Pain is Relative

It's something I've been saying for years.  I know I've heard others say it but I discovered it as a truth to describe the fact that empathy does not capture another's experience.  This came to me shortly after my mother died.  Actually, it may have been the year after.  That first year was a blur of pain and sadness.

I started saying it because it didn't take me long, especially in relation to the people I met in the Hospice grief support group that I attended, to realize that EVERY experience with grief is different.  You could put two people in exactly the same series of experiences and because each of us has such a different set of tools, emotional vulnerability and access to support, there is just no way to compare the pain.

I stopped saying things like, "I understand because . . . (fill in my life altering painful experience here)."  I started stopping at, "I'm so sorry for your loss," and then trying to listen and really hear and respond to the other's expression of pain.

Giving up the concept that there needs to be comparison or understanding to sit with anyone, in that moment, and just share in their pain has led to some really loving and intense moments with people I will never really know.

It also gave me permission to feel the grief I need to feel.  Surviving those trials by fire, concentrating on the fierce love that gives me those connections.  That's been worth the pain.

Images are from Artprize 2013 exhibition will credit with artists name as soon as I can locate it.

Promises

I’ve been thinking about promises. . .

. . .  specifically the reprehensible kind.

If you make a promise and, upon reflection, realize that it’s not an honorable promise:  what is your responsibility then?  Keep it?  Regardless of it’s impact on others?

I’m not sure.

I’ve made some promises that I regretted.  Broken some that I shouldn’t have and some that needed breaking.  Had some broken that were made to me. 

Permit me some background on these thoughts. 

My mother painted a picture of the beautiful place where she placed her father’s ashes.  It meant enough to her that she memorialized it in color.  She pasted a detailed map on the back of exactly the vista where she consecrated him.  That says, to me, that the spot meant something for her.

The man to whom her husband entrusted everything they owned and her remains promised never to reveal where he interred her to our family.  Feels the definition of a reprehensible promise to me.  So, not only is that information lost to me.  It’s lost to my family forever.

Is that not the definition of reprehensible?

Grandpa's Spot

I have her paintings . . .

In 2 months it will have been 20 years since my mother died.  What followed is an incredible story of patience.  When she died my sister and I encouraged her husband of 8 years to avoid giving anything away until he had time to process his loss.  At that time, we took nothing from their home.  My father had left things from his side of the family as well as all he had accumulated during his marriage to my mother.   Within 6 months my mother’s husband, Ed, had stopped communicating with either my younger sister or me.

Independence Rock - Colorado National Monument

When he died 3 years ago I wrote a letter to the neighbor who inherited our legacy.  In the end, most of her things were already gone.  I was able to recover a few of her pieces of jewelry, her paintings and some furniture (which remains in storage in Colorado).

Front porch

Mom decided to try to paint at 42 years old after my father left.  Her decision provides us with a legacy along with her poems.    So please enjoy this window into my legacy.

Self Portrait