Fathers and Forgiveness

Recently, I heard Ira Glass, who publishes This American Life on National Public Radio, speak at an auditorium in Fort Collins, Colorado. He talked about why the stories he tells are so compelling and move millions of people. In the Q-and-A portion at the end, a woman suggested a story on estranged parents. She estimated that half of the people in the room were currently or had been estranged from at least one parent and wanted to talk about why that was and how it could be remedied, if at all.

Her take was that she wanted to tell her dad what he had done to hurt her so much. Ira wasn't sure about the story, whether it would have enough of an element of surprise to make the cut. As Lacy spoke about her experience, I started to cry. It touched a soft spot, as I had just reconciled with my dad after nine years of silence.

My dad divorced my mom when I was 30 years old and my sister was 17. His inability to have a relationship with me after that, or so I interpreted his behavior, had huge ramifications on my own marriage and my ideas about men in general. I tried to create a new and different relationship with my dad, but it seemed I couldn't connect no matter what I tried. I gave up. He gave up. We stopped speaking.

My sister, who is one of my best friends, continued to have a relationship with my dad throughout the years, mostly through sheer force of will. Over time, she built a friendship not only with him, but with his second wife and my now four-year-old baby brother. I stayed in the loop that way, but was somehow comfortable with the idea that I would never see my dad again.

As my sister earned her Master's degree in psychology, she started to see things in my dad that neither she nor I had seen before. Good things. Great things, even: open-mindedness, kindness, vulnerability. He went through his own trials, including suffering with polymyalgia and losing his job. I could relate--I had dealt with my own health issues and had lost my job four years earlier. I listened to everything she had to say about him with rapt attention.

Last year, my husband left our 20-year partnership. Through several transformational events, including months of weekly psychotherapy, regular yoga practice, bicycling like mad, and meditation, I was born anew. In the difficult process of extracting my life from my husband's--physically, emotionally, intellectually, financially, and spiritually--I learned a beautiful, quiet kind of acceptance of my life and everything in it. I sold my house, moved to an apartment, and began a new career by enrolling in a non-denominational ministry program.

I went from control freak to live-and-let-live, from CPA and business consultant to energy healer. I started dating and was amazed by the big, big world out there. I even befriended my ex-husband. Life was flexible. Life was good. It was time to talk to my dad again.

One sunny Sunday morning this October, I called and asked if it was OK to go up to my dad's house in the mountains to see him and his family that day. On the drive up, I felt completely centered and at peace. I wasn't tied to any particular outcome and was content knowing that I was taking this step toward reconciliation.

Happily, the reunion was a success. I felt welcomed, loved, and loving. No one had any need to talk about blame or hurt or fault. We were all just so glad to see one another, and there were hugs all around. Champagne toasts, lots of catching up, and dinner followed. I gave my baby brother a goodnight hug. On the way home, I stopped at the top of the pass, in the complete darkness, to wonder at the sheer brilliance of millions of stars. I couldn't have been any happier at that moment.

So I wonder, how did holding on to that hurt and blame for all those years serve my highest and best good? How did my dad's fear of conflict serve him? Does it take tragedy in our own lives to learn compassion for others? Does the forgiveness process have to take years of our lives, or is there a spark that we can somehow use to light the flame in others' hearts that allows them to let go and love those who love them?

Thankful

The last few months have brought a lot of heartache and pain, and also wonderful gifts, learning, and personal growth. As the season changed to fall, I faced many new firsts in the year of firsts without my partner: my birthday, first rain, first snow, first bitter cold day, and of course, the first Thanksgiving. I wondered how I would feel on the holiday, and of course I welcomed back into my heart three of my friends: sadness, and joy, and gratitude.

If there's anything I've learned in the last five months, it's that nothing is black and white. Nothing happens when and how you think it will, so you might as well just relax, have fun, and go along for the ride. I am grateful for the people who have helped me learn those lessons, even when it hurt.

I am also grateful for:

CorePower Yoga and all of the teachers there, especially Maya, Amy Mc, Linda Lou, and Kate; without knowing it, you helped me get through a crisis and then made me a stronger person

My bike, which has taken me on hundreds of miles of paths this summer and given me an outlet for all of my grief and frustration, and also my joyful energy

My sister Lindsey, who will, when she rides with me, ring her bell in the tunnels and yell "Wheeeeee!" on the way down the hills just for the pure fun of it

Emily, who just gets me and is there for me no matter what; her strength and ability to give are bottomless

Heather, Jennifer, Linda, Pam, Erik, Kate, Dan P, Amy, Dru, Tammy, my mom, and Laurie for everything they did to get me this far along in this process, including laughing, packing, moving, unpacking, eating, hanging up stuff in the new place, listening, and talking

Jean Oliphant of Nostalgic Homes, who happens to be my aunt, for her patience during the sale of my house

My therapist Chris, who holds the mirror up without judgment and expertly guides me along this journey of self-exploration, constant change, and growth

The abundance of healthy food that has kept my body fueled

All of the music that has been my constant companion, from country to hip hop to classical to pop to indie rock; the long tail that makes so much music available to us so instantly has been a boon to me

The gift of meditation that led me to my first sustained meeting with a higher power

The executive director and board and committee members of Smart-Girl, who took up the slack when I couldn't be present

My mentee Consuelo, who is a beautiful spirit with a heart of gold and a smile that blinds me with its brilliance

An old car that's paid off and runs, most of the time, without a hitch

My apartment, which is cozy and inviting and doesn't require maintenance

There is more, but I'm thinking this is pretty darn good list. My friends--sadness, joy, and gratitude--think so, too.

Divorce FAQs: How to Talk to Your Friends Who Are Going Through a Breakup

I've had my fair share of loss: my job, my dog, three grandparents, two uncles, my dad in the process of his divorce from my mother, friends who didn't want to be friends anymore, and my money. Of course I've learned wondrous life lessons from all of it and have grown tremendously as a human being. Loss has made me more appreciative of what I do have, including an extensive support system of family and friends, a lovely home, and relative stability in tough economic times.

Divorce is by far the biggest loss of them all. I've lost my constant companion--the person who was my best friend for 20 years--and my money (again). I will lose the home and garden I lovingly created and tended for ten years. The list goes on.

Even in the midst of my pain and grief, though, I can see the beauty in life and my fellow travelers. And it is in this spirit that I offer a few words of loving advice to those who are watching a friend or family member go through a divorce or breakup. These are the divorce FAQs, and I hope they help you support that special person in your life who is suffering.

1. What should I say to someone going through a divorce? I don't know the right words.

For anyone who is suffering with grief and loss, the most appropriate words are some version of, "This must be so hard for you." Other options along the same vein:

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I can't understand what you're going through, but I know you must be hurting."

"I love you so much. I am here for you."

Really, these few little words mean the whole world to your friend. You don't need to say anything other than that.

2. How can I fix it? I feel like I need to offer solutions.

You can't fix it. No one can. If it was fixable, your friend would have fixed it. The person in pain has likely already thought through all of his or her options and must do what seems right in the moment. Support those choices; try your hardest not to question them. Your questions are probably more about you and your curiosity and your need to fix than about helping the person.

Some examples of questions and statements that may cause pain:

"Did you try going to counseling?"

"Did s/he have an affair?"

"You know, you really need to work to understand your part in this."

"You could keep the house/car/kids/furnishings if you would just..."

"Did you do everything you could to save the marriage?"

"I can't believe you can even talk to him/her."

"Why aren't you getting an attorney?"

Remember: even if you've been divorced, you have no idea what it's like to go through this divorce, so your questions and proclamations may sound more like judgments. And do the answers matter anyway? Will they make you love your friend any more or any less?

3. What can I do to make the person feel better? I need to do something.

The best way to help the person is to tell him/her exactly what you can do to help. Offers of any kind of help ("Just tell me what to do.") seem empty, and the person doesn't really know what to do with them. What's more helpful:

"I have a truck, and I'm willing to help you load it up and take things to charity or storage on the weekends."

"I can sit and keep you company for a couple of hours on Monday or Wednesday nights."

"I'd love to walk/ride bikes/go to Zumba class with you. Could we plan to do that every couple of weeks?"

"I'd like to bring you some healthy food you can heat up and eat for a few meals."

In other words, be specific, and be genuine. You may overwhelmed by your friend's grief and unable to offer help. That's OK, too. See FAQ #1.

If you're willing to help, keep offering. It's hard for people in our society to ask for or accept help, and it may take a few times for the person to feel comfortable taking you up on your offer. One-time offers may be forgotten or not taken seriously, so keep it up.

4. Why is s/he still sad? It's been a while since it happened.

"A while" is a relative term when someone is experiencing grief and loss. Grief is a nonlinear process, meaning it does not follow a certain path. Each person grieves in a different way, and for a different amount of time. And even when the person seems to be "over it," s/he may experience a sense of extreme loss months or years later. This may show up as sadness, or anger, or depression.

Your friend may be really happy one day and despondent the next. Be patient. Be kind. Be loving. This is a really hard thing for your friend to go through, and the process doesn't just end one day. Some words to use to help normalize your friend's feelings:

"Sometimes grief can really take you by surprise."

"I'm so sorry that day/season/experience/anniversary was a trigger for your grief. It's totally understandable."

Your friend needs your love and support right after the breakup and for the weeks and months that follow. S/he will be suffering in unpredictable ways for an unpredictable amount of time, so reach out when you can just to ask how things are going. You're busy with your own life, and your friend understands that, but when you check in by emailing, calling, or sending a card, it means more than you'll ever know.

Doggie Lovin'

Two years after my Rachel died, another furry friend found us and became part of our family. As I write this, the little brown Chihuahua we named Tomas (pronounced toh-MAHS) sleeps at my feet curled up in a ball.

We grieved terribly when we lost Rachel, and we still feel her presence in so many ways. I could never bring myself to take her photo off of my desk. Just a few days ago, I found some of her fur stuck on the underside of a chair in the basement. We hear her voice when the wind blows through the chimes in the garden, one of her favorite places to be. It was only in the last few months that I could talk about her without crying and feeling the lump in my throat (though I feel it now).

The people who understood my grief best just let me co-exist with it and never pushed me for an answer about when I was going to get another dog. Each one is simply irreplaceable, so it's kind of like asking when you're going to get another husband or parent. As if getting a new one would erase the pain and sadness anyway. The most comforting message of all, the one that stuck with me and gave me hope was this: "Another dog will find you when it's time."

And there he is--Tomas, the little Chihuahua. I'd forgotten what joy a dog brings to your life: gazing into your eyes, the excited wagging of the tail when you come into the room, snoring when sleeping peacefully, playing fetch and learning all the tricks you can teach him, snuggling with you on the couch. I'm happy to wake up to him in the morning and happy to come home to him when I've been away. He's a loving friend and constant companion. He is a joy to me.

Take a Little Piece of My Heart Now Baby

I dreamt the other night that my family had Dino (a funny-looking black and white dacshund/terrier mix) and Jenny (a black Lab) again--my first dogs when I was little. In the dream, I was refusing to give them up even though they were decrepit. "We're not getting other dogs!" I shouted to no one and everyone.

It's not hard to interpret that one. A year ago today we lost Rachel, our furry companion of almost fourteen years. Sometimes I still miss her so much it feels like my heart will burst. Thankfully those times are fewer and farther between now, but that underlying, steady layer of grief is still too close. It keeps the good memories at bay.

People have pretty much stopped asking when we're going to get another dog, which is good because when they do it makes me put up my "I-don't-feel-anything wall," which is bad. How does one adequately explain the thoughts and emotions that govern one's particular brand of grief? It's impossible, so I turn it into a tagline and change the subject.

But today I am grieving and putting it out there with the hope that the act of sharing will let some of the bad feelings slip away and some of the good memories take up housekeeping. How I do miss her little self.

Snoozin' on the bed 2004

Photo Shoot September 2004

Camping August 2006

Her last day--outside, where she loved it best