In Loving Memory…

It’s Memorial Day weekend in the States—a day to honor fallen soldiers. But for most Americans, it’s a day that launches summer. Picnics and water skiing and camping and backyard barbeques are happening all around. Traffic is at staggering numbers as travelers flock to the fun, and the thermometer rises in the Northern Hemesphere…

As I began my day with a morning meditation, a sudden wash of sadness doused me of any holiday cheer. I was considering the “real” meaning of Memorial Day, and with that, the ever-growing list of those who have gone before, not just from war: My father, my mother, two of my brothers, my son, grandparents, husband, lovers, in-laws, and numerous friends and relatives over the years who will never be forgotten.

This year alone (and we’re not yet half-way into it) has shown overwhelming numbers of close losses in my circle; I suppose that’s what happens when we live long enough: We see more and more of our friends, associates and relatives die.

The sum doesn’t even include those unfathomable numbers of all who fought for democracy when others threatened to steal our very way of being.

And here we are again. No, no one has declared war across the world. Yet. This time, we have the history that allows the foresight of what’s to come if the regime at the helm of the American vessel has it’s way. We see the divides being sharply cut into “them” and “us” into “othering” any who don’t see and think as we do. That’s the biggest tool for any regime: Cut us into smaller factions that are easier to erase if we get out of hand. The entire world is watching as democracy is slashed with a chainsaw. It’s not just Americans who are sad, scared, angry, and awaiting the next slash. It’s the world.

The sadness that draped me as I began my day today, included thoughts of my very young inner child, who at just 18-months old, lost her daddy. I was wondering if I had even had the chance to call him out by name: Daddy. Did you ever hear me call you “daddy”?

He was only 26 when he died. His small aircraft nose-diving into the Spring day, killing him and his best friend on Mother’s Day so long ago. He left my young mother with 3 children and one on the way. It must have been devastating for her. He was buried on her 23rd birthday.

Why am I dampening your holiday with such a story? It’s because I am reminded that we only heal our losses when we face them. Loss is cumulative, which means that as time goes on, and we experience more and more loss, we have a greater wound to heal. The layers cover the wounds that came before. And we heal nothing—nothing is healed until we indulge ourselves the time, courage, and space in which to pick at the scabs that haunt us, and to allow for true deep healing.

So today, as you plan your festivities, I hope you’ll give a few moments of thought to your loved-ones, both living and deceased. I hope you’ll place your attention onto your inner wounds, and love yourself deeply, if only for a moment. Your inner Self deserves some love and compassion for all you’ve been through—for all you’ve survived and for the experiences that have given you strength and resilence.

Because truly, who would you be, without your losses?

Each experience provides a nuance, a layer to all that you are—a beautiful, thoughtful, experienced being. Love her hard—your precious Self. And love your loved ones hard too, even when it’s hard. Because we never know when the journey ends.