Welcome to My Reflective Practice
For as long as I can remember, I’ve turned to writing as a way to make sense of both the ordinary and the extraordinary moments of life. These pages hold years of letters, poems, and candid reflections; pieces of me working through love, loss, change, and possibility.
I invite you to explore, wander, and search for the words that resonate. May you find something here that meets you right where you are.
Water
The moon pulls you in too many directions - you are water.
I know it feels it, but you are not too much.
The moon pulls you in too many directions - you are water. The water is just beginning to take over and I know how scary that is. I remember it. Know that one day you will be in control of it. Know that one day your movements will be recognized as a pure, raw, powerful beauty. Listen to that and trust me.
While you are learning to control it, you must learn to apologize. Say sorry and mean it. Create art when you can’t control it. Pour your soul on a canvas, a page, a songbook. Share your art as an explanation. Those who wish to know you will take interest in these offerings. Keep close those who try to reach you through your art.
You will move and shift too often for others to keep up. Never slow for them. They will learn to ride the waves, tread your water, get out, or drown. Keep those who swim well. Keep those who know how to hold you. They will place their hands on you, but never too tight. They need to respect the water that resides in you, how it flows.
I know it feels it, but you are not too much. One day you may hear that enough to eventually believe it. Until that day comes please listen to and trust me - for I am water too.
Untouchable
But you, Sweet Boy, you closed that gap.
I don’t have a lot of memories from that time but the ones I have are so burned in that if I close my eyes I can remember them all: the sound of my scream in the tiny room, the heaviness of the bedroom after I was left alone, the way the curtains swooshed when they opened for the first time, the sound of the running shower as I lay curled, naked, in a ball on the floor, and your tiny hand sliding into mine on that beautiful fall day moments before I dropped to my knees.
I don’t know how I got there. Who drove? How did everyone know to show up? Who made those decisions? Memory is fascinating and equally frustrating. I have so many questions.
We stood, new parents, bereaved, next to a hole in the earth. Everyone we loved, one step back from us as if we were untouchable. We were untouchable. No one wanted to touch our grief, we were alone, or so it felt.
But you, Sweet Boy, you closed that gap. Were you watching me with those beautiful baby blues? Did you know that I was so weak I would soon drop?
At 10 years old you did what most adults didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t dare. You stepped forward, quietly, so very silently, and took my shaking hand into yours. There, above the hole in the earth, you stood with me in my grief.
This time of year is hard for all of us. I am by no means the star of this show. I think sometimes I forget that we were all there. We all lost her. We all grieve her. We all honour her. You, at only 10 years old, dealt with loss. You, at only 10 years old, chose to step forward, bridge that gap, and touch the untouchable. You, at only 10 years old slid your tiny hand into mine and for that I am forever grateful.
The Circle Back
Catapulted back into grief, I find connections, I will forever link it to my loss. I failed dinner and I failed her.
Here’s the thing that your friend going through a hard time wants you to know.
Here’s the thing that I want you to know.
It all circles back.
Everything. It all circles back to the loss for us.
The loss of a child, a parent, a marriage, a job.
At first, I’d burn dinner accidentally. It would leave me a crumbled mess on the floor. Can’t I get that right? Will I fail at everything I attempt? I would need to be pick up, off the floor, dusted off, and reminded that we can just order in, love. We can just order in. I would be told that one thing is not indicative of the other.
Except it is to me.
It’s a vicious cycle and we need you to know.
I need for you to know.
The other day I was frustrated, screaming at my MacBook and fighting back the urge to throw it against the wall. Perhaps I am dramatic, perhaps I always have been. In that moment though, I drudged up the last decade of heartache. For me, life was unfair because I didn’t have access to a simple text that I wanted to read, and I don’t have access to her. In that moment, they were one and the same. As hard as I tried to inject logic, I failed.
Please understand that I am not just dramatic.
When you were upset with me, annoyed by traits that were once a positive, it stung deeper than you could have ever imagined. Here I am, open, honest, and raw, and you couldn’t handle it. You thought you knew better. So, I cut you out. Cold turkey. It’s easy, I tell myself. I’ve lost more. I wish I didn’t see it that way, but I do. I am forever sorry that the two things are linked in my brain as a result of trauma. It’s scarily easy for me to do.
This, I need for you to know.
The milestones don’t get easier. The pain doesn’t lessen. Last year I was angry beyond belief. This year, sadness envelopes me whenever I stop moving. So, I haven’t stopped moving. Over the last ten years I have strengthened each year, but small, insignificant moments will throw me backwards, weakening me, crumpling me back into a that newly bereaved mother on the floor holding her burned dinner. Catapulted back into grief, I find connections. It will forever circle back to my loss. I failed dinner and I failed her.
These things, and more, you should to know about us.
There exists no one-woman show.
“If I could, I’d like just a minute longer with you. A minute longer to sit on that couch, to play this out, to understand why your laugh, your eyes, and the way you placed your hand on my arm have me spinning. The night is ending, but I’m still trying to figure out why I need more time with you.”
It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.
Perhaps I didn’t need the book as much as I needed to remember who my people are.
Tackle the hard stuff
Move through it all with kindness
Sadness and kindness
It’s possible to be both sad and kind
To lament on the way it was
While rejoicing in all that remains
I had no idea why I was in there. I just knew that it felt safe. Smaller. Or maybe it was because I felt larger.
The green sea glass is my favourite, and, even though it’s simply the remnants of Heineken bottle, we act like it’s a rare jewel, because you never know.
You scan the faces waiting for you; family, friends, and lovers all gone long before. You tell them to wait, finding the smallest one, wrapping your warm arms around her and ushering her back through to me.
Number lines are stupid and cross-multiplication is bomb. Keep that knowledge to yourself and in September do it whatever way your teacher asks for you to do it.
I don’t know who it was for, the display of anger, because it was never put on for others. I guess, in effect, It was just for me. Look at this, look at how broken you are. Fucking clean it up.
Each year my children’s’ eyes become wider and more skilled at interpretation, for every year that I age, they do too.
Sometimes there is value in letting you vent, feel powerful, and moving forward. You’re fucking welcome.
That echo can forever live in the darkness; some messages were never intended to be received, the delay too great.
In that exhale, the feeling of defeat escaped with it - a breathy fuuuuuuuck of sorts.
These pieces, I tear off willingly, proudly, defining myself by the beauty of my imperfect and exhausted soul.
A long time ago, we would meet halfway, feet on the earth, shoes in hand, and walk together.
It’s been a minute.
Too many options can create confusion, the freezer is simply a microcosm of our larger society in all of its excess and waste.
I needed to fill some time as I watched the ambulance’s GPS tick, tick, tick along my computer screen, towards her residence.
But a little man? Where would I place my focus? How could I guarantee to bring out the good man that lies inside of this tiny human?