Joy, Interrupted

The conception of this anthology was inspired by my own grief journey. After the death of my daughter in 2003 from SIDS, I noticed is that there wasn't a book that addressed the many different interruptions of the joy of motherhood.

So, I decided to edit Joy, Interrupted: An Anthology on Motherhood and Loss.  It includes tales of mothers whose joys had been interrupted, deferred or delayed. Women who had miscarriages; daughters who talked about the pains of being adopted; women struggling with the loss of identity while mothering; men and women who were taking care of their dying mothers.

I learned to see my experiences in a larger, more universal, context.  Some of these universal themes addressed include: coping with the death of a child; relationships between mother and child (including adoption and estrangement): caring for disabled children: and having to mother one’s own mother because of an illness. In reading about other dimensions of loss, I saw new opportunities for coping, for making meaning out of pain, and for healing.

The anthology showed how motherhood and loss exists in the space between grief and joy.  We remember and hope for the joyous aspects of mothering at the same time we mourn the loss. It is my hope that this anthology can allow others to move closer to joy. I hope this anthology can reveal how each loss reaffirms the many possibilities of motherhood, even when joy is interrupted.

I believe these voices  open up our views about the space between joy and grief, and what the act of mothering can entail. I see this anthology as a prism reflecting a multiplicity of voices. Each voice meant something to me, and I anticipate that some of the pieces will mean something for others, as well.

This book is intense and isn't meant to be read cover to cover. I believe this book is one you put on your nightstand, and in your darkest hour you turn to it for processing your grief.  I think we all need those moments to grieve openly, while still being able to function, and hopefully, feel joy once again.

The contributors demonstrate courage in baring their souls.  They teach us how creativity can exist even in tragedy. They show us how even through our tears we can find some meaning in life.  They share their stories after going through the fires of loss.  They are proof that we can rise up out of the ashes of grief.

So, this book is ultimately about motherhood, loss, and healing.  I believe it can do the same for others as it did for me, moving us closer to joy, even when it has been interrupted.

More info about the book
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You can contact me, Melissa Miles McCarter, at fdfarmpress@gmail.com or go to the website of my small press at http://fatdaddysfarm.org
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My twitter handle is @fatdaddysfarm
 

GOOD GRIEF!

I grew up in Norco, La., a small town west of New Orleans   There was a woman in our town whose name was Miss Makabot. Most of the children in the town were afraid of her because we thought she might be a witch. She was a strange-looking figure who haunted my dreams.  She wore black clunky heels, black stockings, a plain black dress, and covering her grey hair was a black bandana folded into a triangle and tied on her head. Her skin was sallow and wrinkled and I think she had a pointy nose.

When I’d see her coming down the sidewalk I’d run to the other side to avoid being anywhere near her. She never did or said anything to make anyone afraid; it was her demeanor that scared me. The darkness of her clothing and her dour expression reminded me of death.

I woke up Wednesday morning and for the first time in almost sixty years I thought about Miss Makabot.  What I realized as I recalled her demeanor was that this woman was probably in mourning for a dead husband. Back in those days widows dressed in black for a year or two as a sign of grief for the loss of a loved one. Some wore black for the rest of their life, as did Miss Makabot.

That was a time when people seemed more apt to go through the grieving process, instead of around it. They took their time in grieving their loss and literally wore their sadness for all to see.

The last twelve months has brought a lot of loss into my life. I lost my home and land, which I loved, nurtured and cared for, my cat who was my constant companion for sixteen years died, some family relationships that I held dear crumbled before my eyes, and I finally took off and gave up my rose-colored glasses of idealism.  These things are all gone and I had to experience the loss in my life.

My Sheba the day before she died

Being with my grief and processing it has taught me a lot. I’ve learned:

1. I have to complete the process; I cannot stop halfway and say I’m through. Unprocessed grief continues to show up and will dog me in my body, my psyche,  and my relationships.

2. As I continue in the process, the more I see and feel the wellspring of joy that is bubbling within and making its way to the surface. It reminds me of a poem by Rumi:

I saw grief drinking
a cup of sorrow.
It’s sweet, isn’t it?
Grief said, you put
me out of business.
How can I sell grief
when you know it’s sweet?

I have finally gotten to the place where I am tasting the sweetness of sorrow. The sweeter the taste, the easier it is to give myself fully to it. Grief is not something to ignore or deny: rather, it is the gateway to true joy in being. Not the feeling of thrills and excitement that generally accompany happiness, but joy deep in my gut.

3. Giving myself over to the grieving process is what I call dying while I’m living. I get the experience of letting go and moving into the light.

The more I allow myself the gift of grieving , the lighter my life and vision gets. As I release my losses to the wind I sense the time is drawing closer when I will shed my mourning clothes. Until then, I’m giving myself over to the process.

Thank you, Miss Makabot for visiting my consciousness on Wednesday morning. Sixty years later I understand that the process of grieving loss is not something to fear and to run from, but that it is necessary and good.

From The Seeker’s Guide by Elizabeth Lesser

“Grief is a river running through the heart. I know that if I block the way, the water dams up, builds pressure, and spills over, making me sick, or hostile, or tired. Grief turns into joy when we get out of the way, let the river flow, and wait for the water to settle and clear. It’s that simple, and that difficult, and that magical.”

Brenda Marroy

www.twitter.com/brendamarroy

www.facebook.com/streamsofconsciousness

Loss

Last year was a year of loss—many losses. From Dad’s death (my wonderful father-in-love) on January 3 through the loss of my mother on July 26, and so many others in between and since, the year seemed to whittle away friends, family members, and the families of friends. I counted 28 of those deaths before the end of February, when I stopped counting. But it didn’t end then. There’s been at least one a week since.

Losing those I love has provided some powerful reminders for me.

Don’t take anyone for granted. My father died when I was seven. I went to second grade one morning, and when I came home that afternoon, he was gone. Forever. It was a lesson I never forgot: People die. You never know when or how.

This is the reason that my husband, Larry, and I tell each other, “I love you” on awakening each morning. We try never to part without a kiss, and reunite the same way. And we can’t go to sleep without another kiss and the words, “I love you.” When Larry traveled, he’d usually call home just to say goodnight. On a couple of occasions when he didn’t, I’d call him. If we couldn’t get through or were unable to make contact for some reason, we didn’t sleep well.

Youth doesn’t insulate you from death. People can die at any age. My father’s death taught me that one, too. He was thirty-seven. His mother was twenty-three. His grandmother, thirty-eight. And my maternal grandfather was fifty-four. All far too young.

This point came home last year when our dear friends’ daughter died very suddenly at forty-two. Erin practically grew up in our home. I used to tease her that even though her parents thought she was theirs, she really belonged to us. On my birthday last year, among many other notes was one from Erin which said, “Happy Birthday Mama! Have a great day!” It told me that she knew she was loved. What a gift that was the next day when we received word that she was gone.

Several months later, I created a movie for her folks’ 50^th anniversary and added family photos including Erin. I wept when I saw them. I miss her very much. But at least I knew that I loved her. And she knew it as well.

Tell the people you love that you love them—often. Years ago, another daughter of dear friends died at thirty-one after an illness of a couple of years. Several months before her death, I saw Peggy. Our conversation ended with a hug and my saying, “I love you, Peg.” She stepped back, looked me in the eye, and said, “I know you do.” What a gift!

Far too often the people we genuinely care about either don’t know it or don’t believe it. I keep hoping the repetition of the words will eventually reinforce the very genuine affection I have for the people in my life.

Many years ago now, another dear young man died in his early thirties. Looking at the large assemblage at his memorial service, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had any idea how many people cared about him. I doubted it. John just never seemed able to accept that others cared about him. And that has always made me sad.

There is a ritual I indulge in with many of the people in my life. Whenever we part, I always tell them I love them. I mean it. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to my father or to tell him I loved him. As long as I have breath, I want my loved ones to know without a doubt that I do.

My niece and goddaughter both caught on to this early. Whenever I talked to them on the phone, I’d end with, “I love you.” And they’d answer, “I love you, too.” However, as they got older, both of them would try to sense the end of the conversation so they could say the words first. They still do, and I love it that it still matters to both of them.

Life goes on. Even with the pain of loss, life continues for the survivors. Hopefully it is richer for the presence of all the special people in our lives—including those no longer living. My personal belief is that we will see them all again when we join them and that the love we shared in this life will remain between us. In those moments of grieving and sadness, this confidence is a great comfort.

Everyone suffers loss. Everyone grieves. The only way we can honor those we have lost is to live the remainder of our own days well. And that’s what I’m attempting to do now.

Remember, friends and family, I love you. 

Lorna & Larry Collins
Read about our books 31 Months in Japan: The Building of a Theme Park, Murder... They Wrote, Murder in Paradise , Lakeview Park, Snowflake Secrets, Seasons of Love, An Aspen Grove Christmas and award-winning Directions of Love at www.lornalarry.com. And look for Ghost Writer coming this summer!