The Guilt Free Life

For someone who writes about loss, I sure do have a lot of experience with it. Today, my first book was published. Although I am ecstatic to be over the first hurdle that writers encounter, I feel a slight sense of dread nonetheless. It isn’t even listed in Amazon yet, but until it is, you can view the details here.

Along with this book, I was asked to create a weekend-long workshop to deal with loss of any type I choose, whether it be death (which is the subject of my book), divorce (also got experience there!), financial (another nod) or physical possessions (go ahead–guess–yup!). I made a list of different types of loss, and fell asleep with exhaustion somewhere around 33. With all this latitude, I am finding it hard to hone in on a specific subject, or even where to start.

Writer’s block occurs when the white page stares back at you, and although you have a mind full of ideas, nothing comes out right when the type is on the page. Me, I suffer from thinker’s block. The experience is there, yet when I try to materialize it on paper, my head is empty!

If anyone has suggestions as to what they would like to see in a workshop, please feel free to comment.

There are some people who are perfectly comfortable being a wallflower. They will attend a party, sit against the wall, and observe those in the center of the room as they flit and mingle, gracefully (or maybe not so gracefully) traipsing from one conversation to another, drink in hand. And then there are others, like the former me, that had no fun at a party unless I was adored and fawned upon. Now I was never at the Paris Hilton level, but I did like to be the center of attention–at least until I was tired of it; then I would “smooch smooch” my way out the door to leave them commenting on all of my positive features.

My definition of Attention: the search for external validation for a person with little to no perceived internal value.

That’s not the Merriam-Webster version, but it does apply to a majority of celebrities, sports figures, artists, and, well, me.

So the other night I was looking forward to a nice dinner out with a few close friends. They were, as usual, interminably late, and Jerry and I sat at the bar, eating appetizers and glancing at the door. In walked party after party, and tables filled quickly, but our friends were nowhere to be seen. One couple walked in, and announced that they were meeting friends here. The concierge pointed us out, and asked if we were the friends they were meeting. With a firm “NOPE” as their eyes swept over us and looked beyond, they were seated at one of the few remaining empty tables.

The trouble is, we have dined with this very couple on several occasions. They had been invited at the last minute by our mutual friends, still nowhere to be seen; and they were as unaware of our intent to be there as we were of theirs. By the time our friends arrived, I was in a foul mood, ready for the check and unwilling to be talked into joining the now large party. Our uninvited guests had ruined my night.

Well, I begrudgingly joined the party, yet sat against the wall at the far end of the table glaring at a baseball game on television. They laughed and ate, barely casting a glance in my direction. My friends were so engulfed in conversation with the other couple that even if I had been so inclined to contribute, I had no knowledge of the people or subjects they discussed. Of course, the service was awful and the entire disastrous meal took nearly two hours.

After an hour of silence on my part, my concerned friends, knowing this was not typical behavior for me, asked if there were anything they could do: Did I feel all right? Did I have a bad day at work? Was I tired?

No, I was simply lacking the attention I was so accustomed to in such situations. And I suffered just as a Vicodin addict suffers from lack of her fix. Was I really that shallow inside, my character so weak, that I feared engaging in conversation with people who couldn’t even remember meeting me? Was their forgetfulness a signal that my flower is fading?

This temper tantrum taught me that sharing the spotlight is a gift, not an obligation. For our validation of significance should be from within; and the growth I experienced that night simply by exposing my weaknesses to the most important judge–me–was well worth the two hours sitting against the wall.

I recently planned a trip to Haiti to visit my boyfriend’s family. He is an exotic hunk of a man, and what better way to learn about his past life than to impose on his relatives.

When I told people I was going to Haiti, I received one of two responses:

1. Wow! How lovely! I’m sure you’ll have lots of relaxing time.

2. WHY would you want to go there? That’s not exactly a vacation destination!

The Polyannas in the first group simply lumped Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, in with the rest of the exotic-sounding islands somewhere off the coast of somewhere. The second group had been exposed to recent media horror stories about the kidnapping, rape and murder of visitors and natives alike in Haiti. I really didn’t know what to think, and to be honest about it, I hadn’t done much homework about the country. Although we spoke to his family in Haiti on a daily basis, my connection to the country was limited to hearing endless streams of excited gossip-swapping in Creole.

But one day back in March we were sick of it all in the United States, and sitting by the pool, we decided that we needed a vacation abroad. How we agreed on Haiti escapes me, but I do remember being slightly excited about visiting a new land, and that was good enough to fuel the fire of airline ticket purchasing, calendar marking and submitting for vacation days at work.

Everything was fine for the few months prior to our trip, but the more people I spoke to, the more of the second response of horror I encountered. I had avoided typing those 5 letters in the Google search box for fear of what I’d find, but one night in a weak moment I gave in. Story after story detailed the horrific experiences of Americans, Germans, even Haitians of all ages and status being kidnapped, raped, terrorized and held for ransom by gangs who performed these atrocities purely and simply for the money.

And that started the panic.

So much so that the day before our departure, I had worked myself into a shaking, sweating and hyper-ventilating frenzy at the thought that I could be one of those victims. This was the “vacation” I had chosen–my first vacation in two years–and I was visiting a land where every minute could be my last. Visions of ropes tied around wrists and hot steamy cinder block huts crowded my head, pushing out any thoughts of relaxation like bees smoked from a hive. A mere 24 hours before we were to board the plane, I backed out.

And my loyal boyfriend, remaining by my side always, agreed to change our plans. Yet there was suddenly no where else we could go; all the cruises were booked, last-minute hotels full. Hours of searching revealed no other viable option for our vacation. Reluctantly, I resigned myself to my fate, and prayed like never before.

So we went.

And we’re back. And nothing bad happened.

The people I met were the warmest, most jubilant souls I have met in decades of traveling. They exuded sempiternal pride for their culture despite the unfortunate incidents that occurred in their island paradise. Families ate together and sat around the table for an hour afterward; trips were taken together for the companionship rather than for the safety; and laughter arose from every room with people in it.

I think of what I would have lost had I not taken that chance and swallowed my fear. I never would have had that memorable adventure, and the dozens of newly adopted family members that still ask about me today. And when I compare the kidnapping and murders that occasionally happen in that beautiful land, I wonder if Haitians coming to New York City for the first time might feel that same apprehension. For those things probably occur far more often there than they do in Haiti.

Even within our false sense of safety, most American families don’t bother to share a meal with their loved ones. I wonder which is the paradise and which is the place we should fear?

And those people who gave me the first response? They were the ones who knew that no matter where you go, you can find peace and relaxation anywhere you choose.

Today Kevin, an aquaintance of mine, was killed in an ATV accident. He was in his mid-20’s, managing a company more efficiently than men decades older; a brilliant shining star with all of his ducks already in a row despite his youth. One of his dreams was to marry a nice Jewish girl and to have kids.

In Neale Donald Walsch’s Home with God, there is a passage that rings true to me regarding this situation: that everyone who is aware of a person’s death is affected by it. However I didn’t spend time with him outside of the work environment in which I knew him–in fact, he had left my company months ago. So how could the death of this young man affect me?

An untimely death always reminds us of the preciousness of life; that theme is prevalent in film, books and art in our society. But there is something more…and I wonder if this “accident” wasn’t one at all.

Just think…if we exist in our physical lives to love others, learn lessons—and to help each other learn theirs—then what happens when those tasks are achieved? Did we all learn to read or tie our shoes at the same time? Don’t some others excel at certain skills while others lag behind? Could it be that his tasks were completed in a timely fashion, and he decided to move on?

This belief is not meant to diminish the need for grief. Grieving is a tribute to the sadness we feel at the loss of a loved one. Yet his death, and his life, affected hundreds of people at different levels; and dealing with loss is one of God’s challenges to those of us left behind.

Yet what does his death mean to me?

His death allows me to believe that he chose it–at exactly this time and in this manner–in order to enable us the deeper journey into life’s nuances within our souls. It gives us a reason for introspection about our purpose here, and to show our support to those more impacted by the loss than we.

So farewell, Kevin, and know that your life touched many—both near and far, and it woke up something inside me like a breeze to an ember.

A few days after Hurricane Katrina, I went through the mess that was my home. The lawn mower was in the family room, and my coffee table books lay swollen in my flower garden. Everything had been washed in a murky brown, silty sludge, and lay everywhere growing multicolored mold.

There was of course, the things that really didn’t matter: the old overstuffed chair I got for $40 that I never liked anyway, and my thongs (wrapped around a festering package of bacon on the back porch). And then there were the THINGS. Things that I had taken 40 years to collect: the Fatima’s hand that I picked up in a market in Morocco. The pictures of me standing next to a cement garden gnome in a perfectly manicured park in Austria. The wooden gifts from a Balinese family that invited me in when I had nowhere to stay.

We hear the cliche that at “least we have our lives; all the other things don’t matter.” And yes, I am thankful that my family is safe. But honestly, that was never really an issue, because anyone who was able bodied and sensible wouldn’t stay and risk their lives in a Category 4 hurricane. I would have never jeopardized my life by remaining in that dangerous situation—so my life here is not the issue.

The issue is that some things DO matter. Because chances are I can never replace those mementos from my traveling past. Over the years I would look at one piece or another and smile, remembering that I took part in an exchange with completely foreign people, and these objects were proof. They gave me solace that our life here in America may not be the best one, in many cases, and that one need not be rich, powerful and popular to be truly happy.

Now I must admit that some of the objects, although damaged, made it through the tornado, wind and 6-feet of water that flooded my home. Yet by the time I returned with an automobile large enough to carry things, most of those pieces had been looted. It is this kind of loss that hurt me the most, for in a sense, I did lose part of my life.

So if you find yourself attached to something, understand that someday it may be taken away from you. Don’t lose your happiness, but it’s all right to grieve your loss.

Baladi

This blog is dedicated to those who suffer in their everyday lives from loss:

• Death
• Illness
• Lack of Mobility
• Unemployment
• Divorce
• Depression
• Loneliness

Loss can be defined in many ways, and the threshold of pain is different for each of us. As for me, I have dealt with large amounts of loss in recent years. My suffering has been replaced with inner widsom and extreme happiness, but it did not happen overnight.

What it took was some soul searching, faith in a Universal Intelligence, and the acceptance of one truth for me: That “everything is as it should be.”

Please feel free to read the About Me page to understand my losses so that I can help you with yours. However, if you feel like you would like to hurt yourself or others, please see a grievance counselor right away. I am not a substitute for professional help.

People living deeply have no fear of death.
–Anais Nin