and fear.

The shepherd fly is both a reminder and a foil. He can be left alone and left behind. I also can tell you that I'm looking forward to applying the lessons learned from my experience of him in other areas of my life.

How about you? Do you have a shepherd fly (either real of metaphorical)?

Warrior Princess

This poem is dedicated to those who have tried (and often failed) to get the upper hand in controlling relationships. 

Warrior Princess

She stands ready,

Majestic in her resolve.

Drums beat in her ears

And under her silver-chained armor.

Behind a shield

Deployed in the form of a well-crafted smile,

Armament is cocked and fused.

She believes she can survive this onslaught.

Shimmering eyes, hard as river pebbles

Scan for disturbances.

Danger always comes when she appears most confident.

So she waits,

A drop of sweat agitates her scalp

Like a purposeful louse.

The adversary waits also.

He prefers to watch her first from afar --

Assessing her strength,

Inhaling her beauty.

When the time comes

To attack,

He pretends to lose ground

In the face of her surgically-placed accusations and

Strategically-inserted revelations.

She thinks she’s winning.

And it exposes her twin weaknesses of

Compassion and Guilt.

Faced with eliminating him completely,

The Warrior Princess squanders her advantage.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

Finally, the kill.

“No,” he answers. 

In victory, one hand travels to her noble cheek

And the other beckons her waist.

© Jennifer McBride, Cape of Leaves
For more information: www.touchingtrees.com

To order Cape of Leaves, click here.

The Smell of Goodbye

The Smell of Goodbye

Calloused feet more used to fleeing than dance

Creep shoeless,

Heel straps laced between fingers.

Breath is scrubbed clean by the half-stick

Twin of the gum snuck in

Before making love

Only hours ago.

Obligation observes

Her final kiss

Placed chastely on the brave, sleeping abandoned.

She aches to feel strong enough

To fend off

Ever-approaching shadows,

But failure has won.

Using her tongue to calm the

Minted mass hiding between chattering teeth

She burrows her naked toes and

Leans in once more before flight,

Inhaling the scent of what might have been.

© Jennifer McBride, Cape of Leaves

Jenni McBride McNamara is a Licensed Associate Marriage and Family Therapist in Saint Paul, MN. For more information about Jenni and her practice, please visit www.touchingtrees.com.

To order Cape of Leaves, click here.

"Renewed strength...comes alive"

Royalty

Look at the towering aspens

On this frigid December day.

Their frosty tops, like the heads of

A whole colony of ancient royalty,

Are gray and fuzzy like

Self-inflicted permanent waves

Gone mad.

Yet they still seem regal in their

Sameness and their

Solidarity.

But now, the low-skied morning sun

That was causing curly twigs

To glow as if with silver crowns

Has instigated a grand melt.

Even as we watch, the crystals that

Decorated them and

Named them as

Kings and Queens

Have begun to weep

And seep down their limbs.

Eyes made wise by years of reigning

Stare from trunks

Refusing to blink the tears

Out of their lashes.

Instead they let the fresh new water

Run down each wrinkle and crack

Toward its loam-blanketed destination.

Because,

With liquid offering

Poured on throne steps,

Renewed strength to

Rule another season or two

Comes alive.

© Jennifer McBride, Cape of Leaves

For more information: www.touchingtrees.com

To order Cape of Leaves, click here.

Cape of Leaves

A few years ago, I found myself in a period of intense, immense, invigorating, and terrifying growth. During that time, one of my many coping mechanisms was to write...and write...and write. I didn't journal so much as I wrote in metaphor, sometimes turning the metaphor into a chapter and sometimes turning it into a poem.

For the next few Fridays, I'll be posting some of the poems that I think speak most to people who are in relationship transition. They are meant to be starting points for discussion, even if it's just a discussion with yourself.

Now that I'm a therapist, I see clients benefit from writing, journaling, making or participating in music, meditating, exercising, and taking care of themselves by committing to their futures. How are you giving yourself the care you need?

If you're in a tough relationship transition right now, or haven't fully completed one that you experienced before, let me know. In the meantime, take good care of yourself!

To order my book, Cape of Leaves, click here.

For more information: www.touchingtrees.com