Category: Grief Journey

Hedy Lamarr, My Mom, and “The Book”

My Mom was famous for only keeping family pictures where she looked good, even when the rest of the family looked like we went out that morning for a morning bullfight and the bull won. Then again, when recently going through family photo albums, I laughed at all the blurry closed-eyes photos she had put into albums. Especially the ones where she thought she looked fat and wrote under the picture “Jenny Craig here I come.” So there you have it. The story I had always understood–that she only kept pictures where she looked good–wasn’t even true. She kept all the pictures–even the ones she didn’t like– and had the 200 photo albums to prove it.

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Holidays for the Aching

I’m still waiting for a holiday to roll around that doesn’t make my heart ache. I thought it might be this one but I woke up this morning to that old familiar ache, the one that makes me want to pull the covered over my head and only emerge when the holiday is over, the kind of ache that feels like searching, yearning, for what was and will never be again.
I miss the shared language of my Beloveds and the way they anchored me to this world, shaping who I am.

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Empty Nest = Emptiness

I have figured out why they call it an empty nest–because it sounds like emptiness. This occurred to me the other day as I moved my son into college across the country. How had I never known this? I of course have heard about Empty Nest for years. I’ve seen the tears on parents’ faces, watched them shake their heads in bewilderment… but no one said a word about emptiness. They said things like, “It’s hard. It took me a week of nonstop crying, a month, a year…”

Empty Nest-Emptiness. 

So, let me get this straight–we create nests to nurture new life, to create a soft place for our littles to grow, protected from the wind and rain, from predators, knowing all along that the entire point is for the nest to be abandoned once they are strong enough. What is this madness?

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“I don’t know anything with certainty, but seeing the stars makes me dream…” Van Gogh

These paintings were not of sunflowers, or starry nights, but instead they were of a family–another kind of passionate aching joy. Vincent had moved to the yellow house in Arles to paint when he became friends with a local postman and his family, the Roulin family. He wanted to work on painting portraits and each member of the family sat for him.

Knowing how Vincent longed for love, he wrote “It’s so easy to love, the hard thing is to be loved,” these paintings seem so poignant, especially the multiple paintings of the mother, Augustine Roulin. In his paintings of her she always has a rope around her wrist because while sitting, she is using the rope to rock the cradle of her newborn child. Van Gogh called the painting “La Berceuse” which means both “lullaby” or “she who rocks the cradle.”

Vincent wrote to his brother about this painting, “I would like to see this painting “in the cabin of a boat” where fishermen “in their melancholy isolation, exposed to all the dangers, alone on the sad sea… would experience a feeling of being rocked, reminding them of their own lullabies.”

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Tragedy Jukebox

At any given moment, my brain is a tragedy jukebox, saying, “Hmmmm, which tragic moment shall we replay in elaborate detail for Marci right now?” Heart-shattering memories slice into my daily life with wild abandon, as I am forced to relive overwhelming loss. So I

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Looking for Miracles: On the Road with the Movie

It was quiet, with only the sound of the river. I have spent my life looking for miracles, so when Sharon and I were driving down the desert highway in New Mexico, with cell service long gone and our only entertainment the gallivanting tumbleweeds crossing

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Marci Darling’s research on Nita & Zita is published