There may be a reason

Have you ever just kept thinking of someone? An old friend or a long-lost family member? Over the course of a few days, they seem to be on your mind an inordinate amount of time. You have the strong urge to pick up the phone and reconnect. My advice is that you should!

When I was a teenager, one of the words of wisdom my mother gave me was: “They may be on your mind for a reason.” I’m not talking about old boyfriends. I’m talking about cherished, forgotten platonic relationships. The friend from high school, the cousin you lost touch with, the neighbor experiencing a difficult time.

There seems to be some internal connection with people we care about that alerts them to our distress. I have experienced this so many times in my life that I know it’s not coincidence. Recently I had one of my “sad days.” It started off with a simple email. The tears began and seemed to never dry up. My children and husband struggled to make me smile, but it didn’t work. Late in the afternoon, I got an unexpected phone call from a cherished friend. She was just the person I needed.

What made her call that particular day? I don’t know, but I’m glad she did! Every time I feel I can’t go on, I get this much needed help. Someone arrives in the rescue boat and pulls me aboard. It can come from the most unexpected source, but it’s always just what I need, impeccably timed.

No one has ever told me I have wielded such a great influence on their day, but I cannot resist the urge when the nagging voice in my head is prodding me to action. It may be sending an email, a card or flowers, or making a phone call—a simple gesture to let them know someone in the universe is thinking of them. It may prevent their drowning. So the next time that inner voice calls out to you, listen! There may be a reason.

It’s okay to feel sad

Some days I wake up sad and go to bed sad. It usually starts with something simple that spirals into deep, dark, overwhelming sorrow. This is not the norm for me. I’m not talking about depression or lifelong sadness. I am talking about weepy, emotionally fragile, cry in my coffee, stay in my pajamas all day and feel sorry for myself sadness. Some people would prefer you never to be sad. I am one of those. I HATE to see those I love sad. My husband battled with a heavy heart a few years ago, and it drove me crazy that I could not make him feel better. I took it personally. Sometimes, though, sadness is the only way to feel happiness. If we are truly sad and keep burying those feelings deeper and deeper, we will eventually lose track of them. Yet they will still exist, just waiting to be accidentally discovered at the most inopportune time.

I have found this to be especially true with my children. There are days when one of them will seem out of sorts. They are weepy, sullen and sad. It’s easy to tell them to “get over it,” but that only prolongs the problem. Even though it breaks my heart, I let them be unhappy. We talk about it and, yes, we usually have a good cry. And after a good night’s sleep, they manage to find their joyful spirit again.

So I have realized that, on the days when I am at my lowest, I must embrace my sadness instead of ignoring it. It’s amazing how our cells seem to remember what we try to forget. A smell, a song, a sound or a memory will bring the waves of anguish flooding in. So instead of running up the shoreline, I jump in and get wet. I feel worse for the time being, but once the sadness passes I feel refreshingly lighter.

It’s okay to have a gloomy day of sorrow. So when they come, don’t panic, and warn those around you that you are having a well-deserved “sad day.” Take some time for yourself and face whatever you’re feeling head-on. Cry, wail and weep. Then get a good night’s sleep, and hopefully by the morning you’ll find your joy again.

Celebrate life

Today, is the second year anniversary of my dad’s death. This is a day I have dreaded all year. February fourteenth is a day I wish never existed. The last two years have brought with them many tears and overwhelming moments of anguish.

I have had much time to think about what I should do on the anniversary of my dad’s death. Should I lock myself in my bedroom, cry all day or reflect on all the things I miss about him? These are all extremely tempting, but they don’t celebrate his life; they only commemorate his death.

What would my dad want us to do, to celebrate his life? Here’s my fantasy: I would rent a house in Montecito, his ultimate retreat. I would invite all of his family—he would have wanted that. We would start the day at the Santa Barbara harbor, followed by an afternoon at the zoo, ending with dinner at his favorite restaurant. We wouldn’t be sad; we would reminisce and be thankful for all the memories he left us. We would laugh, we would cry.

To celebrate means to observe a day with ceremonies of respect, festivity or rejoicing. Grief can be so overwhelming that we forget to celebrate what is left behind. We don’t remember the good times because it causes too much pain. We aren’t thankful for the short time we had; we are only bitter that it didn’t last longer.

These are all normal reactions to loss, but not ones my dad would have wanted for us. His life was about living, about laughing, about loving. He cherished every second. To wallow in self-pity was not his style. He celebrated every day, so why shouldn’t we? I want to celebrate the legacy he left us. My children should know how much he adored them. I can teach them to have his outlook on life. I can tell them stories so they understand who their grandfather was.

If I died tomorrow, I know my family would be sad, but I hope they would show me respect by rejoicing over what I left behind. My legacy is the memories I have created. Those will continue indefinitely. My dad will be the great-great-grandpa of some future generation. They will exist because of him, and maybe, if the stories have been passed down, they will still celebrate his life.


How do you celebrate life? What legacy will you leave? Please feel free to share your experience.

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