Sometimes life’s curveballs land right between you and the people who once mattered the most. When you are young, navigating the complexities of life and friendships, your emotions can get tangled up in arguments and hurt feelings. Distance may create walls that seem impossible to climb. But the aging process has helped create a shift in some of my most difficult relationships. I believe this change is because we are beginning to view the world through a different lens, one etched with the wisdom of time and the stark reality of life’s impermanence.
A few weeks ago, for instance, a group of us had gathered for a brunch at my house that reminded me of the incredible power of time and forgiveness.
The atmosphere was electric – in the best way possible. We reminisced about old times, poked fun at each other with gentle jabs. We listened to stories, to dreams simmered and unshaped, the paths we’d taken as a result. What struck me most was the overwhelming sense of love. In spite of all the tough times, we were still here, still connected by a shared history. Everyone left that brunch feeling lighter, closer, and reminded that even the most strained relationships can be nurtured back to health, like a wilted flower receiving a much-needed shower.
A friend once shared a truth that stayed with me: in the kitchen, surrounded by the murmur of conversation, a home finds its heart.
A week after the brunch, I received a thank-you note from one of the group. It was a simple gesture, a few heartfelt lines, but one sentence struck a chord deep within me: “Your house is so warm.”
It might sound simple, but those words meant the world to me. Throughout my life, I’ve always dreamed of having a “warm house.” The warmth I’d craved wasn’t about square footage or architectural style. My desire resided in a place that radiated not just heat, but feelings of belonging, comfort and love.
And here I was, feeling as if I was living the dream. The recent brunch served as a sweet confirmation of our 23-year journey, filled with joyous celebrations and moments of shared sorrow. An important reminder of the enduring connection that fills every corner of my house.
The world around us might change, relationships might evolve, but some things remain constant: the fragility of life, the power of forgiveness, and the enduring warmth of a welcoming home. A place that reflects the camaraderie shared not just in meals to feed the stomach, but in the nourishment of “soul” food exchanged and savored.
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To backtrack for a moment: Like many, I carry invisible scars. Some days, venturing out feels like navigating a minefield. There was an event out of town, one that involved a precious child I adore. Logic dictated I should be there, celebrating with everyone else. Yet, a deep, primal instinct urged me to say no and stay home. Guilt gnawed at me, the familiar monster of “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”
With a sigh, I embarked on errands. As I wrestled with the “should haves,” a familiar wave of loneliness washed over me. Trips, at last completed, I climbed into the car and turned on the radio. The lyrics, a powerful ballad by Melissa Etheridge titled “This is Not Goodbye,” which I had never heard before, transcended physical presence. The lyrics spoke of goodbyes that weren’t endings, but simply chapters turning.
I pulled over, unable to contain my emotions. In that moment, it became crystal clear. It was not about blind faith, but trusting the divine spark within us. Even when it feels counterintuitive to follow the spark that guides us on our unique paths.
By honoring my intuition, my own needs and saying no to the event, a space had opened up. A space of grace that, quite literally, allowed a visit from my son, Marshall, who had passed over four years ago at the far too young age of 26. However brief, it was a confirmation that love endures, that some connections defy the boundaries of time and space.
So, the next time that nagging “should I?” creeps in, take a moment. Breathe. Listen within. You might just be surprised by the unexpected beauty that awaits when you honor your own truth. It might just guide you towards something far more magical than you could ever have planned, reminding you that you are always held, loved, and guided.
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Not much different from today, the 70s boomed with a culture of body shaming, fueled by a relentless push to sell magic formulas for a beauty standard that was as warped as the false eyelashes and diet pills I clung to. The “miracle pills” whittled me down to a frail 102 pounds, a desperate attempt to mold myself into something peer-approved pretty.
You, on the other hand, Mike, were the pragmatist. Your words were few, but each one landed with the weight of your well-worn cowboy boots sinking into the good earth. I can still picture the glint in your eyes, even then, as a young man, when you asked me as I batted my extended lashes, “What ever happened to natural?”
Natural? The concept flew over my bleached-blonde hair.
Turns out, dear bro (and maybe you knew this all along), I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It took me five whole decades to finally grasp the meaning of “natural.” It wasn’t just about rejecting the miracle products and noise from greedy marketers, but also the well-meaning (but often misguided) voices of family and friends anchored by their faith (or traditions), trying to mold me into their own images.
Finally following your lead, I, at last, retreated inwards, finding solace in the quiet and contentment in the slow burn of a candle. This newfound space helped free me from external manipulation, my decisions stemmed from the deepest well of my being – my soul, (sadly, a missed opportunity for my son). In this way, a new understanding of myself blossomed within me, carried on the wings of redemption, faith, and the quiet hum of grief. It was a womb-like homecoming – a return to the essence of who I was always meant to be. Like the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinth that pushed through the warmed earth, bold and bright as jewels. In the process, I embraced myself. Judgment and distortions disappeared. A sense of liberation bloomed – a feeling as light and airy as the warm breeze that chased away the last of winter’s chill.
This personal freedom extended to giving others space. I let go of my ego. Of “fixing” prayers and forced agendas. Life, I found, often worked in mysterious ways, guided by a hand far more divine than mine and impossible to understand fully.
So, dear brother, thank you for planting the seed of the concept of natural in my heart. These last two years, in particular, are showing me that the overdue path for my true self is now under construction. Looking back, I see the past woven intricately together, not by chance, but by a divine hand that holds mine with compassion.
Specifically, since January 2023, I have lost over 35 pounds, all on my own without any drugs or shaming or a doctor’s fearful words. Out of the blue, I “happened” to have fallen upon the program NOOM (disclaimer: I’m not affiliated with them), and it has changed my life.
It wasn’t about quick fixes – NOOM focuses on behavior change and mental well-being, which resonates with me. NOOM’s app uses science and personalization to track food and lifestyle choices, promoting healthy weight loss and long-term habits, which I’ve incorporated into my life.
Sharing my initial progress with only one person backfired when they dismissed my one-pound weight loss after a month on NOOM. But I tuned out the negativity and continued to focus on myself. Every pound since then feels like a major victory on this amazing journey. Ultimately, losing weight isn’t just about the numbers on the scale. It is part of my powerful journey of self-discovery, because, as I already mentioned, I alone have claimed what was so loving and freely given to me all along: my authentic self. (While it looks like the naysayer is headed for a knee replacement, I am not, at least not at the moment!)
Just as amazing, too, and completely by happenstance, today also marks my one-year anniversary of becoming a pescetarian! There was no pressure, no specific date in mind – it just happened. (Plus, this time, I kept my secret to myself, secured in my judgment-free zone!) And that’s when I realized the most profound aspect of this journey: sometimes, the most meaningful changes come about organically, like a nudge from a higher power that reigns over all the super human powers.
My inspiration for this eating shift had been brewing for a long time, fueled in part by your gentle spirit and by my amazing daughter, Alexandra. She’s been a vegetarian since she was just eight years old, and at 29, she’s still a passionate advocate for animal welfare. Witnessing her compassion has brought the joy of spring to me every season, her dedication is always rubbing off on me. Then there’s my niece who’s poured her heart into working at an animal sanctuary early every Sunday morning for over a year now.
From the start, I felt a deep conviction about my dietary path. Then, just a few weeks in, a fantastic article in the New York Times, Peter Singer: Fix Your Diet, Save the Planet, practically fell into my lap, seemingly confirming my intuition. Since I gave up eating animals, even on days when the world feels like a relentless battle, I go to bed knowing I’ve made a positive impact, however small.
So, big brother, you were right – “natural” truly is beautiful. Maybe that’s why I find such joy in aligning myself with the universe’s flow, dancing with it rather than resisting, keeping my world free from the super human powers that get in the way and cause an accident.
Today, on what would have been your 78th birthday, I celebrate not only your life, but also the newfound vibrancy in mine. Who knows, maybe next year on your birthday, I’ll discover another divinely inspired way to move through the world that can sometimes feel so serious, a joyful expression in your memory.
But for now, I raise a glass (sparkling water, please!) to you, brother, to my incredible daughter and niece, and to the life I’m so grateful to share with them and all of you. Let’s weave faith into the unexpected twists and turns of life, and see what beautiful and unique tapestry emerges. Regarding that natural process, I’m profoundly grateful. Now, I can simply rest and watch the masterpiece unfold.
Happy Birthday, bro!
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Ruby, a precious gemstone prized for centuries for its beauty, rarity, and strength, also symbolizes love, passion, and faith. While some wear ruby jewelry to mark milestones, I found myself drawn to a 14k gold ruby ring during my tumultuous divorce in 2011.
Some people might have questioned why I had chosen to wear it daily at such a time of emotional and financial upheaval, perhaps perceiving it as flaunting wealth amid chaos. However, the truth was, the ring gave me a sense of control I desperately needed in my vortex of life.
Most of us have our personal ways to seek grounding and stability in life’s unpredictable moments, and sometimes it’s the “things” we hold dear that guide us back to our center. While some might find solace in religious symbols, such as a crucifix, for me, a simple ruby ring had served as a powerful anchor. It offered a sense of calm and strength, much like the red shoes provided balance for the woman I wrote about in a previous blog post.
While I rarely wear the ring anymore, whenever I come across that beautiful ruby ring tucked away in my jewelry box, it serves as a powerful reminder. The ring whispers tales of past chapters, highlighting the importance of personal anchors. This realization also prompts me to soften my judgments when I see others clinging to their own possessions, whether it be a cherished trinket or a flashy car. All things considered, life’s journey is rarely smooth. If driving a ruby red Mercedes or wearing a ruby ring helps someone navigate life’s bumps and roadblocks, who am I to judge? Perhaps the truest faith lies not only in traditional beliefs, but in the quiet understanding that many of us possess our own personal talismans that not only help stabilize us in life’s storms, but power us forward. Ultimately, we all carry our own burdens, and sometimes the most faithful act is simply acknowledging the quiet battles fought behind the projected facades as well as victories celebrated within the hearts of others.
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He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
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As a child raised in the Ukrainian Catholic Church, I spent countless hours participating in rituals. Crossing into adulthood, however, these memories transformed into associations with aching knees from kneeling, a stiff back from standing for what felt like an eternity, and a constant glance at the clock’s hands that seemed frozen in time, like a nagging hemorrhoid.
Despite my aversion to the rigid structure of my religious childhood memories, as an adult, I found myself drawn to the role of Cubmaster and leading my son’s Cub Scout troop for several years. While vastly different, the organization provided a surprising sense of comfort and familiarity through its own set of rituals. This experience reinforced the idea that while we may evolve throughout life, fundamental human needs, like the desire for connection and belonging, endure.
These memories and discussion of heritage brings me back to the day that my older brother, Michael, passed on March 18, 2002. It was one of profound grief that forever altered me. Later that year, when Bruce Springsteen’s album “The Rising” was released, the song “You’re Missing” became a source of immense comfort, its lyrics resonated deeply within the void left by my brother’s absence. I sang along to it repeatedly as I drove aimlessly through our neighborhood. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the steering wheel in a silent, unconscious ritual.
Two decades later, this March and my brother’s passing feels particularly poignant, perhaps triggered by a beautiful blog post titled “Photographs,” Reclaiming the Forgotten, written by Anand, the son of my dear friend, Preema, whom I consider my Indian karmic sister.
In the moving reflection, Anand remembers his brother, Shyam, who passed away in 1994. “Nobody has asked to see my brother’s picture for a while. In a house full of books & papers, stationery & cutlery, clothes & bags, old letters & broken hardware – that I don’t have a ready picture of this feels like a small betrayal.”
Reading these inspiring words, a realization dawned. Over four years ago, following our family tragedy, I, too, had unknowingly committed a small betrayal. Grief narrowed my world after losing my son, and I had pushed my brother away. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten him or erased him. It was more that the raw pain of losing Marshall had painted gray shades over everything, etching little space for anything else.
To my surprise, as Anand delved into photo albums, reminiscing about his brother, I found myself drawn to a different kind of search. Borage seeds, to be precise.
These vibrant white flowers have thrived in our front garden for the past two years, and I felt compelled to plant a third batch yesterday – a little earlier than usual, on the anniversary of Mike’s passing. Planting the seeds felt like a fitting tribute to leaving room for my brother’s memories. It was a simple act that promised to become a cherished annual ritual. (My photo albums in the attic of Mike as well as my son can’t wait much longer either!)
After reading Anand’s beautifully written elegiac blog, which triggered so many other layers of grief in me, I also started to reread a blog, Big Brother Musings, I had written about Mike two years ago. That particular blog includes a letter I wrote in Mike’s honor. The following is an excerpt from it, “Not because you were handsome, strong, generous, compassionate, highly intuitive and intelligent and a war hero to boot, but because you knew that everything, no matter how utterly defective, stained, sinned or doomed, could root, grow and live under one condition: that it is planted in a bedrock of unconditional love.”
Was it a coincidence to purchase the seeds for planting in memory of the bedrock of his legacy?
The letter ends, “Dear Big Brother, I hope I see you someday. Feel your arms around me again and see the twinkle in your eyes when you gently whisper, ‘Peace.’”
This spring as the seeds sprout and mature, I hope to begin each day gazing out my window, the sight rekindling a sense of peace and gratitude. Though flowers bloom only during certain seasons, faith, in the face of loss, can blossom and flourish year-round, only needing a minimal space of its own to take root.
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As I picture the broken mirror that I wrote about last week, in my mind, I’m still struck by how its shattered fragments reflect the fractured pieces of my own life. But perhaps, instead of striving to mend them perfectly like the Japanese art of Kintsugi, there’s another path. Maybe it’s time to let go of these pieces, to remove them from the space they occupy in my mind. In their place, I can choose something new, something that uplifts rather than burdens my spirit.
This “something new” needn’t reflect a physical object. It could be the act of comforting the scared child within me, the one who’s carried burdens for too long. Whispering reassurances to my five-year-old self, “This too shall pass. You have the strength to overcome. Have a little faith and trust in yourself. Map out the future. Make a plan.“
Perhaps it’s time to reconnect with my grounding force, those often-overlooked feet that carry me through life. With newfound stability, I can rise tall and claim my rightful solid space in the universe.
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We’ve all heard that broken mirrors bring bad luck. Seven years to be exact. Well, six years ago, a stray mattress shattered the mirrored back of our small china cabinet. I shrugged it off at the time, preoccupied with other matters.
A few months ago, my dear friend Michelle recommended a wonderful handyman. Recently, while he was working on some odd jobs, our conversation turned to the china cabinet’s broken mirrored back.
“My wife won’t allow any broken mirrors in our house,” he said, his voice heavy with an unspoken worry. His words clung to the air, making the shattered reflection before me appear ominous. The cracks seemed to mirror the fractures in my own life, the hardships I’d endured, and the raw pain of our family’s tragedy.
Even though I was raised in a superstitious family, I didn’t really believe a piece of glass held any power over my circumstances. Fortunately, I do have a little more faith than that — but just in case — I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Maybe the broken mirror brought the bad luck into the house! I want it out as soon as possible!”
A few weeks later as the mirror came out, there was such a lightness in its place. I felt this sense of renewal – not in a superstitious “now things will be perfect” sort of way, Instead, it felt like a chapter had closed and getting rid of the broken mirror felt incredibly liberating.
During a conversation with Michelle, she mentioned something a friend, who had recently retired from the corporate world, had shared: “Hope is not a strategy.”
The wisdom resonated with me. I realized that removing the broken mirror was the true strategy. In doing so, I found hope. Perhaps the real power lies not in the shattered glass itself, but in the courage to choose change and embrace hope.
We all hold on to things, physically and otherwise, that no longer serve us. Whether it’s an old teacup with a stain, an item of clothing with a tear, or even a situation or person we can’t seem to move on from… sometimes letting go is the most cleansing and rejuvenating action we can take.
What are you holding onto that it may be time to release?
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A common refrain in the face of tragedy, often dismissed as a platitude.
But in Akin’s stream of thought, a main character in Stay With Me, Ayobami Adebayo reveals a powerful truth: Sometimes, the most profound emotions reside in the absence of words.
“I realized that the ground under our feet had just been pulled away, we were standing on air, and my words could not keep us from falling into the pit that had opened up beneath.”
Through grief, we confront the universal cavity life eventually carves, a void even the most eloquent language cannot fill. That’s Akin’s experience when he grapples with the devastating loss of his second child and is forced to reveal the truth to his wife, Yejide.
Without revealing the entire powerful story of Stay with Me by Ayobami Adebayo, let me say this: it’s a poignant exploration of love, loss, and the intricate bonds of family. While it delves into sensitive topics and doesn’t shy away from life’s harsh realities (trigger warnings advised), it also offers a captivating portrayal of Nigerian culture and societal pressures in the 1980s.
Can Yejide and Akin, the central characters, rise above their suffering? To answer that, we must first define what constitutes suffering and what defines strength? Does abandonment, for example, truly shield us from pain or, simply, compound matters?
If you haven’t read the book, prepare for twists and turns, even taboo ones.
The reason Stay With Me resonates with me is that the novel’s message transcends the specific narrative. It challenges the notion of starting life with grand expectations of a perfect world. Instead, it urges us to embrace reality – a reality where loss is inevitable, where storms are guaranteed. It’s in navigating these storms, in weathering the tides of hardship until true faith reveals itself.
While I was immersed in Stay With Me, my friend Pat presented me with Winter of the Heart, Finding Your Way through the Mystery of Grief, by Paula D’Arcy. This book, gifted to Pat by a mother who had lost her daughter to suicide, was part of a grief resource bundle. As I delved into its pages, I realized the uncanny connection – both books explored profound themes of loss and grief, making Pat’s gift feel divinely timed and deeply meaningful.
Here’s an excerpt from a section called, It’s Your Turn from Winter of the Heart: Although loss feels personal and isolating, it’s common to all humankind. Countless men and women have traveled this road; many are walking with us right now. The book of Ecclesiastes repeats the phrase “There is a time.” It’s true. Eventually there is a time when we all lose someone or something of great value to us. We expect grief in the wake of deep loss, but even everyday losses and unmet expectations may surprise us with force. The common experience of loss binds us all. We will each take a turn one day; we cannot escape life. We can only meet our circumstances with a deepening awareness of what it means to live life fully.
Instead of chasing some nebulous concept of “happiness,” what if we set our sights on a life that’s full? Consider the dictionary definition of “full”: packed to the brim, complete, lacking nothing. Now, compare that to “happy”: a fleeting state of well-being and contentment.
Life typically isn’t a neatly plotted story with a guaranteed happy ending. Nor does it have to contain a heart-wrenching Stay by Me plot line. But in a full life, the twists and turns, the moments navigated by blind faith, become chapters in a rich and vibrant story.
“I have no words,” becomes a celebration of life’s unpredictable nature. Because in a full life, the ending isn’t written yet. It’s an open book, waiting to be filled with the messy, magnificent adventure that is called your life.
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The wind howled, whipping my hair into a frenzy as I stood on the familiar shoreline of Sherwood Island State Park. It was one of the windiest days of the winter, yet there I was, drawn by an unseen force to this place of memories from my young adulthood, offering me once again a refuge I desperately needed.
Suddenly, tears welled up, hot and heavy. Tears for George, for the loss of a dear friend, for the fleeting nature of youth, and for the profound absence of my son, gone too soon just over four years ago. It were as if my defenses had crumbled, leaving me raw and exposed to the harsh winds of life.
The release of pent-up grief became a cleansing storm, mirroring the fury of the wind around me. And then, nearly an hour later, something shifted. Exhausted, but paradoxically refreshed, I looked around. The wind still raged, but the world seemed sharper, more vibrant and my senses heightened, my heart open to the raw beauty of life.
In that moment, faith wasn’t about words or doctrines. It was about the wind in my hair, the sand beneath my sneakers, the immensity of the ocean stretching out before me. It was about feeling fully alive, without restraints or judgments, simply existing in the present moment.
As I returned to my car, three small, smooth, white stones caught my eye, each one whispering tales of the sea. They were like perfect replacements for the missing ones I’d left at my son’s gravesite – the ones inscribed with our family’s names, now likely swallowed by the earth. Clutching the newfound stones in my palm, I carried them back, already picturing them marked and repurposed. It felt like a symbolic victory, a reclaiming of strength after weathering the storm.
I realized the wind still felt strong, however there was a lightness to it that intensified my sense of victory. I had faced my pain, embraced the rawness of life, and emerged feeling more connected, more alive than ever before. The beach buoyed me up as it always had and reminded me that even in the midst of grief, life persists, an ever-changing evolution, ever-renewing, just like the tide rolling in and out, forever constant, forever powerful.
Remember, your faith may not look like someone else’s, but it doesn’t make it any less valid. Trust your own journey, find solace in the unexpected, and know that you are never truly alone.
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WTF? (Where's the faith?) 