Grief to Gratitude

With no particular place to go

By Sherrie Cassel

3 a.m. musings – and I’m wide awake, ruminating on craziness, on the rollercoaster of a 63-year-old life. I’m pushing Medicare age, and, yes, I’m hoping that in the two years I have until I’m “there”, there will still be Medicare. We’ll see. Health insurance, Covered California, while not ideal, is also projected on the chopping block. Hang in there, folks; new regimes led by the whims of child leaders is nothing new. People get tired of chaos and fight to regain order – it takes a minute, but … this is not a political post. Did the opening grab you though?

I spent some time in Mexico with my younger brother and his senior and absolutely adorable dog, Argo, and I, again, had the whole house to myself, just my fur nephew and I, chillin’ down south. I really enjoyed myself. We ate great food and watched horror movies, and I listened to the political views of someone I love who is the polar opposite of myself politically and religiously. We each express our spirituality differently even though we grew up speaking the same language and with the same theology. Seminary changed me and my relationship with the God of my understanding (the GOMU).

I’m not prone to expressing my sadness, frustration, or anger through sentimental tears; I’ve actually been very good holding back the tears. My father was a mean Marine, and crying was for stupid people. Stupidity was a common theme directed at each of his children. When Rikki died, I had no restraint. I sobbed until I couldn’t anymore. Supreme grief from the loss of a child is an acceptable expression of sorrow, and had my father been alive when his only grandchild died, he would have joined me.

Having recently lost a sister, one with whom I was never close, but still my sister, the one who shared a history with me of terror and domestic violence, the sister who “knew”, is starting to affect me. I did not cry; I don’t think I really need to, but there is a certain sadness that we were never close. Such is life in a family rife with triangulations. You know pitting one another against the other. The othering of family members is not a good launching pad.

My point, like, “Where is she going with this?”, and it’s difficult for me to admit, but … here she goes, Taylor Swift’s new CD, THE LIFE OF A SHOWGIRL, had me in tears today. I spent time with one of the only two remaining siblings I have last week, and we know now, because we lost our sister that death will take each one of us and the time is uncertain for each of us. I got weepy over the strength of this young woman who had been loved well by emotionally sound parents, and by all accounts is very well-adjusted. The world watched her grow up from princess to feminist whose rebel cry is, “Fuck the patriarchy.” Time marches on, and we shift our perspectives many times as we grow through our lifespan, brief or one of some longevity.

I allowed myself, with significant embarrassment, to tell my husband what the CD means to me, choking up the whole time. See, my younger brother, my “little” brother is still as such, even though like our machismo father, he feels it is his duty to take care of the woman, and an “elderly” one at that. Geez…yes, it happens – if we’re very, very fortunate; we get old.

I consider the things I will never do in this lifetime, and they won’t be necessary in the next. I will never be in a wet t-shirt contest (again). I wasn’t the only thing that went down south. Sorry, ”it” happens too. No illusions guys, gals, and zas. There are other things I’m okay with not doing. I will probably not climb Mt. Everest in this lifetime, and again, it won’t be necessary in the next life…or my life and my incredible ride through academia and seminary will be my Everest; that will be enough.

Who knew after growing up in hell and with the moniker of “stupid” drilled into my Soul– I would climb, with blood, sweat, and tears, the mountain of academia? I’m currently applying to doctoral programs for the Fall of ’26. Unbelievable. Wet t-shirts may be a no go, but furthering my knowledge has only brought me closer to the GOMU, a vast, panentheistic God, inclusive and loving. As a result of knowledge, my life has changed enough to be self-aware that my purpose in life, perhaps, it is the purpose of every living human, to be of service to those who are less fortunate.

See, even if we were broken, we’re not permanently damaged. There is always hope. The GOMU is inside me now; It flows through and out of me; it is recirculated and mingled with yours and others, IF I allow my heart to be as open as my mind. Who knew someone whose childhood, all eighteen years of it was truly hell, would find her purpose in spiritual healing? I’m real. I’m honest. I learned after losing my son that there are some things you can’t fake. So, I was told that when I’m applying for jobs to be “careful” about my blog posts. I didn’t know I “could” be authentic. I was not so for many decades of my life. In secular academia, there’s a cutthroatedness (not a word, sorry, hubby – he taught high school English and Theatre Arts – kind of a rigid grammarian), that I, after having worked for those same decades in academia, I didn’t find in seminary. I’m a writer who was tethered to propriety for so long, I almost didn’t allow the reconstruction of a self through mad self-awareness. I won’t be tethered now.

I didn’t have to pretend that my mind was not blown every single day of seminary. Spirituality, to me, is far more of a soul trip than is academia; one may argue with me, but – they are not the same. “Knowledge is power” – what of the fortification of the Soul?

The part of my worldview, the part of my brain that housed a template for a “god” – was blown and shattered in seminary. I heard someone else’s story. I allowed myself to “feel” the stories. The stories provided the thaw I needed. The loss of my son provided the tears, steaming and hot, to bore through my fear of emotionality, of sentimentality, of shame for that sentimentality. My father was a brute, and he never received the help he needed, never thought he needed to. He avenged his childhood on us, and we each became bullies by adaptation. But and I won’t proselytize about my own “conversion” story, but the scales fell from my heart, and I’m a changed woman, since the death of my son.

There’s a compulsion like never before to be of service to those who are hurting deep in their Souls and who need to reconnect, or even to connect for the first time, to the God of their Understanding, whether it be the natural beauty of Joshua Tree National Park, or the ocean, or the tiny hands of your infant child, a teenager whose light goes on and she realizes she’s worth that pearl of great price, whatever that looks like to her, whatever that looks like to you.

Perhaps for this post, there is no point. Perhaps I just needed to say a few things born of the wonderful time I had with my brother and his dog, and the realization that the point is, and perhaps this IS the point, to eat, drink, and to be merry, “for tomorrow your life may be required of [us]”. Seems I’ve read that before, seminary? Just kidding. I’m sentimental about the Hebrew and Christian Bibles; I cut my teeth on them. I’m not, however, a literalist. The Books need a more compassionate interpretation, and those of us whose education has been mostly spiritual, need to not be afraid to break out of the “traditional” models of interpretation. Why can’t Jesus’s life and death be representative of commanding one’s life to a conclusion he/she/they of which one can be proud – whether one began her life wholesomely or shittily.

You all know where I began.

So, I was so embarrassed by my tears with my husband and inspired by the life my brother and I share now that we’re older and wiser (allegedly, right?). Expression of my emotions is easier now, but not “easy.” I hope you allow yourselves your meltdowns (as long as they are not a way of life). I have been moved by people who are truly tough with ample reasons who have allowed themselves to be vulnerable and weep with me.

Tears frightened me for a long time, especially my own. Was it because my father told me only pussies cry and it was a sign of uber weakness? Well, of course it was. When your child dies, or someone with whom you’ve had a significant relationship, tears gush and there’s no stopping them. They will pour until you’re so exhausted in your Soul, you want only relief from your pain. I’ve heard people, other grievers refer to the tears that send ache out of your body, as “cleansing” tears. They’ve never washed “away” the pain, but they have provided unguent to my broken Soul and forced me into healing.

Tears – for reminiscence, good or bad; for experience, good or bad; for love; for loss, for different phases that hurt, but transform a person, all of the tears you can tolerate will launch you into your greatest life. Please don’t compromise your artistry for bureaucratic powers that be. Allow those cleansing tears to flow into a pool on your kitchen table; I did — and create from that pool of tears. Perhaps I wept for more than the loss of my son during grief. Grief tends to make you feel EVERYTHING – past, present, and it makes you anticipate the future instead of focusing on today.

Trust me, the embarrassment goes away – with practice.

I finally realized emotions are beautiful and uniquely expressed by each of us for varying reasons. As time goes on …we change, we age, we collect social security and go on Medicare, and we live our lives, complete with unrestrained or carefully meted tears, and that really is — okay.

To everything there is a season – and a purpose under heaven.

Merry Misnomers

By Sherrie Cassel

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Christmas is on the horizon, speeding toward us, targeting our need to keep up with Jones’s conspicuous consumption. Christmas, in America, is an insane time anyhow, but now with the social pathology taking place in my country and other parts of the world, Christmas is a bit strained. As social services are being eliminated or drastically cut, there’s a lot to be nervous about in my country.

But this is not a political post.

Thanksgiving was absolutely lovely. We had a houseful and there was laughter, love, and turkey! I loved the configuration of our guests. Conversation was riveting in each corner of our living room. I was exhausted by the time we were able to sit down to eat and after dinner, we visited until the sun went down. I really did have a lovely time.

I had a moment where I was able to tune out and feel my son’s absence. See, most of the time, after ten years, I control grief; it no longer controls me. Certainly, I was mostly present for my guests, but when a dyad was deeply expressing her point of view to another person, I was able to survey my life in snippets as I sat observing the quality of people in our lives.

Holidays will never be the same without my North Star, my Love, my sweet Angel Baby. I’ve had to make a life that no longer resembles the life I had when Rikki was still here with us. I’ve learned to navigate the holidays with only vestigial pain; I mean, it still hurts, but there’s something that really is okay about it. A little bit of wistfulness on milestone days is not necessary, if you can manage it, but it’s also nothing about which to be ashamed.

Twenty-two days into the new year, we will honor our son’s ten-year angelversary; for some reason, I’m dreading this one. Ten years without my son has taken me toward descents into an emotional hell, for sure, and it took me a few years to settle my soul after such a devastating loss. I have made grief my beta; I’m no longer afraid of triggers. I have learned to muddle through them. I’m the alpha bitch and I will not be at the mercy of rogue emotions.

Don’t get me wrong, I weep when I need to, and there are certain songs that elicit strong emotions, which, depending on if I’m in a safe space to do so, I allow myself to submerge myself into the overwhelm. I still ache when I think about my son or when I see pictures of him. There’s a pride that he was my son, and there’s a pang that howls from deep inside me because I can’t tell him I love him or that I’m sorry I wasn’t the perfect mother he richly deserved.

I’ll celebrate this holiday season with my family of choice. I’ll trim the tree, and wrap presents, and try to not think about another year; a significant number of years will come and go, and I’ll feel the ache, and book myself solid, so I can function in the life I’ve built for myself. See, it took me a while to get back to the living after Rikki died, but I’m here now, and I so love life – as I carry my son’s ghost. We commune from time to time, when I’m feeling strong enough.

One of my favorite things to do, and I’ve done it since my son was gifted to me, is get up before everyone else does and sit in the glow of the twinkling Christmas lights. There’s a moment in between darkness and the sunrise that I find to be holy, especially as so many celebrate the life of their king, and others partake in my capitalist society, and max out their credit cards, which means they’ll enter the new year in significant debt.

We’ve truly learned in our family since we lost the star of our show that it’s about presence and not presents. The gift of time is the best gift we can give to someone. Five minutes of uninterrupted time together with a friend who has something to say, good, bad, or indifferent, can make or break an opportunity to be of service to someone. Since Rikki died, and having been Catholic at one time, I feel like the career choice I’ve made is almost like penance for all my fuck ups.

I know that’s silly, but even ten years later, traces of regrets call me back to tough times, including the early years of profound grief. Like an algebra problem, in order to balance both sides, one takes a little here and adds a little there, and X ends up being the strength toward healing, both sad and transcendent gains and losses. What does transcendence mean? What does it look like? Have you ever known anyone, or read accounts of someone who has had a near death experience (NDE)? One does not have to die clinically to have an NDE. For example, I had cancer when I was thirty-one. I survived and as a result I began to thrive in my life after my surgeries. I began to realize what was important in my life. I transcended my suffering and turned it into purpose – with strenuous emotional work and the help of those who love me. Counseling proved unsatisfactory in grief.

Despite my greatest loss, Rikki’s death; I consider the initial shock and the subsequent visceral grief an NDE. I died the day Rikki did. The person I had been for fifty-three years had to reevaluate my life, had to normalize my grief, and had to rebuild from rock bottom up. I believe I’ve done the work and I’m now on fire for life, but make no mistake, I still have days when I have to fight to function, but because grief is no longer my master, I force myself to stay present in my life and in the lives of those I love, and with the clients I see.

I know the exact moment I allowed healing to begin; I’ve told the story many times here, so I’ll spare you the retelling of it. The touchstone of healing lies within you, within your mind and within your heart…and the language you use to talk yourself through your pain.

The holiday season brings with it the realization that life is fleeting and even when we are suffering, time passes without consideration for our pain. I know the time will fly and January 22, 2026 will be here before I know it, and 5:55 p.m. will strike on the clock, and I may have my head covered and I may be curled up in the fetal position as I mourn, and recall the day I lost my son, or, I may be busy living life, remembering him with a candle lit and an altar built to honor him. Whatever happens, I know the time will pass and I will emerge from sorrow into joy and functionality. But still, I dread.

Christmas careens toward us at a speed that is truly incomprehensible. Two-thousand and twenty-six is only a few weeks away. How can we manage through the holidays when it’s been only a few days, weeks, or the first year since our loved one died? Or even ten years. . .

What has worked for me is the love of my family of choice. My husband has been a phenomenal support to me. A few of my friends can handle when I allow myself to weep for my loss because grief never truly goes away. We used to believe that suicides happen more often during the holidays than any other time of the year. The Library of Medicine claims this is not true, but, depression, already spearheaded by chemical imbalances, is prevalent during the major American holidays, i.e., Thanksgiving and Christmas. Loneliness is often an issue for those who are either in relationships that are not satisfying or life-enhancing, or they are alone, with few friends, and no family.

I’ve been fortunate to always have someone in my life who gives a shit about me, even if imperfectly; no one manages gracefulness all the time. We are clumsy by nature. We’re still fumbling our way toward what many of us hope is a good life, glorious afterlife, or sweet oblivion. All three options are appealing to me.

I know, I’ve rambled, but my heart is both heavy with joy and with sorrow this morning. Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, and everyone left stuffed and happy. Isn’t that the goal, to thrive amidst the thorns of life? I’m resolved to let that be my life task: thriving.

I do have a couple of resolutions which I will carefully guard against sabotage, by myself or another. In the interim between now and Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year, I will make it my goal to be a supportive person in the lives of those who are tired, broken, and alone. What can we do to ring in the new year? Find your passion and pour yourself into it. When we’re doing well in grief, we’re in the best position to help someone who is really struggling.

When I was at my lowest point during my first Christmas without Rikki, someone suggested that I work at a homeless shelter helping to serve Christmas dinner, and so, I did. The next year, and the next year, I did the same thing. I began to look forward to the holidays because they gave me the opportunity to help someone who was down on her luck, someone who was not living the American Dream, or those whose families exiled them. If I can help it, no one I know should be alone during the holidays. I do my level best to use my sorrow to be of service to other aching hearts.

What do I want for Christmas this year? In an alternate universe of unbridled perfection, I want you.

Hang in there; firsts are always rocky.

True Story in Prose: No rhyme, no reason

By Sherrie Cassel

I never needed noise to drown
out my pain, or to quiet the voices
in my head.

You did.

I need silence to drown out
all the sounds of distraction. Raised in
rigid fire and brimstone, yes.

You knew.
Our infinitely many pet peeves,
had us in stitches
on a really good day.

We laughed.

Battling imbalanced hormones,
We managed the best we could.
Even in the tempests, there was mad love.

We understood.

before it was too late. Having quantifiable
answers was always your bag. The proof was in
the pudding,

you said.

And you needed answers, rational
ones that helped you order your world,
and comforted your weary mind.

You tried.

Our brains were so alike that there
was bound to be a collision, the tsunami
built up until it could no longer carry its weight.

We knew.

We would soar or we would surrender,
and so, as choice became less of an option,
I held on until my fingers bled.

You surrendered.

Acceptance does not respond to medication.
We tried to save you, like I’d been saved,
but your disease also did not respond to love, and so,

you died.

I tried until I had no choice but to surrender.
I knew I was losing you to the tempest, and
there was nothing I could do to heal you.

I’m sorry.

I’ve burst through the veil, behind which
I could not grow beyond my grief. I have
surrendered to the Present moment; it’s all

I have.

I have fought hard against the rhythm of the
wounded. My Love, my Baby, my sweet Boy,
you’ve been gone almost ten years, and

I will always…
love you.

We each go grieving on and on, hurrah, hurrah!

By Sherrie Cassel

Hokusai Katsushika (1760–1849)

Cacti close shop for the winter. Cottontails hibernate. Coyotes come into neighborhoods because their prey has gone underground. Californians hustle and bustle all year round. Southern California has two seasons: perfect and a little less than perfect. I didn’t grow up with fiery hillsides of changing leaves or months of snow and rain.

In the high desert we get a little rain, but when we do, it hits us hard. There are signs all over our town that read, “Turn around; Don’t drown.” There’ve been three drownings since my husband and I moved here, and one of the victims was a native of the area. When it’s our time to go, it’s our time to go…by whatever cause, i.e., illness or accident.

My son’s death was ruled an accident because it was not his intention to die. Certainly, he was wounded by the events that were occurring in his life at the time of his tempest. Those events, and others, some I shoulder, are what killed my son. I tried with all my might to save him, but like the starving coyote in the winter, there was not enough sustenance to stave off his deep hunger for healing, and so, he died. Unlike the coyote though, my son was not alone when he starved to death. I was with him. As flawed as I was, I was always with him.

I may be familiar with two types of weather as a Southern California girl, but I do have emotional seasonal changes. Some people get SAD (seasonal affective disorder) when there is less daylight. SAD is accompanied by depression. I’m grateful that depression is not my challenge during winter; and depression no longer accompanies me during fall, spring, or summer either.

How does grief affect my seasonal changes? To be blunt, grief affects every single aspect of my life since my son died; I carry it with me in every inhalation and exhalation; and I will do so, until my last breath. I’ve learned so much about myself through the grief process. Grief has made me more compassionate, kinder, more open-minded and open-hearted. Grief, despite the loss I had to navigate, has, in fact, made me a better person. I’d give it all back if I could, in an alternate universe, of course, have him back, whole. I was never into science fiction though.

The American holidays are upon us; the first one is next week, and the year is flying by. Holidays used to be tough for me. I couldn’t surrender to my grief during the holidays because we always have our grandson during those times and I wanted to keep the days magical for him. I would mourn the absence at our table and the joy Rikki had during every holiday later; he made them magical for me.

My son died on January 22, 2016; he will be gone ten years in a couple of months. How did I manage the greatest loss of my life? Sometimes I wonder too, but time marches on, and I soldier on along with it. This Thanksgiving, we’re having several people grace our home and, I cannot begin to express how excited I am to celebrate a day of gratitude with our family of choice. See, it’s part of the healing process – to be able to celebrate life again after our most significant losses; it is personal growth. I mean, I will never not think about my son; he’s embedded in my DNA, and even if that was not the case, he’s embedded in my Soul.

My calling, in later life, is healing. Prior to the realization of what I needed to do, not just for others, but for me, too, I was self-absorbed, broken, despairing, in short, I was lost, and I was lost for a very long time – because I stayed in a life shrouded in pain. I think about how broken I was, as broken as my son, and I numbed my pain, too, but it wasn’t my time to go – yet. I’ll get there – just as we all will. What a sunny thought. Not.

I had no idea how to mourn. I had lost people: my father, my mother, a sister, but nothing like losing my child, my only biological child. I see now how hard I resisted entering into the mourning phase, kicking and screaming, and refusing to even entertain the possibility that I would reach a point in my process where I could function in my life again, soldier on, certainly, but also, to reach a point in my life where I could find reasons to celebrate life – despite my greatest loss. I ached so deeply, there remains a black hole in my heart, and as much as I’d like to know what’s on the other of that black hole, it’s not yet my time to know, and so, I soldier on – with understanding and acceptance of how and why my son died. I find comfort in understanding and acceptance. There is something about having answers that helps in the healing process.

Answers aren’t always pretty, and sometimes, truth hurts – especially – when we must admit the pain we, ourselves, have caused. I think self-awareness, insight into the most bare, naked parts of our psyches and our souls are absolutely essential to transformation and transcendence. I want to model healthy mourning for our grandson, as I navigate, for my lifespan, grief from losing my child. Our grandson has seen me weep, and he’s seen me laugh. He’s seen me be sorrowful, and he’s seen me celebrate life. I want him to know that no matter how much it hurts, and life can hurt, we can navigate our mourning phase until we no longer need to be there, but, again, no matter how much life hurts, sometimes – it won’t. I want to offer hope to those who are struggling through grief of their own, no matter what they’ve lost.

I want to model hope.

Losing my son has been the loss of my life, losing him has rearranged my very DNA and I will never be the same again, biologically, neurologically, psychologically, and definitely, I will never be the same spiritually. Personal growth, for me, is always the goal. The more sane, rational, lucid, and the more responsive and less reactive I become, is healing for our world, one person, one me at a time.

Our grandson and I dance together in the living room. I remember dancing with his father, my son, in our living room – a home of tempests and a love so fierce, not even death can extinguish it. Like e.e. cummings penned, I carry my son – always; I carry him in my heart. I horde memories of him, like the coyote, hungrily in the winters of my life. See, I am joyful now. I’m hopeful. I’m kind. I’m compassionate. I’ve allowed the transformation, and I have even transcended the family mythology and joined the company of those who strive for understanding and acceptance about why and how they got broken. With understanding comes grace, for others, and for oneself.

With grace comes radical acceptance, the kind that affords us the same compassion we extend to others who share in our imperfection, perhaps imperfection is the common denominator that should herd us into a place of humility. I absolutely love the saying by Mother Teresa that says she wanted her heart to be so broken that the whole world falls in. I think that’s a gift, if there can be a gift when you lose the love of your life, it is a deeper sense of compassion, a much more developed sense of compassion. It’s a bitch of a price to pay to be whole, but…

So, I can feel the tug as I’m writing; it’s pulling me toward a quiet place where I can lick my wounds privately, and later if I’m still feeling blue and the hunger becomes too strong, I’ll go for a walk and feed my soul by listening to the birds as they gorge themselves on worms after a rainstorm. I’ll tell our grandson what’s going on, and I’ll model for him how to navigate his own grief, how to move forward from it. I lost my son, but – I’m not a victim of the Fates. I wasn’t being punished for my mad imperfections by some angry god. My son was one of those who struggled with addiction who didn’t make it, again, losing Rikki is the heartbreak of my life. I’ve seen homeless men, women, and zas staggering down the street, graying past my son’s age when he died. The loss is neither fair nor unfair; it just is.

I’ve worked hard to be able to leave the mourning phase, and its black hole, for later; perhaps upon my own death bed, the sky will open up and my son will greet me, or … I’m reabsorbed into the great cosmic ball of infinite energy, finally free and who gets to flow through the living – forever connected.

Oh, Death, where is your sting; oh, grave, where is your victory? 1 Cor. 15:55

Maybe a fusion with the panentheistic God (?)– but like the black hole analogy, I have no clue what happens when we die; only hope and speculation shaped by my worldview, including the religions I was socialized in. Some things are shaped by a vestigial faith – that appears when I’m most desperate, i.e., when Rikki was dying from addiction, I lay prostrate on the floor begging the god of my limited understanding to save him. I don’t blame the God of my present understanding, the giant ball of energy that will gather me into itself, and I will never die. And other times, I want to be a tree.

It’s not my time yet, and perhaps the 32 years of maelstrom and utter love with my son are all I will get in this life now shaped by me, in this single, marvelous life. The momma who held out hope ‘til my son’s very last breath wants with every fiber of my being to see my son again. But I’m okay now if all I get is eternal slumber; I did have my son. I loved him and I fucked up, and just like someone who struggles with addiction, I relapse into self-blame, guilt, shame, and misplaced responsibility, and I dig in my heels to stay in painful ruminations. I don’t want to transmit that unhealthy coping mechanism to our grandson. Grief is like a wave; it gathers up its energy and uses it to make the water build up until it becomes too heavy for it to carry itself, and it must fall and stabilize, or … marine catastrophes. I got tired of dysregulation, and I’m the only one who can calm myself enough to get out of the rip current, and – save myself. So, that’s what I did, and that’s what I continue to do, until my last exhalation…and I don’t know what to expect, but in the meantime, time marches on, and so do I.

My Book Revision Arrived Today!

People Pleasing

Are you a people pleaser? Did you know people pleasing (fawning) is a survival mechanism? Did you have a lot of trauma and find yourself afraid to express your emotions, from anger to joy? This book is amazing. Ingrid even discusses how fawning affects how we grieve our losses, from losing ourselves, to losing someone we love.

Please read it; it’s marvelous.?

I was constantly apologizing for my grief, and it affected my day-to-day activities. Why was I apologizing?

When Tribes Gather

By Sherrie Cassel

Prior to a 2024 survey conducted by the Pew Foundation¹, there was a decline in those who identify as Christian and/or religious; the trend appears to be stabilizing, very little growth, but no further decline either. The Pew research anticipates a decline in the coming years as those who identify as Christian are dying and younger generations are becoming less “religious.”

My mother read her Bible every single morning and every single night. She prayed ceaselessly, as was the doctrine of her faith. There was a time when I was a Jesus Freak – in the seventies. College, life experience, and a couple of process theology classes have taken me on the trip of a lifetime, a trip where I truly found G_d, one that speaks to me and helps me to transcend the tragedy of losing my son – on a daily basis.

Am I religious? No. Am I Christian? Well, Christ is the template with which I was raised, a template exemplifying rational thinking and compassion, so, in the sense that I try to emulate those qualities, those virtues, then yes, I am a Christian. I’m also a Buddhist, agnostic, and on occasion, atheist.

Do I attend church? I guess, like my grief group, there’s something about a community of people who think (and worship) like I do where I have found the healing, after the loss of my son. But the answer is no; I do not attend a formal or fundamentalist church. In seminary, I learned that any intentional grouping of people of like minds is called a “cult.” The word is kind of like saying, team, for example.

I grew up in a family that fed on drama. I choose not to include drama at this point in my life; and church drama is rampant. I was told by a pastor once that some people use the communal prayer circle to spread gossip about other church members, i.e., “and let us all pray for our brother Matthew who is being attacked by demons into the pit of homosexuality.” I’m serious; this is an actual event from my fundamentalist/evangelical past.

I’m not saying that I’m no longer in cahoots with the God of Christianity, but worship of that God was modeled for me during my formative years with a strong attachment to the B-I-B-L-E and the example of Jesus, one of compassion and one of suffering. I learned about the former only after I’d experienced the latter.

So, the example of Jesus is encoded in my brain, and even though I’ve left the church, Jesus’ example still resonates with me. My template of Jesus has a crack in it where, as Leonard Cohen sang, the light gets in. See, for me, G_d is an expressionless “sense” of wholeness after brokenness, and the most intense feeling of love for everything, from the slug in the begonia garden (John), to the asshole who just cut you off in traffic.

I’m not saying Christianity keeps one from flipping out on others, but the social restraints in place, i.e., the doctrine of hell, can inhibit someone from unsavory behavior, or “sin” as behavior contra to their conditioning is called. Isn’t religion just an attempt to assuage the discomfort(s) in life – while we suffer the tragedies in life.

The God of my understanding encompasses into itself all organic beings, and it helps us imbue even the stones with sacredness. My husband doesn’t understand what it means to be “spiritual.” He also takes tobacco to offer to the spirits of native Americans when we’re out in the desert. He marvels at the wonders in our world. He does not believe these are spiritual acts, and for him, maybe they’re not. Spirituality, or the ability to commune with the Sacred, is a relative concept. What would Sam Harris say about extraordinary experiences, what used to be called “religious” experiences. Those who are adamant about there being no sacred entity, don’t attribute magnificence to a creator, and yet, they find moments of beauty that reach deep into the parts of their consciousness where beauty can be appreciated.

Perhaps our understanding of beauty is only a brain secretion, and there’s a part of me that is content with this hypothesis. However, I have a friend who loves heavy metal. I find the sound of the music to be rage rock, but she turned me on to the lyrics and I was moved by the sheer beauty in the angst and pain of the musicians. We each find beauty where we are most connected, where we are best understood.

I’m no longer understood or celebrated in mainstream Christian churches, and some of the more progressive and liberal churches are no better at not creating cliques within their body of believers, and so I just don’t go. I’ve tried a few churches; been kicked out of three, and others I chose to leave when the messages became ones of judgment, hatred and punishment.

The “fear” of the LORD no longer appeals to me. As another sacred message through folk language tells us, “’One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar.” See, sacred texts are all around us. Books are magical. I no longer treat the Bible as a literal history of the universe, but I still find the book to be beautiful, with traces of wisdom, and some cautionary tales. We each find truth wherever we can. My voracious appetite for reading provides me with shifts in my worldview unto transcendence, and connections that only heal me, driving me toward a spiritual ascent.

Does that sound dramatic? Well, perhaps it is. My own conversion story, much like Saul, later Paul, before his transformation on the road to Damascus, was dramatic, revelatory, epiphanic. I wish you each a mind blowing experience that is transcendent. If you are able to find it in your respective cults, I believe this is the “Good News” – that the Love of a God or of Nature is available to each of us.

I wish you Love.

Namastѐ.

₁US Christian Decline May Be Stabilizing: 2023-24 Religious Landscape Study (RLS) | Pew Research Center

Is it necessary to forgive — even posthumously?

By Sherrie Cassel

Mom would be eighty-four today. I miss her so very much. We drove each other crazy — often; this is common in dysfunctional families, but…we loved each other fiercely; it’s called trauma bonding.

Mom always liked to be the first person to call each of her children on his or her respective birthday, even if it meant calling at 4 a.m. – the one day you get to sleep in. I never thought I’d miss her early, very early morning phone calls to tell me some horrific news story she’d read, or that someone in the family had died, or just to chat because she was missing me. I miss that too.

How do we grieve the loss of someone with whom we’ve had a tres complicated, or even a tempestuous relationship?

I love the caution to not speak ill of the dead. I’m sure there must be some superstition attached to the sentiment, or out of respect for a corpse with no feelings, or any number of etymologies that lead back to our tendency toward irrationalism when things begin to hurt. I’m sure as a little girl I must have held my dear sweet, complicated, and broken mother on a pedestal. And as my cognition began to develop, questions began to emerge. Why does someone say he or she loves you and then he or she hurts you – sometimes for decades? Shit happens…and there are times when we are truly victims, but just like some childhood allergies, we outgrow them, or at the very least, we find a treatment plan that assuages or even eradicates the pesky symptoms.

Birthdays, angelversaries, anniversaries, and other significant days are triggers for every emotion from sadness to elation. Mom’s birthday has given me pause for thought. Our grandson, a sage for a sixteen-year-old, and I were discussing forgiveness for certain family members in our historical dramatic histories that merged into one complicated ball of intermittent toxicity, and occasionally, a breath of fresh air. Our grandson has a difficult time with forgiveness, but his heart is loyal to those he loves, and he rightly places the responsibility on the perpetrators who hurt his loved ones. He doesn’t understand, yet, at sixteen, that the anger at such a young age without resolution will not serve him well as he advances into independent living. Anger affects every aspect of relationships.

But …

Is forgiveness a necessary action to be performed before one can move forward into liberation? What do you think? I’m of the mind that one does not need to forgive; one doesn’t even need to find grace for those responsible for our deep wounds. I love hearing stories about when people can walk away from their abusive parents and never look back. Most of those people seem to soar into freedom from unhealthy attachments, while others seethe until their end of day.

We can choose to carry into every second of our fleeting lives the anger, the shame, the victim mentality, whatever it may be that will keep us from growing into our greatest selves – and that keeps us from transcending our pain.

My mom and I hurt each other in a million different ways. As a mother, she was broken beyond belief, but in her own limited way, she loved me, and in my need to be loved by her, I painted a picture of her that was not representative of my reality with her. She was loving – on occasion. She was cruel – on occasion. She was encouraging – on occasion. She was shaming – on occasion. She was imperfect, and rather than forgiveness, I’ve chosen to search for answers to the whys I had my entire childhood. Why doesn’t momma love me? Why does momma hurt me if she loves me? What’s wrong with me?

And yet … the little girl who always needed a loving and emotionally-well mother still yearns for that mother. My dear sweet, tortured mother has been gone for two years now. She would have been 84 on this birthday. She lived a very long life, and she is fortunate to have found joy in her old age. I don’t know, as I told our grandson, if I have forgiveness for her, but I have found grace for her through understanding her own historical trauma. Monsters, even those whose horrid behavior presents only intermittently, are created in dysfunctional homes – since time immemorial.

I love my mother – the parts of her that were lovable. The ways she hurt me, because she was not self-aware enough to get the help she needed, no longer have the intensity in their sting. I get it. I acknowledge that she could be equally as cruel as she could be kind.

Grief is complicated even when the relationships were not.

I wish I could say that all mothers have the maternal instinct to protect their offspring, their babies, their children, but it’s not true. I think sometimes we are drawn to horror stories, i.e., holocaust literature, accounts of abuse, rape, murder, sad songs and stories, and whatever sensationalizes and snaps us right out of our own descents into apathy when we’re triggered because those stories bring with them the absolute reality that someone may actually have had it worse than you and – she survived it.

We love victory stories – uber frau and uber mensch, superhero stories. Who better to emulate than someone who has been dragged through shit and against all odds grew into something beautiful? I will tell you this about my mother. She had developmental delays because of all the abuse she endured from her grandmother, aunts, and my father. There might, at first glance, appear to be no benefits to her nightmare, but one looks for blessings even when the world is darkest. Mom never really aged physically. She never developed an old lady’s voice. Her skin was smooth. She dyed her hair until she transitioned. I’ve inherited her vanity. She presented her best self even when she was tired, or angry, or sad, or frustrated. Mom always dressed to the nines, even in her end of days when she sat at home in her chair watching her shows with few visitors.

Forgiveness is not a one and done deal; it’s a process that, if it’s important to us to mend fences, we wash, rinse, and repeat – sometimes daily. I just know that if I have to bite my tongue ‘til it bleeds, the relationship is not worth it to me and, even if ending a relationship hurts, sometimes for one’s self-preservation, it becomes so stressful that you will need to just walk away.

That’s among the greatest form of self-care one can implement in her life. Have I forgiven my mother – on this her 84^th birthday? Maybe I have. I helped to take care of her after my father died; a promise I made to him on his deathbed. I kept that promise. I found grace for her.

Some of us suffer for decades before we can finally exhale.

How do you grieve someone with whom tension and love were the poles you learned to navigate between – her world, not yours? I guess, you learn to take moments like these to dissect the memories as you navigate a history that resembles your own. My mother made snow cones out of snow for us – and then she called me a whore. I got tired of extremes – both of my parents waged war against their histories, each other, themselves, and their children.

Grief is funny – it is as complicated as we are. Perhaps I’m confused about what the right thing to do is/was. I couldn’t walk away during her life, although I tried a couple of times. I still lap up the limited love she was able to mete out to each of her children. All of us feel, save one, that she got shorted. The truth is all of us did. Mom had a very limited emotional reserve. See, I get all of these limitations, peccadilloes, and flat-out crimes against her children – we are made in the image of our creators.

I have no doubt my mother wanted to love me well. She was never loved well, and so, the children suffer for the sins of the fathers (and the mothers or other primary caretakers). I miss her for the times we were able to stand in front of the curtain that hid all of our skeletons and pretend none of it ever happened.

And … especially in dysfunctional relationships…all the world’s a stage…and we are spectacular actors improvising as we adapt daily to the toxic soup of our families of origin.

How will I celebrate my mother’s birthday? I acknowledged the day with my younger brother, and then, I will go about my day. I’m no longer overly sentimental about my mom’s absence. Sure, there are times I need a mother, but I’ve learned to do that for myself, or I reach out to my living mother goddesses for emotional support.

I wish it hadn’t taken me sixty-three years to learn how to do that for myself, but it did. My mother learned self-care later in life; history repeats itself…until it doesn’t.

At any rate, happy birthday, Mom. If there is a heaven, I know you’re there. You already went through hell, and for that: grace.

Emily Dickinson

by Sherrie Cassel

The psychedelic lights undulate on my office ceiling. Springsteen is lightly playing his harmonica, and I am grateful…a sixty-three-year-old hippie wannabe. I wasn’t old enough to be truly aware of the bombs bursting in midair. What does it mean to “lose someone in the war” when you’re only five years old? I’ve lost a few to wars, too, though. There were landmines, for sure, and targeted missiles that left me raw. I tended to my wounds for decades; they’re just about all healed up now.

Right.

I have a great sense of joy and have never lost my sense of wonder for all the knowledge there is to be consumed — hungrily. Answers heal. Answers lead to understanding, and understanding heals.

Mom loved her Jesus and our butterflies, representations of hope, sparks of light in a very dark reality, and I am grateful, in this roulette when Death visits us willy nilly – when it chronologically makes sense, but still has the ability to shock us into reevaluation and we shift from apathy toward renewal – and so, life perpetuates itself, eat, drink, and be merry, said the wise king…and so we do – until the next tragedy or comedy or blessѐd equilibrium resumes itself.

I’m hyper-focused on death this week. I will have attended two funerals at the end of day on Saturday. Having lost a child, grief is like a layer of skin, the one right underneath the epidermis, so close to the surface, but protected by time, life experiences that shape us, personal development, and, for me, a Sacred Something that has healed me over the ten years since my son died.

Our lives are constantly in motion, even when we’re bored and apathetic. Apathy has its own vibration, or “vibe” as my heroes would say back when I so wanted to wear daisies in my hair. Born to a southern belle, a Southern Baptist southern belle, daisies were indicative of the hippie movement, and no way, no how was any daughter of hers going to look like a hippie. But I digress.

We have a few challenges that present themselves to us during our workaday lives. Most of us do not have the Bezos’ budget, and so, we work long hours, some of us have actual backbreaking work; we stress ourselves out over money, marriages, and mortgages until we send ourselves to an early grave. Or at the very least, we don’t have yachts that will take us on luxurious cruises to exotic places where we might decompress. I’m happy with a deep-tissue massage and a beer. Only slightly kidding.

I used to worry about the future of humanity, back in my thirties when neuroscience was all a buzz, and evolutionary psychology hit the educational circuit. I thought, “Damn, we’re doomed to extinction.” Modern humans have survived 300,000 years; that’s a pretty good record. We still continue to kill each other and ourselves; we wage war against one another, die of natural causes, and we die of totally preventable ailments.

In 300,000 years, we’ve made some amazing advances, and as time moves forward, no one really sits still. Do they? If one is a couch potato, books are readily available on laptops, Kindles, and through Amazon (fueling Bezos’ yachts), Barnes and Noble and other book delivery companies. If we can afford a pizza delivery, we can afford a book. And once you’ve read the book, allow it to activate your limbic system, the parts of it where our creativity lies, and then – create from your deepest wound or your greatest joy.

The funeral I attended on Saturday was truly a celebration of a great man’s life. There were music and laughter – and of course, tears. Khyrsso was a spiritual big brother to me; it was right that we should celebrate his life. The celebration I will attend this weekend is for a woman I knew only peripherally. I will attend to be there for the women who lived with her, loved her, and shared her life experiences. I will be there to support them.

Both of these people had lived full lives; both died suddenly. The ages are during those crapshoot years…or sometimes during the roulette we play with our own lives. One of the advances our species has managed is extension in the longevity of our lives. I had a friend tell me the other day that if he had known he’d live this long, he’d have taken better care of himself. He’s a writer, right up there with Gabriel Marquez.

Our species knew how to be young and die young, and with the advent of modern medicine, while not common, it is more frequent than it used to be to have centenarians with good genes and good health live into their eighties and nineties now with full faculties and making contributions to our world. Garcia-Marquez wrote until he developed dementia in his eighties. My mother lived to be eighty-one and she taught me so much, in fact, she taught me how to get old.

We are getting older and older as a species — with the technology we have available to some of us, those with the financial resources, and even with Medicaid and Medicare, and shitty health insurances, we are living longer because of our medical technological advancements. If my father had taken better care of himself, i.e., alcoholism, obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure, and ultimately cirrhosis, he could have lived at least as long as my mom. Some by causation and some by chance – such is the blessing and curse of mortality.

So, I’m a bit fixated on existential matters right now. We lose two people to sudden, mostly unexpected deaths, and life has a way of refocusing, reframing, and recalibrating our MOs. Since graduation, I’ve had absolutely no schedule and no structure. I have allowed five months of self-care, and I believe it’s time to get back out there and be of service to others, and not just myself. I was so fortunate to be asked (and paid) to do a grief group last week. I had forgotten how much I love watching people shine and see the reflection of their healing hearts on their beaming faces, even in the face of grief.

When someone we love dies, we are faced with our mortality. What does her death mean to me? What did this person mean to me? How do I go on? Why?

These are all normal thoughts, even with those deaths that also offer relief from suffering; death makes us think about life. I’m sad for the losses, mine and my friends, but I’ve had a week now to reassess the decisions I’ve been making lately, not necessarily bad, but just in the wrong direction. Well, I’ve not been on the wrong direction, so much as I’ve been on a path with no direction, too many forks in too many roads that my spastic brain sees unfolding before me. So many opportunities, and yet, every day is a crapshoot…but still, I and you soldier on.

We race through our lives to chase our dreams, of substance or of excess, until someone we love or even knew peripherally dies, and then we’re faced with our own mortality – and we scrutinize the lives of those we’ve lost. What did they leave behind for us? I have so many memories of times with my son, days of laughter, anger, and tears – they will take me to my end of days. As the celebrations of life rustle me out of my own Winklerian sleep, I reawaken to my dreams, even at sixty-three. Hey, we old folks are allowed to have them too. (Wink)

Death makes us rethink our entire lives, no matter how old the loved one is when she passes. I hope I get to live as long as my mother did. One never knows though, does she? In the interim, I gladly accept this life sentence, and I will dance in the fields of the GOMU today and every day == sometimes a waltz and sometimes a dirge – both with their own appropriate music, their own vibe…for this hippie chick wannabe.

These are the thoughts I have after a beautiful celebration of life for my dear friend, Khrysso, and as I prepare myself for somberness and celebration this weekend; I think about how lucky I’ve been in my life – in between heartbreak and horror.

Salud.

Coming Clean

By Sherrie Cassel

I’m a liar. I am. I lie to myself and so, I lie to others too.

Or … do I? Do I really?

Ahhh, the curse of the double minded, right and left-brained, ENTJ, bipolar, Geminian mooned, Scorpio rising, Christian, Mystic, theist, non-theist, dualistic, divided, synthesized, religious, spiritual, whew, I’m tired from trying to conform to my culture’s overwhelming number of expectations. Certainly, there are social restraints that serve to give humans an uptick in the gene pool and so, toward our survival as a species; I get those restraints.

I’ve been reading about theology for the past four years. I’ve missed out on so many new developments in some of my other favorite disciplines. The biopsychosocial (spiritual) perspective and attachment theory have literally blown my mind. Of course, my worldview has a vein of religion, from Western Christianity, symbols that resonate with me, and that show up as metaphors in my language.

For example, I see the Good Samaritan in the faces of everyone I meet, even those whose kindness is buried under decades of abuse and self-torture. I see wounds in the eyes of everyone. We will each have dark nights of the soul in our lifetime; it’s unavoidable, unless one is a sociopath. One must be capable of empathy and compassion with oneself and with others, which comes from empathetic and compassionate modeling and/or a shit ton of psychological help, decades sometimes.

I think my lie is a little of both commission and omission. Because our parents/primary caretakers are our first representation of the God of our understanding/or extraordinary experiences, if the relationship with our parents is fractured through abuse, neglect, parents who were indifferent, or parents who were punitive, so will be our gods. One of my lies is that I’m securely attached to the God of my understanding; I’m not. I wrestle like Jacob with the angel (the Hebrew God), and I still have no resolution. I also do not limp – anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a secure relationship with the God of my understanding; I do have extraordinary experiences that I attribute to Creation perpetually recreating itself, conception, birth, developmental years, adulting, and death. Sometimes I need to remind myself that the space between the first letter of the (life) sentence and the period is a relatively short period. My son died at only 32. Tiny infants die before they’ve scarcely had the opportunity to catch their first breath and all ages in between.

Now that I’m sixty-three and have been working with grievers, and have, myself worked through the grief process, the reality of death is pretty close to the surface, much closer than it was when I was, say, twenty-one. Another lie, I have certainty about the afterlife; I don’t. Somedays I so desperately want to believe in heaven, and other days, I surrender to another harsh reality. Somedays I comfort myself with the fact that everything is a vibration of the infinite Whole and my son and I still commingle in some way, shape, or form. I have no certainty about any of this even though thinking in terms of energy comforts me – even though I’d give anything to see my son in the flesh again – I have him in spurts of spiritual connection, which is to say, I can pull his memories from my prefrontal cortex which elicits physical responses, a heart pang, misting of my eyes, a swell of love, etc.

I caution grievers to not relapse into old, self-destructive coping mechanisms, i.e., drinking, drugs, or other ways we might find to hurt ourselves; we’re already in enough pain when we lose someone. I would be lying, but I’ll come clean here, too, I engaged in self-harm during the deepest and darkest time of grief. Another way to hurt ourselves is to ruminate about things that are hurtful; it takes work to let go of old shit from all the places we’ve been, at the hands of people who said they loved us and then fucked us over, a shitty childhood, a really bad breakup, domestic violence, ad nauseam. As Thich Nhat Hanh wrote so eloquently, perhaps Buddha said it first, “No mud, no lotus.”

In competitive sports, the adage, “No pain, no gain” is meant to inspire athletes to work harder, to push themselves beyond their limits, to perform optimally. I leaned on the journeys of others who had significant losses before me. I’ve had a few extraordinary experiences whose instigator is oddly God-shaped. What does God mean to me? The jury is still out.

Here’s another lie, that I have it all together all the time; I don’t. I have meltdowns; they’re just less volatile these days. I’m not going to lie about this, I’m grateful for meds, my stylist, and makeup.

I’d be lying if I said meds didn’t save my relationships, some just in the nick of time.

People are always talking about having good genes – i.e., “My father lived to be one-hundred; barring catastrophe or an early death, I could potentially live as long.” Good skin. Good physical appearance, perfect jawlines are all genetic traits. I’m a huge fan of epigenetics; it’s a real thing. I haven’t read extensively on the discipline, but if epigenetics rings true, then the effects of historical trauma on an individual will affect one’s physiology, in fact, trauma, physical, not always domestic violence, i.e., a pregnant woman has a terrible fall but does not lose the baby. She was terrified. Cortisol flooded her system, and the fetus was affected. Cortisol is a stress hormone that we need for our fight response, and that’s logical, but what is tragic is that some people get stuck in the fight response, and their cortisol and adrenaline are always present, beginning with the infant and on through the lifespan which, says the hypothesis, may be responsible for disorders such as obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, some chemical/mental disorders, and others. What I’ve read about ruptured or unsuccessful attachment theory is that even emotional responses can be transmitted epigenetically. Fascinating.

I’m lying about moving on; I’m not. I’m not really sure what one would call being able to continue to build a purposeful life even after the most significant loss of one’s life. In my field, we call it posttraumatic growth. See, I’d be lying by omission if I didn’t mention that we can grow from our deepest wounds. I’m growing, but I don’t think I’ll ever be fully healed. I would like to be, but my wound, although no longer gaping, is still very tender. I am thriving in my life, because my mother, despite her dark nights of domestic violence, always made time for butterflies and Jesus. She thrived after our father died. I do thrive on more days than I used to, but everything is bittersweet, and there are days when everything hurts, but I soldier on. I have miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep (Frost).

My parents had vestiges of both religion and superstition; they were both Mexican Americans from Texas, referred to as Tejanos, and we parted ways religiously and philosophically decades ago, to my mother’s heartbreak that all of her children be saved before she died. My understanding of one’s need to be saved is much different, but I agree that we need rescuing on occasion, and how we do that can be or doesn’t need to be attributed to a God of one’s understanding.

I have only recently begun to express my anger at the evangelical churches’ harmful and abusive rhetoric. I have lied for many years by defending these churches. I’ve been harmed by clergy. Many have likewise been wounded by clergy. I want to work with them. I’ve been so fortunate, sadly, to have so many people reach out to me even with their own grief which has only helped me to further my healing process. I hope I’m reciprocating.

As I think about my grief trajectory: abject pain, numbing with and without chemicals, self-awareness, healing, and the energy and desire to help others, I’m grateful, bittersweetly, for the direction in which I’m headed. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t making great leaps and bounds in my life…but as a seeker of truth, I thought I’d offer a few lies and a few truths in an exercise in self-disclosure and vulnerability. I hope my example will model possibilities for you, the possibility that your truth matters, mostly to you, then to those closest to you, then to strangers in whose faces you see the Divine. Dare to be vulnerable – what a contribution to society.