MAGIC ERASERS

I spent Easter in my pajamas. That doesn't mean I didn't celebrate the meaning. One of the many paradoxes of grief is the gift of restoration and resurrection. It's something I've embraced since I was a little girl, especially given I grew up in abuse and dysfunction. Easter has always represented renewal to me. But, now, it also serves as a reminder of the anniversary of Jon's death. During my grieving process, I've often wanted to scream, "Can we please take a magic eraser to holidays and anniversaries?"

When we are tending broken hearts, nothing seems more cruel than to have to face a holiday or anniversary. The “first” of all things can conjure up emotions we never imagined. Whether we are facing the onslaught of holidays, the anniversary following the end of a marriage, or the dreaded date of the anniversary of a death, it can be emotionally brutal and overwhelming. I'm not sure that changes as the years go by. The flip of a calendar page can conjure up all kinds of emotions.

There have been days during my grieving process that I simply wanted to scream, “Can we please cancel this date on the calendar?” “Will the world come to an end if I simply can’t show up for Christmas?” Grieving can be tough enough without the added pressure of having to face days that bring dread, just by the flip of a calendar page.

I have learned to create new and welcoming ways to honor and celebrate certain days. Just recently, when faced with what would have been mine and Jon’s anniversary, I decided to honor it by purchasing a lovely, heart-shaped locket that will hold his ashes close to my heart forever. While in my pajamas for Easter, I stayed centered on the true meaning of the holiday. The idea of resurrection soothed my soul.

One of the best Christmases I’ve ever enjoyed was spent with two girlfriends on the island of Turks and Caicos. We sunbathed, drank margaritas and wrote Merry Christmas in the sand. None of us visited with family that day, but we look back on that holiday vacation and declare it was filled with fun, love, laughter and peaceful celebration.

Last year, when facing mine and Jon’s birthdays, which are just three days apart, I took a trip to Fort Myers, Florida, to volunteer to help victims of a major hurricane. Looking back, I can’t think of another way I would have wanted to celebrate and honor the day of his birth. I felt he was right there, by my side, swinging a hammer and consoling people who had lost all of their personal belongings. It was good for my soul.

When a friend was recently facing her son’s birth date following his unexpected death, I encouraged her to find a way to celebrate his life in a rich and meaningful way. She elected to have a picnic lunch in a particular waterfront park she enjoys. She made a delicious meal, complete with birthday cake, and enjoyed some time alone in contemplation and in honor of her beloved son. She plans to do the same next year.

On the first anniversary of Jon’s death, which was also my son and daughter-in-law’s first wedding anniversary, the day fell on Easter Sunday. It felt like a triple whammy. For weeks prior, the dread of it was palpable amongst our entire family. At first, we simply didn’t know what to do. Should we ignore it and let it pass? Should we cry and scream in agony? Or, should we celebrate it and let it have its way with us, whatever that entails? We chose the latter.

We agreed to attend church together as a family. We cried all the way through it. Then, we gathered at a brewery that happened to have outdoor games and fire pits. Both of my sons, their wives, and all of my grandchildren gathered for an afternoon of celebration. My oldest son gifted a hand-crafted clock to his brother. He etched into the wood, “On Edgar Time,” with the date of his wedding. On the back, he burned into the wood, “In loving memory of Jon Seavey.” We laughed and cried. And we agreed to do it again next year.

Grief is designed to be communal. If we can’t find our way back to the vital importance of gatherings, we can develop new rituals that can help foster healing within our brokenness. We can re-frame holidays, anniversaries and other special occasions by creating new, rich and deeply meaningful rituals. Take some time to think about how you would like to spend your next holiday or anniversary in a way that will bring comfort to your healing heart. Or, if you prefer, grant yourself the gift of skipping it.