By Jeff Kober Jeff Kober has spent much of the last 30 years studying metaphysics and meditation, traveling extensively in India. In 2007 he began to teach Vedic meditation, and writes a daily Vedic Meditation. Visit his website Jeff Kober Meditation. The pain that we feel at the loss of someone in our life is a given. Where once there was another human…
(818) 788-HOPE (4673)
Grief Support Groups Serving West Los Angeles, Encino and Agoura Hills
Grief Support Groups Serving West Los Angeles, Encino and Agoura Hills
First Person
This trip to Italy was my first real test of myself: to see if I could still travel, without my husband Marvin, and still enjoy traveling on my own. Since Marvin died, I had traveled abroad to see family but not as a tourist, and this was going to be “it.”
Grief can best be described as an unpredictable weather condition. For anyone who’s visited the Caribbean, it’s like one of those storms that comes out of nowhere. Imagine lying out on the beach, letting the sun rays penetrate your melanin with a cocktail in one hand, eyes closed, and head tilted toward the sun. Then you open your eyes and see the storm clouds. Before you can collect your vacation read and beach bag, there’s a downpour. There’s no way to escape it, you’re in the storm. While you don’t know when it will end, it’s a common enough occurrence that you know it will pass. This scenario encapsulates my relationship with grief. I often don’t know when it’s coming. I’m suddenly hit with a wave of emotion – sometimes, it knocks me down, but I always get back up.
Lynne Goldklang is a psychotherapist, writer and a grateful member of a HOPE bereavement group.
“I don’t think of all the misery but of all the beauty that remains.” — Anne Frank
It was one of those restless nights a few months after my husband’s death as I flipped on the TV and stared at the movie that was playing. A mother is sitting in a hospital waiting area crying as her young daughter’s life is ebbing. A strange older woman engages her in conversation and asks who is dying. The old woman listens carefully and then advises the grieving mother to be aware of “collateral beauty” — words that are the title and essence of the movie.
The meaning of collateral beauty as portrayed in the film is that love and kindness are all around if the grieving person is open to notice and receive. It is a term that is mystical yet down to earth, easily accessible.
“Your loss was different,” my 97-year-old aunt Adair said. “You still had a lot of life ahead together when you lost Richard. Herb was 96 when he died.”
I felt a swell of emotion in response. The casual way she said it made the comment hit home like the obvious fact it was, one that hadn’t quite registered with me before so clearly.
Following the death of her husband of 26 years in May of 2017, Marianne Simon began Poetic Plantings Publishing as a “the first step in the journey of all that I am still becoming.” They call it that – “the year of firsts.” The implication is that it will be a painful year of all the landmarks you will survive without your…
Grief is a journey, and each person’s journey is unique. Michael F. DuBois had a close relationship with his mother, and when she died when he was 22 he found that he was lost in his grief, seemingly unable to move on. That led him to produce this film, an exploration of his mother’s life and the impact it had on the…
I wrote this short poem about a month after my brother died:
My grief is like an ocean swell
rolling toward shore.
It rises but never breaks.
It came to me while sitting quietly during a yoga class, breathing deeply. There were swells of grief but no tears. The stillness helped me put words to my feelings. I had cried when he died, but then it subsided. Too quiet. Where was my grief?
I periodically dream that my husband returns from the dead. That is not an unusual experience in grief. Our loved ones are embedded in our souls and psyches and our dreams reflect many aspects of our grief journey: our wish to see them, our struggle to accept their loss, our fears and worries about the future, to name a few. They may also present us with existential questions about death. In my case, accepting death has been particularly difficult. My husband disappeared at sea nearly six years ago. Neither he nor his boat were ever found. Despite knowing consciously that he will never come back, in my subconscious his return is totally plausible. Sometimes we seek answers in our dreams: Is he OK? Does he know I love him? Can he please give me guidance from beyond? And, my question, what happened? My dreams often reflect the challenge of not knowing how he died. I keep hoping he’ll tell me in my dreams.
I was in the doldrums, sorting through a drawer, mourning my husband as the date of our anniversary approached. That old Kenny Rogers song, “The Gambler,” was playing in the background. I stopped what I was doing hoping for some comfort in the simplistic lyrics. I was drawn to a deck of cards in the back of the drawer, feeling compelled to spread them all out and see if I could find something to lift my spirits.
There is so much to discover in an ordinary card deck. The four suits alone give us a look at basic aspects of life that are impacted when there is a death of a loved one.