Today, Sunday July 29th, is the second anniversary of Benjamin’s death. Two years ago I let him go, cradled and cried over his tiny body, and let him go again. Two days ago I held his ashes and sobbed, missing him as much as I did in those first impossible days.

Anniversaries are hard.

My body knew this was coming but my mind kept leaping over the emotional impact like Superman over a burning building. I kept myself busy. I thought about how we might mark the date. I wondered who would remember.

It hit me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

A few days ago I began to feel raw. Tears sat right behind my eyes, threatening overflow. My body ached to move, my spirit to find silence. The cravings for self-care were as physical as a newly reformed smoker’s desire for a cigarette. I know enough to listen when the need is strong but it’s tricky. I’m no longer in acute daily grief. Ben’s death is as much a part of me as my right arm, and almost as easy to take for granted, until the scar tissue in my heart lets me know there’s a storm coming.

Returning to what I’ve learned in the last two years I dance, I journal, I meditate. I sit by the ocean and let the waves carry the pain away. I watch the thoughts that can take me from grief to suffering and I do my best to let them go. I embrace my humanity and honor the depth of my love. I cry.

I find my way. Again. And again. And again.

And you? What do you do when the hard anniversaries hit? I’d love to know. Leave a comment or email me and I’ll compile the answers into another post. Every path is different but it’s nice to find signposts left by others along the way.

 

If you’re looking for signposts, consider downloading The Picking Up the Pieces Guide. It’s full of stories, love, tools and resources to support you on your grief journey. And it’s free!

The next Picking Up the Pieces Tele-Retreat is open for registration. It will run Tuesdays from September 11 through October 9th. I’ve also created a “Do-It-Yourself” version for those who prefer to do things on their own schedule. All the details are here, including feedback from the phenomenal first group of participants. Please share this grief-altering opportunity with anyone you know who is struggling right now.

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Be the change you wish to see in the world. ~ Gandhi

For years this has been one of my mantras, one of the truths I aim to live by.  It’s a quote that borders on overuse – apparently I’m not the only one who likes it. It speaks to finding our inner strength in a world that can make us feel fearful, disheartened and powerless. It was spoken by a man who embodied that change, and still died at the hands of another. It’s an inspiring thought that each of us has the power to change the world in some way.  I went back to school to get an advanced degree in psychology to be the change I wanted to see in relationships. It’s the reason I decided to specialize in community psychology. It’s why I wanted to have a home birth, why I taught parenting workshops, and why I write, speak and teach about grief as a path to miracles, love and growth.

Change is bumpy, uncomfortable and requires patience and devotion. It’s exhilarating and painful. The last few years have involved a new city, two new homes, Ben’s stillbirth, a new focus, a new reality. As I’ve moved through and out of acute grief, I’ve found myself needing more time away from my online world, more opportunities to look people in the eye. I’ve spent time in meditation, I’ve journaled and attended workshops, played and laughed and celebrated. I’ve made new friends and I’ve invested more deeply in my physical community. But this is my online home and I knew I would return whole-heartedly when the time was right.

Clarity always comes if we give it time to emerge.

When I started Life After Benjamin, I intended to write for a year. It took on a life of its own and left me feeling confused about where it was supposed to go. I wanted a more expansive space to call my web home – the ability to write about more than grief – without losing the essence of what was already here. Simply, quietly, LifeAfterBenjamin.com has become AlanaSheeren.com. Over the next weeks, all the content from the first 18 months will be tagged LifeAfterBenjamin so it’s easily searchable. It’s the foundation and I’m building new walls.

Change will be slow here – I’m doing it in fits and starts as I’m able.  I’m excited about what’s to come. I hope you’ll stay tuned and share your thoughts. It’s time to grow.

 

 

Tonight I lay with Ada in the basement of my brother’s house, waiting for her to fall asleep and feeling resentful. We’re in Edmonton and it’s light until after 10:30pm so the time between kids finally quieting down and adults collapsing seems nonexistent. I hate being grumpy with her and there’s been too much of that this week. Buttons pushed by travel, heat, and fatigue. She’s been scared and needing me in ways I’ve had a hard time meeting. Steve gently wondered on the phone if it has to do with the time of year. I finally realized how quickly July 29th is approaching.

The second anniversary of Benjamin’s stillbirth.

My sister-in-law mentioned feeling sad that while the two older girls bounce and run and giggle together, their youngest, who was born 5 weeks after Ben died, has no playmate. My brother wondered if Steve and I had talked further about adoption. A friend sent a link to a picture of this statue.

My baby is gone but not forgotten.

Lying in bed, I forgave myself for my struggle. Breathing deeply, my mind wandered to those I know who are in the midst of a journey with cancer. It drifted to the story of Anita Moorjani and her near death experience. I haven’t read her book, but the words came to me as though I heard her speaking them:

We are Love and our sole purpose in this life is to be Love.

My body relaxed, my breathing deepened, my muscles unclenched. And I remembered. We can’t do it wrong, this life. It’s impossible. We can make it easier on ourselves, or harder. We can feel victimized or empowered. We can live as love or live in fear. But we can’t do it wrong. I can choose to agonize over the little things, or not. I can fight what’s in front of me, or accept it. I can stress about the lack of vegetables in my daughter’s diet and the fact that I’ve been eating too many Trader Joe’s Root Vegetable Chips, or I can loosen the strangle hold of control, trusting that one day she’ll love kale and next week I’ll get more exercise.

I can’t do it wrong.

Happy, grumpy, tired, inspired, ecstatic, imperfect, heart-broken, human. It takes the pressure off. Can I do it better? Sure, if that means more in alignment with who I believe myself to be. If better means getting out of my own way more often and not letting fear keep me small. I’m like that airplane on autopilot, self-correcting whenever I get off course. The destination isn’t in doubt (though I have no idea what it will look like when I disembark) and the journey is both magical and brutal. It helps me to remember, I can’t do it wrong.

Neither can you.

Forgive yourself. Take the pressure off. There’s no wrong decision. No bad choice. Live it. Learn. Auto-correct. You can’t help it. You’re brilliant. You’re human.

If there was just one thing I could tell you about living the life of your dreams, knowing that it would be enough if you understood it, I would ask you to realize that you already are.

In the presence of greatness, The Universe

~ A Note from the Universe, by Mike Dooley

 

We are on vacation in Palm Springs this week. It’s hot. Early summer in the desert. I’m loving sitting by the pool, playing with my daughter in the water, feeling kissed by the sun. Internally I’m slowing down. Tuesday, Steve and I celebrated our 8th wedding anniversary. He didn’t get me a card. I bought one for him but forgot to write in it. We went for an early dinner, Ada sitting between us. Our conversation later that night wasn’t an easy one, but it was the kind that brings us closer together and reminds me why I’m grateful to have him as my friend, partner and love. We laughed as we kissed each other good night. Maybe next year we’ll have a more elaborate plan. Or not.

Lately I’ve been feeling so wrapped up in the now, in the present moment, that I can barely remember what happened two days ago, or what’s on my calendar for tomorrow. I’ll go about my day, brilliant (!) blog posts half-written in my head and by the time I sit at the computer, I can’t even catch a glimpse of the memory of it. I know I could make notes in my phone, or scratch it down on the back of someone’s business card, found stashed at the bottom of my purse, but at this moment, I’m okay with letting the thoughts go. I have a sense that what needs to come back to me, will. What doesn’t…well, I can guarantee that someone else will write about it beautifully and I’ll read it and think, oh yes, that’s what I was thinking about. I’m so glad she wrote it for me.

There’s something about floating in this space that is lovely and freeing. Maybe it’s the hours in the pool, my external physical experience mirroring what I’m feeling inside. I’m giving myself permission to both trust it and enjoy it. I have a sense clarity will come from hanging out here, and a renewed sense of purpose and ease. In the past I might have panicked or berated myself for my lack of action. Today I’m choosing to follow the path of least resistance and let life carry me along.

It feels good. After the last few years, I’ll take that wherever and whenever I can get it.

And you? What are you allowing today? What feels good to you?