Grief to Gratitude

Politics, Religion, and Peace

by Sherrie Cassel

The end of another hostile election year in America, the country of my birth, the country of my parents’ births, and my grandparents, and their grandparents, etc., has culminated in a loss for some and for others a win. Power waxes and wanes and is sought after homicidally and immorally. Just like all kingdoms, America’s will fall at some point, and perhaps a new one will occupy us. Who knows? We’ve managed to maintain status quo for two-hundred and fifty years. My mom, a fundamentalist Christian, used to say we need a world revival and a return to the God of her understanding. Perhaps a revolution in America will shake up our lazy slumber. Maybe. For those whose candidate lost, hang in there; as the MAGA people’s president has said, “It is what it is” –. The candidate who lost and their constituents will survive just as their opposition did their own gnashing of teeth when your candidate won.

I’d be remiss and derelict in my responsibility to my country if I didn’t at least mention the election, and so there, I have. The rabidity with which this election fell prey was unnerving, both sides, and yes, it’s the norm, but I’ve decided I’m too fucking old to lose even one second of my hard-earned peace to debates, old wine in new wine skins. The political debates have descended into religious debates, again. The hunger for and the race to power is nothing new.

Sometimes one must shelve ideological, internal challenges until one has time to work on them. Scheduling time in our busy lives to handle the stuff of emotions is a true chore in American life, in California, for sure. We work ourselves to death and we strive for the almighty dollar, because money equates to power in my country. I can speak only in terms of my national experience. I surrendered tribalism many moons ago. I am a product of my culture – the mind/body challenges still abound, and I have chosen fragmentation in the past. I prefer a more holistic approach to, well, pretty much everything.

I don’t think America’s problems abound because of one party over the other, one personality over the other, or how to wield one’s power over the other(s). I think we’re struggling because of the brokenness of our country persons, all of us, beginning in our infancy all the way to positions of leadership. A class I took last year, I believe, called Trauma and Grace, opened my eyes and my heart to all people and to all living organisms that are also “fearfully and wonderfully made.”

The problem with perspective is that it arises from the minds that are both healthy and unhealthy. I’m no exception. Power seeking from an unhealthy mind is destructive to self and to others. Villains are archetypes, and some of them are real. So, on I go wielding my sword against them, in defense of self and others. That’s why we’re here, to love one another unto creating a Kingdom of peace…one generation at a time. We’ll have our Goliaths’ to slay, and some duels we’ll win and some we’ll lose, but every once in a while, collaboration and another attempt at peace. Perhaps.

I am pushing on toward my master’s degree. I’m working with vulnerable populations whose minds are not engaged in political and religious debates; they are just trying to survive. Our grandson will be with us for the holidays, as well as our family of choice. My husband turns seventy next Saturday, and I’m throwing him a birthday party with a guest list of nearly forty people. I have a class, a very challenging, but riveting class that requires graduate level reading, so, needless to say, post-election victory or loss, we keep moving forward.

When my son died, I was lost, and politics were the last things on my mind. I had no choice for how to choose what I would allow in my bubble of grief; I just ached, deep in my Spirit. I have a choice now. I did my due diligence and voted for the candidate I felt most represented the American and my values. That’s what we do as citizens of our respective countries. I hear people say all the time, patriots, who say that “We live in the greatest country on earth.” Trust me, we have our issues.

I love being an American nonetheless, in an America rife with issues and promise. “There is nothing new under the sun.” Old wine in new wineskins. I will not allow myself to lapse into a conspiratorial mindset. Life is so short, and people are so special I see the face of my Higher Power in the face of each person I meet, even those with whom I disagree. I think the death of a child, through the grief, catapults us into a deeper relationship with the Cosmos and all that is in it. I know, my love for people has intensified since the greatest loss of my life, and since I took the Trauma and Grace class.

You see, no one is exempt from some type of trauma, and out of the residual effects of our respective traumas, is where our opinions are formed. Do you love, or do you hate? Do you understand, or do you judge? Is your worldview life enhancing, or life depleting? These are the things that, in my worldview, bring me peace. Love, love, love, not in a Marianne Williamson kind of way, but true concern for our fellow persons’ welfare is the Guiding Force in my life.

I know my fundie friends judge my choice of Higher Powers, whom I also call G_d. I protest the way some Christians treat those with whom they disagree, unto that rabidity I spoke about above, same thing with politics. About the Book, the B-I-B-L-E (a song from Sunday school one-hundred years ago)… I love it. I cut my writing chops on Emily Dickinson, the Hebrew, and the Chistian Bibles. But, I’m sorry, for those who love me and are praying for my Soul, I serve a G_d of love, not one of judgment, and certainly not one who “loves” people so much, that that god would be willing to damn a “loved one” to eternal suffering. Nope. That is just contra to Jesus’ teaching. God is love, or God is not.

If you’ve never read Alice Miller, I’d suggest starting with FOR THEIR OWN GOOD….brilliant book about parenting all the way to the leaders of our countries. I won’t engage in political debates; worldviews are difficult to change. I once mentioned my political leanings on this page, and was stalked by a woman who looked me up and then said ridiculous things about how I was so stupid I probably killed my son, just because I spoke my mind on “my” page. Honestly. I also lost a reader who felt compelled to tell me how she felt about my choice in candidates. MYOFB. I won’t try to convert you to my way of thinking; please don’t try to convert me to yours. The same goes religiously. None of us will ever see eye-to-eye about the origins of the universe, or why we’re here. I believe the answer to the latter is to co-create the earth with the God of our understanding and the emotional health to bring peace about our world, one person, one generation at a time. But that’s just me. My husband is atheist. We have amazing conversations about how far I’ve traveled, all the way to seminary, to find a G_d that does not offend, hate, or judge people for our brokenness. I don’t know how the word “sin” ever became a trendy type of judgment against people who struggle with many types of challenges, from domestic violence (because women should be subject to men), to mental disorders brought about by trauma, from the unspeakable to trauma with a small t, all monumental to the one experiencing it.

I guess my point(s) are:

1) We, every one of us, are fearfully and wonderfully made;
2) We are worthy to be loved, every one of us;
3) We are here to make our world better;
4) We are here to find our purpose and then as Picasso said, we are here to, “give it away.”
5) We are here to love and be good Samaritans, even to those with whom we disagree, or with those for whom we have no understanding;
6) We are here to learn how to be good human beings.

Life just moves too quickly to be upset all the time; anger causes a host of physical and emotional ailments – which – shorten our lives. I don’t think we can ever let it all go, not even religions that practice hardcore meditation. We each have to come out of our prayer/meditation time to live among others, those who are easy to love, and those who are extraordinarily challenging.

Remember, we were once strangers in a strange land, including mental health disorders and brokenness. Who am I to judge another person when I’m imperfect, missing the mark in some way, shape, or form, on the daily. But life goes on, and best-case scenario, we learn to be “instruments of peace” – and not of power.

Namaste.

Taming the Shrew

By Sherrie Cassel

Grad school and internship keep me busy, busy, busy. During the pandemic, I was sheltered in place unless I absolutely needed something from the store. Remember how scarce toilet paper was? I’ll refrain from cracking a crude and inappropriate joke here, but it makes a lot of sense, retrospectively.

There is a thin line between retrospection and ruminating. The latter can drive someone insane and that is not hyperbole. I was crazed with grief after my son died. One of the reasons I had such a hard time breaking free from the clutches of prolonged grief was the days and nights I spent ruminating about all the things I could have, should have done to save my son’s life. Ruminating about the now impossible opportunities to live a life with a profoundly important person in your life can either help or hurt you. Grief can drive you to irrationality. I begged the god of my former understanding to make my son rise up like Lazarus. My heart hurt so badly I fell prey to unreality, and I stayed there for longer than was healthy. See, it’s okay to dream unto rumination about the good memories and even the things that hurt us. We need to grieve losses, and regret is part of grieving, too. Staying there, however, can be self-destructive after too long.

Today I’ve lit some peppermint incense and I’m listening to Sublime and I’m trying to let the ache I’m feeling today go, but unlike my knees aching now in the dead of winter, there is no salve that will take the pain away, even temporarily. The ache is constant. It’s true though that joy comes in the morning and through mourning. I think we get so busy with life we forget just how much we love someone. We show them, I think by being there for them when they most need you, but in our consciousness, we take for granted just how much we love them.

My son has been angry with me, so angry, in fact, he didn’t speak to me for one year. My heart was broken. I reached out until I realized my efforts were falling on deaf and angry ears. I got the message loud and clear. For once I had done something that was not codependent with my son and I got banished from his life for one year. I’m not going to lie; it hurt like a son of a gun (I’m in seminary – I’m trying to use fewer expletives). We eventually got through it, and then, he would die four years later. His last four years were so ugly, dark, and ugly, and he was not solely to blame for that, nor was his addiction. We each have our coping mechanisms. Some are more adaptive than others, and some are self-punishing.

One of the mothers of a member of the band Sublime lost him to an overdose. I’m very close to ruminating the day away in a way that will only hurt me, but I have a lot to do, schoolwork, planning for the groups I will facilitate this week, getting ready for the holidays, and trying to stay in the present moment – in that place where I’m functioning, because today, honestly, that’s all I want to do. It’s been one hell of a year, and I mean that in the most desperate way I can to be understood: it’s been a hell of a year. I’m achieving balance in my life again. During the pandemic, we had our grandson for the first five months and then we just managed along with the rest of the world living through a historical and scary moment in time. We made it through. We always do. We are a fierce and tenacious species.

I’ve been listening to music today that takes me way back to days I look upon fondly and days I look upon with anger and shame. I’ve had mistakes, huge ones, wrought against me, and I’ve made mistakes, huge ones, against others. There is no one who can boast of a life without such mistakes. Once there was this girl in high school and I totally got busted talking smack about her. The sad thing was, I really liked her, but the consensus of our little clique was she was not welcome. I felt bad, but I fell prey to hurting someone because I had not yet learned to honor my own convictions with integrity. I’m sad and I’ve always regretted my behavior, but I was fifteen years old; I’ve forgiven myself.

My son was the most forgiving person I’ve ever known. He loved with reckless abandonment. He gave all of himself. I’m grieving him today. The holidays are upon us. My husband turns seventy, the big seven-oh next week. I have a semester and an academic year to wrap up. My last semester will begin in January and I’ll have only four months to go in my master’s program. I’m jamming now to Jethro Tull…and I remember my son’s sporadic and eclectic taste in music. The love of music is something I gave to him, and he chose the music that best suited his personality. Insane Clown Posse had a nice beat but some of the most vulgar language, and I’m NO prude. He also loved Kris Kristofferson and had as spastic choices of music as the woman who modeled for him how to be human.

I regret all the mistakes I made, and I used to obsess over them after my son died. I was obsessed until I could barely function. My son was gone I and a few others were responsible for his death. I don’t let my son off the hook for turning to drugs, but the fact of the matter is, people don’t turn to self-destruction unless they’re very broken, and there are degrees of self-destruction. Some overeat. Some starve themselves. Some shoot up. Some stay in abusive relationships. Some keep choosing partners who only hurt them through verbal abuse or neglecting the relationship – over and over again.

Grief and I wrestled with each other until I emerged with the victory, a life of quality, complete with joy, and the strengthened ability to handle whatever life hands me. Maybe grief is like a near-death experience; it catapults you into another level of consciousness, maybe away from one in which you were stuck. I’m NOT saying “all things happen for a reason.” I believe that’s a hurtful perspective. I’d still be begging God to raise my son from the dead if I believed there was some purpose for his death. There isn’t. And my son certainly did not die so I could find my purpose. Seminary had been brewing in my mind for a few years before my son died. I’d always been fascinated by theology; it just made sense, even if my son hadn’t died.

But what has happened through the greatest loss of my life is a transformation toward a victory, a transcendent experience over grief. I can’t raise my son from the dead. No one can. But…I can and have raised myself from the dead. Some of the ways I’ve been able to do that is because I read so much. I work so hard to heal. I speak and write my pain, my grief, my joy, my confusion, and I share from the depths of my heart and from the parts of my consciousness I feel safe sharing, and I share a lot. I don’t have as much time to write on my blogs as I would love to, but the internship is almost over and my life can be mine again, until the Ph.D. program.

I ruminated myself into taking time away from homework and doing laundry today. I ruminated all the way into writing about rumination which led to musings about all kinds of things that explain grief from the perspective of a woman who’s grieved for nearly nine years. Am I healed? Not entirely, and maybe I never will be entirely healed. But I am healing, and I’ve healed in ways I never dreamed possible when I was dying a little at a time with grief. There is dancing in the morning after a long dark night of the Soul.

See, sometimes ruminating can yield good fruit too. I was prepared to be bumming all day and into the night, but I’m okay now. I’m revving up to read some articles for my process theology class, and then watching a show called, Lost, with my husband. My son always wanted me to watch it, but I rarely have time for television, so I’m watching it now, and I hope Rikki is smiling somewhere saying to himself, “I told you you’d like it, Mom!”

He did, indeed. I miss him to the ends of the expanding and contracting universe. In the interim, between now and my last breath, I must grab hold of life. As Rikki’s death at thirty-two years old shows us, life flies by in a flash. Ruminating too long takes away valuable time from living fully. Tears and grief are givens as long as we’re alive. We will lose loved ones. We will be disappointed and disillusioned. Shit will go down that levels us, and then, we will all ask the question, “Why me?” We will ruminate on that question until we arrive at an answer that satisfies our mind and our soul.

May we find that answer quickly. Life flies by so dreadfully fast.

80,000 years

By Sherrie Cassel

for Rikki

It’s been a minute since I’ve had time to write my grief. I feel it every second of the day. It’s like a soft, aching minor chord; it runs through everything I think, say, do, and feel. Even good moments remind me of his absence – and I always get a catch in my throat, and it takes me actually and physically shaking it off. I’m always aware. I will always be the mother who lost a child – and if that wasn’t devastating enough, I also watched him struggle, blood, sweat, and tears as addiction ravaged his soul and destroyed his beautiful mind and his thirty-two-year-old body, once cut and toned because he loved going to the gym. I watched him die a very slow and heartbreaking death. I know many of you know how it feels. There have been some people who have told me, “Well, my son died a ‘normal’ death.” I always take offense because my son died honorably, even if he was broken. He was a son, a father, a grandson, a nephew, a friend, a human being. He was the love of my life.

Life has been moving quickly for me. COVID kept us isolated for three years, and my social skills began to atrophy. Seriously. And my seminary classes were all taught via distance learning online. I had my first in person class last April. I’m currently in a class now and an internship, seeing clients, navigating traffic and personalities, some challenging, and some, easy peasy (lemon squeezy – Louie, our grandson, used to say that). I’m softer in some ways since losing my son, but I’ve also gained strength of which I had no idea I was capable. Like Persephone, I spent a few years in Hades, and then I reintegrated back into social life. I don’t find myself in Hades anymore – well, maybe on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. I summon Demeter, the mother within me and I come up for springtime air.

I have moments when the memories are just too much. What do I do? On most days like when I’m feeling a meltdown coming on, I book myself solid so I can just firmly hold on to the present moment(s) I’m blessed to have. My son, your loved ones were not that fortunate. I miss my son every minute of the day, and I have reclaimed, or truly claimed for the first time, a life rich with possibilities. I now have a heart that is tough and soft in all the right places. I’m not merely surviving anymore.

I’m alive. I’ve worked hard to be where I am. I thought I’d die when Rikki died, in fact, I wished often that I would fall asleep and never awaken. The pain was deep within my soul, and I will have a bruised heart, deep into its core for the rest of my life. My heart beats now for his son. I owe my son that.

In the beginning of my grief cycle, I was barely surviving each day as I worked strenuously to put the pieces of my life back together. My purpose for this site was to open up a safe place to share my grief and my gratitude. Sometimes I work through my shit – not always about grief. I’m grateful that grief is no longer my singular focal point; it was for nearly four years – a time when my life was one giant ball of angst and sorrow. I try to never forget the woman who temporarily lost her mind from grief, remembering her keeps me soft and empathetic toward those who are at different stages of the rocky path of grief. I have figuratively clawed my way toward wholeness. My entire being ached.

My words are weak in conveying my grief; they will never be sufficient.

I’m finally, nearly nine years later, able to speak to my grief without a meltdown. I find it funny (amusing) – which is progress – that when I bring up when I’m missing my son, people just don’t know how to respond. I get if someone is in a hurry because they must be somewhere; I don’t get staring at her feet because she’s suddenly gone mute and insensitive. I know it’s hard to know what to say about something that may scare the hell out of you, either that you will lose someone with whom you have an intimate relationship, or that I’m going to lose it. No one is equipped to handle someone else’s grief. Certainly, you can create a compassionate and loving space for her, but there will never be words except the ones that grievers find to heal ourselves.

See, I tried therapists; none of the four I saw were trained in grief. I went to fundamentalist churches looking for answers. Why my son? Why didn’t G_d heal him and bring him back to me? I learned the story of Lazarus is cruel. I prayed for my son to awaken from death, and he did not. As a griever, you’re off the hook for descending into unreality. Of course, my son would not awaken, no matter how much I begged the god of my very limited understanding at the time.

I chose to go back to college and complete my B.S. in psychology, and since I did that, I figured I may as well go back and get my associate degree in social and behavioral sciences. I’m now in seminary in a master’s program. If I didn’t have something to pour myself into, I’d lapse into utter grief – like in the early months following my son’s death. My experience has shown me it is best to find a channel for your pain. Create something beautiful from the debris in your shattered heart.

My grief took longer to manage because I did not have people in my life who knew how to sit in the dark with me. After the Storm has given me the greatest gift throughout this nine-year journey. The members at our site have lost as much, and some, even more, and they are courageous in how they share and in how they assist others, from the depths of their own pain. I have healed through their beautiful sharing. My heart has felt heard and understood at the site. I’m grateful for the parents who have touched me so profoundly as I navigate the horrible/wonderful grief cycle. “Some days are diamonds; some days are coal.”

Grief to Gratitude is something I want to do for others who may be struggling with regaining their footing in a new world without your loved one(s). Healing is not an easy task, and I’ve known some who may never get there; however, healing is also a journey. You’ll be battered and bruised, for sure, but after the convulsive sobs and doubling over in pain, there will be times of respite, times in which you can catch your breath, times when your head will clear and you can think and plan and move forward, not away from, but toward the reclamation of your life. We’re learning about time in my Science and Religion from a Process Perspective class. I swear, it’s as difficult as algebra was for me, and I don’t claim to understand any of it, except from a metaphorical perspective. The one thing I do understand is that life moves so quickly, the next thing we know we’re in our sixties. We’ve loved and we’ve lost.

We will always miss and ache for our loved ones who’ve passed away, died, transitioned. But time waits for no one, and the constant of grief expands and constricts our heart – and we must go on. I wish I could tell you the recipe for healing a broken heart, a shattered spirit, but I only know what has worked for me: hard work, both inner and with relationships I’ve neglected, helping others, filling my brain with information that provides clarity for me, and turning my grief into gold in others’ lives.

I was the only one who could comfort my heart. I had to find the internal strength to create a new lexicon for my experiences: posttraumatic growth, grit, and grace – and even a new conception of the G_d of my understanding. Seminary has healed me in several ways. I’m learning a great deal about myself and humanity in my internship. I have the wherewithal to grab hold of the brass ring and pull myself out of the darkness of chronic grief. I’m walking in the light of a full life now. I thought I’d die a little every day for the rest of my life.

I don’t know when it will happen for you if you’re currently in the early stages of grief, but it’s possible. I have now met parents who have been working their process for double digit years. I’m now a veteran griever. Nine years, soon it will be ten, and each year takes me further and further away from the night my son died – a seismic event in my soul. I make the choice everyday to think about our happy times together; it helps, but I will always have a dull ache in my heart…but it must keep beating. I have living people I love. I have goals and dreams – even at sixty-two. I carry my son lightly these days – I give his spirit respect. He had to go; it was his time, and I had to let go of him.

The Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS has been in the sky but will leave our sight soon and won’t return for another eighty-thousand years. I’ll be watching it with my son. I’m counting on it.

New book!

I read Even the Monsters a couple of years ago and found it very healing.

From the author:

Why am I alive? What is the meaning of life? How can I live well in a broken world?

Have you ever pondered the meaning behind life’s twists and turns? Yearned for fulfillment beyond the mundane? Felt a hunger within that is never satisfied? Something More offers a refreshing take on practical living, blending personal anecdotes with the timeless wisdom of Ecclesiastes.

Something More is not a book about getting into heaven—it’s about navigating the here and now with resilience and grace. It weaves memoir with the ancient book of Ecclesiastes to explore the answers to humanity’s most profound questions. Powerful and personal, it takes on life’s deepest concerns with humor, depth, vulnerability, and a refreshingly modern relatability. Something More offers joy amidst life’s uncertainties.

Drawing from decades of triumphs and trials and enriched by the wisdom of scholars and storytellers, with a special nod to C.S. Lewis, Something More offers a roadmap to fulfillment that transcends clichés.

Whether seeking solace in a sea of uncertainty or craving a deeper understanding of life’s purpose, Something More promises to illuminate your path.

Dig in and discover Something More.

The Thaw

By Sherrie Casssel

I’m taking a class this semester in seminary that is so difficult, I spent all weekend trying to understand the material so I could complete an assignment. I bucked and I cried. I cursed and sometimes I abandoned hope. I think it was Einstein who said that if you can’t explain something to someone else then you don’t understand the concept(s). I get it. My point is that I’m finally able to just pour myself into a task, a relationship, an issue and focus completely on it. Most of the time I soldier on with this backpack of sorrow; it’s always there. I miss my son. I had him for thirty-two years; that’s a long time to love someone; that’s a lot of life lived together – come hell or high water.

I worked hard on my assignment and I’m not sure what the results will yield, but I did my best, and I was able to focus and channel that sorrow into breathing life into something wonderful. I love discussions about consciousness – and now with fMRI, PetScans, etc., we can map the areas of the brain that are activated when we feel different emotions or sensations or auditorily – human touch. Fascinating.

I was just dancing in our living room, and I caught myself in the mirror having a good time. When exactly did I reach a point when I could dance again? I remember the day was hazy and the weeds in our front yard needed pulling in the worst way. I put some Blues on and I got to it – with a lump in my throat and a deep howl in my heart. I finished the job and then went into the house and lost it.

How many months, exactly, did it take for all that pesky growth, one season, two? I don’t know, but I had a rude awakening. How many seasons have I missed? This year was the first year I’ve had an in-person class. I entered seminary during the pandemic. This year I began an internship, am hopping with things to do, buzzing around like a busy bee. I’m not sure I like it yet. I carry my son with me always; he’s always in my thoughts. But I’m able to juggle multiple thoughts – even as I hold on to the memory of my son.

I cried for the rest of the day.

I cried and cried, and I ached so badly that it felt physical. I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pinched, red face, swollen eyelids, smeared makeup. I’d been aching for about three and a half years. I know some of you have an understanding of what it’s like to grieve, a son, a daughter, a spouse, a friend, a fur baby. We each experience the sacred and horrible space in which we grieve.

My husband says I didn’t have meltdowns for as long as I think I did. I don’t know either, but I know I dropped out of my bachelor’s program and didn’t pick it up again for three years. I stared at the grieving woman in the mirror, and I surveyed the past three and a half years – and I doubled over in pain – and I stopped crying, not for good, but finally I was able to control when my tears came and when the time for them was inappropriate.

I’m grieving – forever and a day – but I’m also living fully. I pace myself, and I have a couple of meltdowns a year now, and I never know what’s going to trigger them, or if I have the time to allow for them. I told my son when I was dancing this morning, “Boo, I thought I’d never dance again, or laugh, or enjoy myself, or have the energy to create a life – even if I have to do it without you.”

Then I had that old familiar ache, and I pushed it away, temporarily; I had too much to do.

The last meltdown I had was after a day I had booked myself solid, my son’s birthday. I functioned well and no one was the wiser. I felt compelled to tell three people what day it was, and they were very supportive. After the day, I drove two hours to get home, and I kept my shit together all the way home. I tried to just listen to my seventies station and not think about what was going on forty-one years ago, on the day my son was born.

My sweet husband had written a tribute for my son and posted it on Facebook…then the dam burst, and I wept in his arms. So many years I had with my son, now so many more without. We learn to dance our erratic dances in fits and starts – happy then sad then happy then sad. I pray for the in between days when there is nothing really dramatic going on inside me. My grief journey has been hell. But as the years fly by, I’m hopeful for myself and for my relationships. I’m present now.

The debate between science and religion has been going on for millennia, and as I’ve said, I’m really struggling with Alfred North Whitehead, but I’m doing it. I’m wrestling with it like Jacob and his God – demanding a blessing. I’m now demanding that of life. After Rikki died, I felt so defeated. I lost. I lost my son. I could barely manage through the day without hours long meltdowns, until I cried myself to sleep from sheer exhaustion. Who knew someone could physically hurt themselves crying?

I miss my son, but life insists on its continuation. And I insist on mine. I don’t know how I do it. My “faith” has been rattled by both the loss of my son and by seminary. I’m trying to find my footing – again. I’ve had to move forward – even on those days when it really, really hurts, birthdays, angelversaries, the way the sun casts shadows on the hills. One never knows.

I always say the fast track to healing is to help someone else. I’m also seeing that another way to heal is to not neglect your intellectual journey. Fill your brain with beneficial information on grief, or science, or religion, or whatever peaks your interest. I’m not suggesting that doing so will take your mind off your loved one; or it might. But at the very least, it will give you something besides your grief to focus on.

From the bottom of my heart, this has worked for me; maybe it will for you too. Whatever it takes to reach the level of healing where you can launch back into life is what must be done. God it hurts to lose someone; it just really does. I don’t know what the normal time for grief is. Mine took a bit longer than some others. Some people had the benefit of therapy before they began their experience with grief and so their time in the process may not have been as long as mine was. I believe I had complicated grief; the acuteness lasted for nearly four years. Don’t compare yourself to others’ ability to emerge from the dark pits of early grief. We’re each different, on different grief cycles, at different places in our grief, and with different emotional strengths and challenges.

One day, maybe you’ll be dancing or weeping – and you’ll catch a glimpse of yourself in your or someone else’s eyes – and the next step you’ll take is a choice; it was for me.

And spring comes again — every year; it surely does.

Reality on the spectrum

by Sherrie Cassel

Sometimes the day starts with one giant heaping of WTF?. As some readers are aware, I’ve been on a news fast for nearly one year. I mean, I’m not a “vegan” news consumer, but neither am I an aficionado. The news, while important, especially during an American election year, when the stakes are so high, and the advertisements and rhetoric are once again so caustic, I’ve chosen intermittently to take a back seat. I got caught up during the last big election, and I disavowed the curse of vitriol against my fellow [wo]man – regardless of their political/religious leanings.

Who is on his/her way to the White House is of great import, nationally and internationally. It just is, but the election will yield one or the other and whosever voice is the loudest will declare victory, or…we will lick our wounds – . I allowed myself to get beyond dramatic, ridiculously so, and I’ll not behave as badly this time, even though the next month and some change are crucial. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll cast my vote, and I’ll hope my side has the louder voice of the two.

But for now, I’m loving the people I absolutely do not get. They are decent Americans who love their country, and yet…how in the hell do we arrive at our politics? Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. Politics (and religion) aside, each side shouts its position and attacks its opponent with crude and brutal characterizations of the “other.” And as I’ve told my professor and director of my internship many times, my peace is too important to allow hurtful darts either from me or from someone else to, as my adorable friend, Kathleen says, “harsh my mellow.”

I’m taking a class in Science and Religion from a Process Perspective. When I say it’s difficult, I mean it’s DIFFICULT. I’m grappling with the material because it’s beautiful and elegant and illustrates just how many lenses there are through which to view reality, and how many languages are being perpetually created in an attempt to articulate to another our own perspective or a perspective in collaboration with others.

I’m learning to see the movement in human consciousness from Aristotle to current day movements, both in terms of science and religion; there’s that dualism again. Anyhow, see? This stuff is trippy. I know I should be more concerned about what’s happening in my country; and, I believe there is a healthy balance between caring and catastrophism. I believe our consciousness is ever evolving, and I believe there are some people whose journey of survival keeps them down, socioeconomically, and so, spiritually. I remember my own journey, and, indeed, it continues today. I remember being so green in college. I had hated high school, and now, there I was, at twenty-four, fresh out of an unsatisfying marriage. I knew I could do better, and so I enrolled in a community college in southern California.

There was political unrest, and I was working, and taking classes, and I was learning about Andres Serrano’s photograph, “Piss Christ” – and the controversy, and the multiple interpretations, and one day, Rodney King is being beaten in Los Angeles, and there’s rioting in the street, and the campus closes early, and I’m bummed because I was enthralled with knowledge — but I was becoming AWARE that my tiny world and my tiny perspectives were not all there were.

Life calls us to awaken from our slumber, even in poverty, and maybe perhaps, especially in those lessons we chisel into a necessary tool for our box of resources, prosocial coping and living skills. My reality at the time was certainly one of survival. I was a single mother, without financial or emotional support from my son’s biological parent. I was having gaps in my worldview filled, and I was paring away erroneous and hurtful paradigms and psychological schemas. Life was a whir of ideas, and I was getting them!

Knowledge changed, and indeed, continues to transform my consciousness, and so, it is transforming my life. I strive for peace; it’s an absolute must for me and for my husband. Certainly, there are things that rock our world from time to time, and certainly, with the loss of my son, I’ve had a few tempests to navigate, but in between – calm and catastrophe – I live my life – in a paradise we call home, in the safety of my academic life, in the knowledge that while I’m here I can try to see the world through the kaleidoscopic lenses of as many disciplines as I can comprehend. Face it, physics and I understand each other less than I and my loved ones on the opposite side of the political fence do.

There’s a verse in the Christian Bible, oh no, don’t worry, I’m not preachy, but this verse, from my interpretation says so much about reality and how many ways, at least seven billion, there are to experience it and measure it. Romans 12:3 says something to the effect of we each are given a measure of faith, and not to be arrogant, but to be grateful for the measure of faith which has been assigned (gifted) by God, or the G_d of your understanding.

Faith in the Aramaic means to put one’s complete confidence in something. The example the dictionary uses is putting complete confidence in someone who has borrowed money from you, that he will pay you back. A transaction.

Having a measure of faith is like having a pattern in the kaleidoscope, one view of reality. I admit, this class trips me up and it trips me out.

There’s an old song called, “Satisfied Mind” –. Many artists have covered it, but I like Lucinda Williams’ version.
I’ll leave you with the last two verses of the song (appropriately credited) — . Another way to view the world. Once I’m finished with my formal academic journey, we want to start a commune…well, it’s a dream.

“No money can buy back
Your youth when you’re old
Or a friend when you’re lonely
Or a heart that’s grown cold
And the world’s richest man
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind.

When my life is over
And my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones
I’ll leave there’s no doubt
But there’s one thing for certain
When it comes my time
I’ll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind
I’ll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind.”

Songwriters: Jack Rhodes, Joe Hayes.

Reasoning with Grief

by Sherrie Cassel

Per usual, I have an assignment to do, and two more creeping up on me, a presentation, a paper, therapy notes to keep up on, and yanking back my peace from all the places that demand my attention, yet … here I am, playing on social media, listening to music, with the man I love across the hall, a grandson who I adore, and a slice of peace before I hit the books. But first I have to fuck around — for self-care — and then business as usual.

I miss my son; I always will. There are some days when I book myself solid because the pain is overwhelming, the longing, the missing, the loss, the awareness of the monumental loss I’ve incurred. On Rikki’s birthday this year, I met with clients, led a group, spent four hours in traffic, and then drove home and had a meltdown. I managed to get through 3:15 p.m., the time he was born, just like I get through 5:55 p.m., the time he died. Funny how numbers matter, for more than just equations that unravel the mysteries of the universe.

“Chuck me in the shallow waters before I get too deep.”

I have different relationships with my son, posthumously, just like I did when he was alive, and we shared a life together. Today my relationship is mature. I accept the loss. I’ve normalized the pain. I’ve learned to navigate grief in a delicate dance of joy and pain. I wish I were a ballerina so I could dance my pain, so I could show you just how much it hurts to have lost a child. Instead, I dance in language. I make my words come so alive that you feel it too, no matter how much it scares you; you feel it.

That’s what artists do; they bring us to the brink …

Today is a day of reason, not emotionality. I won’t listen to any of my son’s favorite songs today – why would I? Today I can manage the loss and proceed in my life full speed ahead, and I carry my son lightly. His spirit’s fingers are gently cradling my always tender heart, and I move forward, again and again, each step painstaking, and there is respite, but there will never be resolution. He’s gone, you see. He’s no longer here for me to hug, hear his laugh, hear his voice, but my love is infinite, and because it is, in a way, he’s always with me. I read that the connection between a biological mother and her baby is eternal, at a placental level, and that there are traces of placenta in both the mother and her baby for the lifespan. I feel it. I felt it on his birthday in August; the birth story was very present on this day. I know the same connection occurs when a child is adopted and is held for the first time by the beaming parents.

And there it is, love in a nutshell.

Stormy Weather

By Sherrie Cassel

For Rikki

There was that day we put

two chairs, always two,

Just us … two,

near the wooden screen door,

flimsy with the perennial

“Do not disturb” sign.

There was lightning and then

thunder, and we whooped

and hollered with every strike.

our cat, Darwin, running to hide,

frightened by the thunder.

But we weren’t frightened,

so many storms we braved

together,

so many wars we waged…

together

You told me that day that

you rode your bike to the grocery

store because I had sent you

for tortillas.

The sky opened up and the

thunder shook the entire

town.

You said you jumped off your

bike and screamed, “I love you, Mom!”

I cried when you told me on that

stormy day as we sat together,

a mom and her son,

watching God’s light show

together, just us, just us two.

I think about that day as the

clouds form above in my desert sky.

I had to tell the doctor to let you go

when you coded that perfect January

night. I think there were stars out

that night, and I wanted a storm.

I want our storm again, the one we

celebrated together, howling with each

lightning strike, just us, just us two,

a mom and her son.

Did you cry out for me before you died?

Did you know you were dying? Did your

Spirit linger and give you time to hold

my hand one last time?

Were your last words,

“I love you, Mom”?

Balancing on the Fulcrum (revisited)

By Sherrie Cassel

Edited for corrections @ 9:42 P.M., PST, 9/4/2024

What is it about death that transforms reality into idealization of a person who has passed; it’s almost like sending them off to heaven with a delusion of their angelhood. That is how it happens. As Rikki’s momma, I have collected every wound I ever caused him, and sadly, I collect all the wounds that anyone else had ever caused for him. I let them go, a little at a time. No one is perfect, certainly not I. My beautiful and tortured son was not perfect. He was perfect for me, and had he had his druthers, he could have chosen far better than I to be his mother. I’d been a wreck for much of my life. I’m grateful to be on this side of 51/50 now.

I cannot suggest the urgency of counseling enough, especially before you enter a long-term relationship where progeny is a consideration. Nip the family dysfunction in the bud. Refuse to buy into the family mythology – that everything is fine, when clearly it has never been.

I’ve watched my mother elevate my father to the status of a great man – in death – because in life he was a dreadful father and husband. No one is perfect, and some of us are so far from mid-center of perfection that life is always upstream … with a steep incline, and we drag those who we love, especially those we love dysfunctionally upstream with us.

I’ve learned the very necessary lesson of self-forgiveness. As Maya Angelou said, “When you know better, you do better.” Ain’t that the truth? Sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you get to make amends to someone who is still living, if you’ve behaved horridly or hurt him or her. But how do you make amends to someone who has passed? Can you?

I’m *seven and a half years into the grieving process for my beautiful son, Rikki. In those seven and a half years, I suffered from mad insomnia. I had ample time to rehash, replay, and repent the way I hurt my son. Regret and guilt are natural outgrowths of grief. Did I love him enough? Did I say it enough? Did I show him that he was loved? Did he know how fucked up I was? Then after we self-flagellate we learn to let go. When you know better, you do better.

I believe, somedays, in heaven, maybe out of desperation to see my son again, to hold him, to kiss him on the forehead, to tell him how much I miss him, and to hear all about his utter joy over the past seven and a half years. Is heaven a placebo? I’ll find out one day, I suppose. But letting go of guilt, self-blame, and shame over past behavior is so utterly necessary that without the ability to do it will guarantee that we enjoy life very limitedly. The world is our oyster, and inside, it is the pearl of great price. We earn it, hard.

If you’ve hurt someone and the relationship is worth it to you, make amends. Sometimes we aren’t forgiven, and that really hurts, but live with a clear conscience, and when you do that, the world opens up for you, and your heart fills with love for all living things, and joy is attainable. First, you must let go of the guilt and release the regret. Stand up straight and own your shit, but then move past it and claim a life of pure possibilities for joy, happiness, emotional soundness, and unending love for yourself. Forgive yourself. Life passes by so quickly; Rikki was only thirty-two. I remember once I told him that his problem was that he was too kind to people who hurt him, and he said, “Momma, if the worst thing people can say about me when I die is that I was too kind, then I’ve lived a good life.” A good, short life. Maybe after someone dies, we let them off the hook for any infractions, small or monumental. I forgave my father for his many assaults on our family. I still haven’t forgiven my ex-husband, Rikki’s biological father. There are a few people, including myself, whose dysfunction hurt my boy, and I’ve forgiven all of them, except Rikki’s biological father. He has a lot for which to answer. But that is no longer here nor there. There is no need to be in any kind of relationship with him. Some things are just unforgiveable. You’ll know when it happens to you, or if you’ve ever made a blunder for which there is no return. It happens. We’re not perfect, and those of us who were raised in chaos and horror, are really not perfect. Even in self-awareness, our road is all uphill, until we reach that pinnacle place of self-actualization (Maslow).

I look at people through the lens of understanding now. Had we been loved well and nurtured lovingly with concern for our well-being, and not to avenge our parents’ childhood, we would have, in turn, loved better, and been kinder to those we love…instead of avenging our wounds at the expense of others. Bessel van der Kolk, internationally known traumatologist said, “Traumatized people traumatize people.”** One of my professors borrowed the sentence and made it more accessible when she changed the word traumatize to hurt, e.g., Hurt people hurt people.

My son and I ran the gamut of dysfunction. We had a lot to say to each other before he died. Family dysfunction is common in the United States. I grew up in it. My son grew up in it. My parents grew up in it. Historical trauma can be carried into successive generations; seems I read that somewhere (ahem, the sins of the fathers). My son and I also had plenty of time to say goodbye and…I’m sorry.

A friend of mine turned me on to the Akashic Records. I don’t know its history or culture of origin, but I do know that it’s like an ancient empty chair experience. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you. Those are the sentences to be said as you listen for the voice of your loved one speak to you from whatever peace he or she finds him or herself in. I found it to be very healing. I think the better you know someone, the better able you are to anticipate with accuracy what your loved one would say to you. I got Rikki loud and clear. He was my son, after all. We thought like each other. We hurt each other. We loved each other, fiercely.

Have I idealized my son? No. Again, he was my son, replete with dysfunction and brokenness. I was fortunate that I had the opportunity to make amends before he died, and he with me. He was not, as I am not, perfect, but he was, as I am, fearfully and wonderfully made. Sometimes we learn to love ourselves later in life; sadly, some people never learn to love themselves. Don’t be one of those people.

Find something to love, something to pour that love into, art, philanthropy, people, yourself. Those things are only possible when we are unencumbered by guilt, regret, rage, sadness, and a victim mentality. Rikki loved so many things and people. He was beautiful and broken, but toward the end of his life, he knew the healing power of forgiveness. He didn’t hold grudges. He always reached for understanding before jumping to judgment. He taught me about those things, and if I can be a bit dramatic, his life changed mine. His death is shaping me further. Grief is lifelong.

If you’re in our circle, and you hurt my son, he would try to understand what happened to you to make you strike out at him and others before he cast you aside. He’d give you chance after chance after chance, until it was necessary to put up a wall for self-protection. I strive for the same understanding, and I extend my momma’s heart in love when I tell you, “All is understood, so, all is forgiven.” Rikki and I are grateful for the great times and the happy memories. So, don’t fret. Let it go and set yourself free to be better than you were when you hurt him or hurt someone else.

Make amends with your loved ones, even those who are no longer present with us. Light a candle. Do a ritual at the beach. Talk to them. Weep and then forgive yourself. My son loved to see people happy. In every picture I have of him, he is smiling or laughing. He wasn’t perfect. I remember one time he said, “Momma, you know what my pet peeve is?” And, I retorted, “One among your infinitely many?” We laughed for twenty minutes!

See, I could have wept for seven and a half years for the ways I fucked up with my son, and I did weep for quite some time, but life kept beckoning me to grab hold, to stay with the living, to be grateful for the time and the lessons with my son, to be present for his son, to be present for myself. If I can’t be present for myself, then I can’t be present for anyone else, and I have people in my life who adore me and who I love with all my broken heart.

Please find a way to move forward and to claim a life of amazing possibilities — to do amazing things. Dedicate those things to the ones you love. Honor your loved one with the life you wish you could have had with him or with her.

Life has changed for me – forever. I’m not the same person who raised my son. Before he died, we were out walking our pit Lily, and I told Rikki, “Boo, I’m not the hardass who raised you.” His response, a chip off the ol’ block was, “I know Momma. You’ve changed. I don’t know if I like it.”

If you must shoulder regret, carry it only as far as it helps you to build emotional muscle and then drop the weight and move through the rest of your life free from regret and/or guilt. Life’s a few short trips around the sun. The past no longer needs to be prologue; the past contains lessons for how to improve ourselves. Own them. Inculcate them. Allow them to change you, and in turn, you’ll be able to help change the dynamics in your family and in your other relationships, especially those which are hurtful and over-the-top dysfunctional. Sometimes, for self-preservation, it becomes necessary to walk away from a person because the cost to your self-esteem, emotional safety, and your heart — is too much to ask of anyone.

But for the love you hold for those you’ve hurt the most, here, say it with me. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Bearing His Cross

By Sherrie Cassel

I make time for rumination. I race through the two days I’m out in the craziness of life in California, but then I look ahead to see if there’s a day I can schedule for reminiscences – maybe even a day of supreme sorrow as I make the time to feel his absence – all the way to a meltdown. My husband is my safe person with whom I can lose it. I can’t do it with everyone, and I can’t do it every day – although I drag his absence with me every day.

There are songs that remind me of our life together – songs that made him dance, and songs that made him weep. Today I want to share in his broken heart – from all the places and by all the people he loved. We hurt the ones we love the most, and I accept my responsibility in his broken heart. We were fortunate, more fortunate than many in that we got to lay it all out on the table before he died. I was the first woman who broke his heart. Parents fuck up and then, if we’re very lucky, we have the opportunity to say the words that have always mattered more than the turbulence: I’m sorry. I love you. You are worthy.

I know that the religion of my indoctrination was really big on suffering; I spent enough years there that I felt good when I suffered for the LORD. Perhaps it is a physical feeling associated with the pleasure of being known by my stripes, but I feel good when I stop to have a day of pain and mourning. I’m thrilled that the days are not so consistent – anymore. I don’t have time to honor my son every day, but he’s always a thought and he’s in everything good I will ever do. I honor him in the way I live my life, in the way I love my family, in the way I love his family, and in the way I love the first and last woman he ever loved.

I live my life like he tried to live his, with love, kindness, intelligence, and the most amazing ability to forgive. I suppose instead of holding those of us responsible for breaking his heart, he hurt himself. He suffered for the curse and the gift of giving of his whole self when he loved someone.

He is on my heart – heavily and lovingly – on this day I’ve set aside to mourn. I made a CD of some of his favorite songs for his celebration of life. They were all celebratory – with the exception of the Evanescence song; that song hurt him deep inside his soul, and so – it hurts me. However, today, just one day out of the year, I want to feel all his heart, all of his wounds, all the places where fissures ran deep in his body, soul, and mind. I want to take up his cross and carry it today. I wish I could have shouldered all his pain while he was here.

When he was a kid, I used to ask him, “Honey, how’s your soul today?” Sometimes he would say, “Bad, Momma.” But mostly he celebrated life. I taught him to party like a rock star, and it was fun until, as he said, “Momma, when did the party stop?” I want to know what was going on in his alone moments when he struggled to use or not to use. I want to know him, the parts of him that were private, secret, in abject pain. I couldn’t help him then, and I want to feel the incompletion of a beautiful life.

Maybe it’s masochistic to schedule a date to feel, to mourn, to weep, to ache for my son, for his aches, and for mine, for a lifetime.

It’s just one day, y’all.

Maybe, it’s just my grief pattern. Kubler-Ross gave us a linear grief cycle, but grief is spastic in the beginning. I used to cry every time a Bread song played on Sirius XM. I mean I’d really lose it. Really, it makes no sense, and even as a psych major, I can’t figure it out. My son was into Korn, and Bread would have made him say, “Mom, see, you’re not the hardass you think you are.” He was honest like that, brutally sometimes. He was, after all, a chip off the ol’ block.

“Stairway to Heaven” is playing now and this brings a happy memory on a day of mourning. He helped himself to half my CD collection when he got his first apartment, after years of saying, “Led Zeppelin is not rock and roll.” Maybe he needed a reminder of our terrible-wonderful life together. We loved each other fiercely, and enmeshment fused us together as mother and son, as friend and sometimes foe, as loyal devotees of each other, but enmeshment can be dysfunctional, and it was for us. And we remained a team — come hell or high water.

Today is just another day – and I know – because people die every minute, that there is grief every single minute of every single day. I wish emotional and physical pain were not parts of the human drama, but here we are, doubled over in a pain that feels every bit as real as if your heart were actually being ripped out of your chest.

I haven’t had the meltdown yet. I’ve been listening to Rikki’s favorite songs, fun ones, except the ones that hurt him deep down in his soul. I’m trying to talk myself out of an inevitable funk, because I really don’t have the time to descend into my grief, wholly and deeply. I have shit to do.

Rikki’s birthday was a week ago on August 6. He would have been forty-one. I worked on his birthday. I booked myself solid and I was grateful for the distraction and the scheduled delay in losing it on the day my precious baby boy graced me as his mother. I drove home, a two-hour drive, and arrived home at eleven p.m. and my husband had written a tribute to my son on Facebook. He captured Rikki’s kind essence. He captured the complicated relationship we had. He captured the love between us. I wept in his arms after a long day of keeping my shit together. I made it through another birthday without my son.

I have a busy life and I don’t always have time to just sit and miss my son. Maybe I don’t need to have a day where I feel the loss and allow the pain to wash over me. Maybe I don’t. But today, I just need to miss him, my Rikki, my Boo Bear, the Love of my Life.

Pachelbel’s Canon is playing now and Rikki loved beautiful things – and he found beauty where others didn’t, or couldn’t. He was beautiful – and today, I just miss him is all.