This trilogy of words is taken from a review written by Shannon Gwin Mitchell, a noted psychologist and personal friend who read our book, Griefland, while it was still in galley form. I love her words because they remind me that this journey begs for silence and privacy, and yet, here we are – all of us, making an effort to grieve out loud, shake hands with our sorrow, bring it out into the open, make eye contact with its power and fury, and not let it take us down. Throughout these many posts, we have propped each other up, taking turns being on the giving/receiving end of care, compassion, camaraderie.

Hearing your stories and rereading many of them this evening remind me once again that we are all human, more alike than different, yet alive and wide awake with emotion. Your honesty stalls the seduction and temptation to bury myself in work or spend another Spring in solitary confinement, hiding out in my self-imposed cave. Instead, I inch my way toward life. “Living out loud,” as Nancy once declared.

Earlier today I read a breathtaking quote by Frederick Buechner who wrote, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

That is my wish for all of us this month.

This Chinese proverb spoke to me this morning as I noted so many of us teetering, losing our footing, crash landing to the ground while missing our loved ones and navigating our personal grief journeys. I must say it’s haunting to read your words – I see shadows of myself in every sentence – your hurts, your profound moments of sorrow, the flood of memories. As one of the seniors in this “club,” I want to tell you it will get better with time, but this sounds so hollow, I know. But there will be moments, even days, when you start to feel human again. They arrive without rhyme or reason, in brief spurts, but if and when they do  - please don’t deprive yourself. Breathe them in, savor them, and remind yourself that the best way to honor your loved one is to live fully in their place. The changing of the seasons, warmer weather, longer days, time for late afternoon walks to sort through cobwebs, can bring insights and clarity, or at least a bit of a pause in this vicious and seemingly endless grief cycle.  As I approach year 9, I have finally decided to transform Alex’s room into a writing space for myself. This decision has taken forever to arrive at – letting go of his shoes and clothes were like gigantic exclamation points that he was never coming home again. Even rearranging furniture feels like betrayal. But let’s face it, these children of ours will always reside front and center in our hearts and minds. Little by little, I am moving forward, giving myself permission to find joy again – but believe me, it’s not a cakewalk. Thank goodness I have Nancy to talk me down off the ledge of my guilt and feelings of self-doubt. Grief has changed me on a cellular level. A good friend of mine who knows I collect snowglobes, recenlty told me that grief is like a snowglobe. Someone dies and it’s like the globe shakes and quakes and all the snow is tossed upside down and then lands in some new configuration.  To outsiders, spectators, we may all look the same. But we are forever changed, living this ‘new normal.’  I’ve decided that I will write about this journey until my pen runs out of ink. I hope you will, too. Keep your thoughts flowing here – we will all try to comfort and nurture each other, just as we have been doing day after day. The cafe has never been so crowded. Your courage to share openly on these pages says a lot about your resilience and determination to remain vertical. Although we may never fully understand how and why we landed here, let’s promise to keep getting up, dusting ourselves off, inching forward in time.  As Nancy and I discovered, there’s no need to walk alone in the dark. Grab someone’s hand.

On the eve of a fresh new year, I find myself looking inward, reflecting on moments small and large, happy to be intact and still in one piece, despite moments during 2012 when I felt more like a fragmented Picasso than  human. It comes with this territory, one I’ve grown accustomed to over time. Nancy wrote a Facebook post earlier this month that started out, “How am I doing?” It’s the burning question everyone asks the grief-stricken, isn’t it? They want to hear that we’re managing well, that there are pockets of healing and serenity, that we are resuming some sense of normalcy and getting on with life. Yearning to see us whole again, ’ back to our old selves’ - friends and family quiz us regularly.

Going public with our sorrow, writing “Griefland,” and navigating the treacherous terrain with spectators watching from across the border, has been a life-altering experience.  Stripped naked, our words honest and direct,  the sacred veil of darkness lifted – revealed an unwavering commitment not only to each other, but also to this growing community that includes you.

When we began this journey, we told ourselves that walking through the fire would either melt or reinvent and illuminate us. On the cusp of 2013, we have somehow rejoined the human race, both of us realizing that every single minute is a precious jewel. We breathe the moments in, knowing that if we don’t, they will be gone forever. Nancy wrote, “Memory is a strange thing, as is grief. It morphs with time. Grief changes shape and the memories we have of our loved ones also morph, change shape, become more magnified, details become sharper, then fade into oblivion.”

Wherever you may find yourself along this path of grief and heartache, we embrace your every step, extend our arms for you to hold, balance with, touch, and feel. Let this human contact serve as a reminder that you are still alive, still breathing, and never alone in this place we call Griefland. Above all, continue walking with us as we venture toward the heart of the city to discover light.

I received a note this week that threw me back into my childhood days and came from a close friend whose mother was killed in a horrid automobile accident when we were all very young. Her path, an unusual one, she moved far away and eventually landed on the other side of the planet where she raised a family and is now teaching. Her aunt attended one of our book signings and asked me to inscribe a copy of ‘Griefland’ for her. A few weeks later, when I received the note, her words chilled me to the bone. She spoke of never being allowed to cry for her mother, of being instructed not to shed a tear or whimper. Implored to be strong and stoic for her father’s sake (to be a brave little girl), she buried every ounce of emotion. Her note hinted at the deep trauma surrounding her inability to grieve out loud. She described herself as a prisoner now – trapped, numb and frozen, devoid of feelings. My heart aches for her tonight, sensing a tsunami of emotion stirring inside her, a riot of noise and color assaulting her very essence. She said reading ‘Griefland’ brought a lot of unfinished ‘stuff’ to the surface. Tonight, I want to wrap my arms around her, grant her permission to cry, scream, and wail.

Last week I also heard from nurse who shared with me an Oprah book club episode she had recalled from years past. During this particular show, they were discussing Toni Morrison’s book, “Beloved.” The women were all sitting around a large dining table and Toni was reading an excerpt from the book when one of the women began to cry. The excerpt had brought back memories of a loss to her. She was trying to restrain her crying, apologizing, trying to explain when Toni Morrison got up, walked around the table, wrapped her arms around the woman and, as the woman continued to apologize, Toni kept repeating, “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.”

Let’s settle this once and for all: grief has no statute of limitations, no expiration date. We must all embrace the pain and give it permission to just be.  Tonight, that is my wish for all of us.

In less than one month’s time, Nancy and I have been overwhelmed by the flood of stories shared so openly with us in person, via e-mail, on FB, and in this blog.  Each has its unique shape and circumstance, but the nucleus revolves around love, loss and the challenges of remaining vertical for 5 minutes longer.  We survive in increments, don’t we, one moment, one hour, one breath at a time.  Last week, during several presentations and interviews for our book, I noticed that in each crowd, there was always one spectator lagging behind, needing to stay and whisper a few words into my ear.  One was a young man in his early twenties, who walked me to my car and then quietly shared that both of his brothers had died only days before he was to leave for college. A day later, I lunched with a woman who tried for years to conceive, finally adopting a beautiful son, only to lose him to suicide a few years ago. Our e-mail boxes are filling up – we are obsessed with wrapping our arms around this most unthinkable circumstance of loss.  My own family still avoids the grief-talk so these intimate exchanges, often times with strangers, are soothing and a balm to the crazy voices that haunt and torment me (us) without warning.  Just as Nancy and I found safe harbor through our chance meeting, we invite you to be part of this family.  With the holidays about to bombard us, it feels like an opportune time to make contact, start sharing survival strategies, build our community, and welcome each other into this club. Let us hear from you, whether it be in words, unfinished or run on sentences,  stanzas of survival, or in your darkest hours. We await you, with open arms.