October 15 is National Infant and Pregnancy Loss Awareness Day. Most people don’t know that, even if they’ve lost a baby. It gets overshadowed. No one wants to talk about dead babies. No one except the people who love them, and maybe the people who love those people.

Last year I made Steve and myself t-shirts with Ben’s name on them. This year I will light a candle and spend some time quietly, in remembrance. Though every day is a remembrance. How I live now is a remembrance. Perhaps one day I’ll start a version of Walk to Remember here – a way for our community to find itself. There are many of us, even in this small city. The baby lost.

For now though, I’m going to direct you to Kate Inglis’ Sweet/Salty and the speech she gave at her fourth Walk to Remember. It’s beautiful. It’s for everyone. Please go read it.

 

Last week I picked up Stephen Levine’s book, A Year to Live, a gift from one of the women who attended the retreat. I read the introduction, thought, What a great idea, and put it down. Actually, I dropped it like that cliched hot potato and it sits, mocking me from the corner of the coffee table.

I’ve thought frequently about death in the last year and a half. I worried about a blood clot when my leg was broken and my daughter spent hours laying on my lap, watching Mary Poppins. I wasn’t sure I would come home when the bleeding wouldn’t stop and I rushed to the hospital the night of Ben’s death. I’ve laid awake nights since then, terrified that either my daughter’s heart or mine would suddenly stop beating, leaving me childless or  her motherless.

The thought of a grand experiment, living the next year of my life as though it were my last, touched a nerve still so raw that my breath caught in my throat. Even now, as I write, I can feel the ache in my chest as my mind plays quietly with different scenarios in the background.

I’ve been watching my friend Roos and her husband Kenji prepare for his stem cell transplantation which began today and left him too sick to speak. They do not know if he will live through it and if he does, there is a chance he will never be the same person. She’s written of funeral wishes, of having to learn how to do the things he takes care of in their lives, of talking through how much they need to tell their young sons. I think of all the tasks my husband takes on that I’ve stayed ignorant about. I think of everything in my head, in my home, that would have to be figured out or sorted through if I were suddenly not here. I’m not sure I want to leave that to someone else.

On my bookshelf is Patti Digh’s wonderful book, Life is a Verb: 37 days to wake up, be mindful and live intentionally, inspired by the 37 days her stepfather had between diagnosis and death. It’s full of insightful stories, creative prompts, poignant quotes and beautiful art, and one day I’d like to go through the whole thing, start to finish. There’s something about the simplicity of Levine’s book, the black type on a white page, the starkness of the words, It is my last New Year’s Eve, that brought the fear home. As much as I believe that the essence of who we are lives on, that we return to light and energy and love, I am not ready to go. I have too much to do, too much to learn, and far too many to love.

I wonder if I will have the courage to do it, to jump in on the experiment, to think every day as I wake up, Since my days are numbered, what’s the most important thing I can do today?. Am I willing to face the tenuousness of life in every moment? I wonder what would change. I know that fourteen and a half months after Ben’s death, I am losing touch with some of what was so beautiful about grieving – the permission for massive self care, the refusal to let “should” dictate my day. My inbox overwhelms, the need to pay bills sits at the forefront of my consciousness, the actions that feed my soul begin to take a backseat to what’s right in front of me.

Meditating last night in the office that hasn’t recovered from retreat preparations, I was overcome by the big items on my to-do list that didn’t get done. That is an old habit, an old way of life. I spent years ending the day unsatisfied, beating myself up for not being or doing enough. I sat with the pain of it for a moment and then chose to go over what I had accomplished, to celebrate and feel grateful for the steps I had taken. I know enough to press stop on that particular mental tape but I continue to learn kindness and compassion for myself. I trip and fumble and slide toward what makes me happy, what makes me feel alive, what makes me feel like me.

I am challenged by the sacred juggling act of life and I am beginning to settle into the awareness that I am perfectly lovable just as I am. I can choose to accept my life or resist it in any given moment. Sometimes gnashing my teeth and beating my chest is the choice I want to make. Most times it isn’t.

As I live and play and grow into this life that I’ve created, this beautiful, powerful, heartbreaking life, maybe it’s time to add something else to the mix. Everyone talks about living each day as though it was our last and I’m curious what that really means. I’m not sure I want to wait until I’m taking my last breath to find out.

This is my daughter on her 4th birthday:

Her biggest worries at the time had to do with how many cupcakes she could eat and which birthday present to play with next. My concerns ran a little deeper but the knowledge that comes with being born into privilege – having a roof over our heads, food on the table, and money in the bank (though it might seem like not quite enough at times) – allowed me to sleep well that night.

I can’t imagine how it feels to know the odds are stacked against my child. Malaria. War. Starvation. HIV/AIDS. No education. Marriage as a child. Likely death or fistula during childbirth if she made it that far. Trapped.

If we’re not part of the solution, we’re part of the problem.

I read Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn’s Half the Sky last year. It changed my life. It put things in perspective. It made me want to help in a bigger way. Then Benjamin died and things got fuzzy. Sort of.

While the stories of women and girls around the world that inspired both horror and hope were no longer at the forefront of my mind, I began micro-lending through KIVA in Ben’s name. I gave to Women for Women International. I donated to Colleen Wainwright’s 50-for-50 fundraiser to support WriteGirl. Though I won’t be shaving my head, I am planning something special for my 40th birthday next March.

Then Tara Mohr’s The Girl Effect blogging campaign started and reminders flowed into my inbox, reigniting feelings, making me stop and breathe at the grand horror of it all and the simplicity of the solution. Invest in girls.

Simple. Not necessarily easy.

The money has to go to the right places, to the organizations that are really doing the work. They’re easy to find. Read Half the Sky. Visit the girl effect site. Watch the videos and absorb the statistics. Sit with yourself and listen to your heart.

Some people prefer to keep their money and efforts here in North America, feeling that we need to clean up our own back yards first. Do you feel that way? Fantastic. Do it. Do both.

Listen to your heart.

Sit with the question: If I’m not part of the solution, how am I contributing to the problem? It’s uncomfortable. It can make us angry, make us feel badly about ourselves, make us feel hopeless. But there are so many ways to light a candle.

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.  – Edith Wharton

Do something because you believe you can make a difference. Do something because you want the world to be a kinder, healthier place. Do something because it will bring you joy. The world needs more joy.

And if you’re already doing it, what’s next? How can you make it bigger and better? How can you step into your own power to empower others? There are so many ways, big, small and in-between, to make a difference.

Find what’s right for you. Listen to your heart.

Then go do it.

The Girl Effect blogging campaign runs through October 11th. Feel free to join in.

Oh and by the way, if you start with a girl, boys win too, because she will re-invest in them. She will re-invest in her brothers, her father, her future sons, her entire community – in fact, she’ll re-invest 90% of what she earns. Start with a boy, and girls will not win. Boys only invest about 40% back into their families and communities.

I’ve been wanting to write about the retreat since it ended. I still haven’t found the words.

Here are some the attendees used:

moving

healing

divine

inspiring

so loving

It was an honor to be in the presence of these women. Their willingness to be open, to be vulnerable, to do the work, was incredible. We were all changed by the experience. I want to do it justice, to somehow convey the depth of the healing and the way we all flew on the energy of newly stretched wings. I want to touch the happiness that filled my soul every night as I went to sleep, the awed internal stillness as I realized that everything was happening as I had dreamed it would.

Re-entry into daily life has been bumpy. A sick child. A traveling husband. An issue that sucker punched me and left me heartbroken, struggling to catch my breath. I want to watch a movie, crack a book for fun, get a good night’s sleep. I want to celebrate what happened, absorb it into my bones instead of moving quickly on to the next item on my list.

I will write about it in more depth here, soon. For now, I leave you with one of my favorite poems – one that rings particularly true for me today.

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

– Rumi