For two weeks, I wanted to get up, but ended up staying in bed, on the couch, not moving. A thick, sluggishness spread sticky crud over my joy. I wanted to be happy, but happiness was nowhere to be seen, heard, felt - only tears visited, and even they didn’t fully enter. I wanted to be done with grieving, yet… it was Grief who entered my home, calling for my attention, pushing me down till I finally listened.

Today is Spring Equinox. On this date, sixteen years ago, my daughter Michelle left her body - left this planet Earth. It doesn’t matter that death is a part of life, that it’s been this long, that I ‘should’ fully accept this reality. Grief is not linear. Logic does not keep Grief at bay.

There’s a theory I’m playing with. The theory is: when Grief knocks at the door (forces the door open + enters the house uninvited, it seems), our ancestor is here. Bill Ryan told me that when our deceased loved one is here, they’re looking for one of two things: to be forgiven or to forgive. He suggested I meditate + listen to Michelle. So I did.

I asked Michelle to forgive me. She said: “you were a good mom”. For her, now, there is nothing to forgive. For me, there’s still guilt - still a part that hides in my psyche, thinking: “I’m the reason she took the path she did. I’m the reason she used heroin. I’m the reason she died”.

I carried Michelle inside of my body. We were physically connected for 10-months. It was a magical connection. When Michelle was born, her eyes wide open, she stared into my eyes, before the doctor + nurses carried her to a shelf where they cleared her airway so she could breathe. When she was handed back, she stared intensely. She stared intensely at everyone who she saw. Her stare was like being seen, into the depths of your soul.

I carried my little Miracle’s incarnated being on my body while I walked, cooked, slept, bathed. I left Michelle in my mother’s insistent arms, while I went to use the bathroom. I was in the home I’d grown up in, in Peabody, Massachusetts - the home I hadn’t visited since leaving my mother in a state of anger, locked behind her bedroom door, after learning that I was pregnant. I walked to the bathroom alone - without my infant on me - for the first time in 7-months. Michelle was a ravenous eater. She loved breast milk. She looked at me with elated joy - every time she ate.

There’s a bond between mother and child that does not end when children grow up. It’s why moms don’t forget the details of their child’s infancy, toddler years, pre-teens, teens, young adulthood… even when their child forgets. It’s why adult children want their moms to always love them, even when they’re grown + on their own. Mom is the foundation. That’s why moms take on more than a normal humyn’s share of responsibility. That’s why I feel responsible for Michelle’s death.

Here’s a little neurology to explain this.

We tend to use the same neural pathways (over + over, for years + years). As we do, they move into deeper portions of the brain. By age 25, the pathways our brain relies on are so deeply embedded, it’s hard to break free of them (that’s why we form habits, and why habits are hard to break). One hypothesis for this is that the brain chooses the most energy efficient path.

Using this hypothesis, it’s understandable that my mind - bonded to + responsible for my child - wanders to thinking: “I didn’t give my daughter what she needed, and so, my bad mothering did this to her”. It’s not true, yet… I go there.

I can beat myself up and down on this one. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t bring Michelle back. It doesn’t bring us closer.

When I think under the first few layers of guilt, much further down… I know that I must have done the best I knew how. In retrospect, my brain’s go-to says: “you didn’t do a good enough job”. At the time I was mothering Michelle, my brain’s go-to often said: “you aren’t doing or feeling the right way that a ‘good’ mother does”. Even at those times, there’s a larger portion of my brain - a larger picture - that knows I must have done the best I knew how because, if I could have done better, I would have.

I know I’m imperfect. I know I have a lot to learn. I’ve seen myself grow, and hope to continue to do so. I am not who I was. Later today, I will not be who I am now. Michelle wants me to know that I’m forgiven. She has forgiven me. I’m grateful for that. I want to forgive myself, too. We will both be grateful when I can do that. I’m open to accepting her forgiveness + forgiving myself.

In meditation, Michelle asked: “do you forgive me?” I have nothing to forgive. She was vibrant + quirky, lonely + needy, young + impulsive. I miss her. I love her. I hope she can forgive herself.

Ash has not forgiven Michelle. ‘They’ were not even two-years-of-age when she left. When we talked about Michelle recently, Ash said: “I don’t know her”. ‘They’ said this with a tinge of anger + bitterness. I heard the underlying sadness. I always do.

Bill Ryan says: “Someday Ash will want to know about their mom, and you may not be here”. Bill Ryan suggests I write about Michelle - chronicle my take on her, for future Ash. I started writing to future Ash. Surprisingly (or, not really surprising at all), writing to future Ash (about “Mommy”) moved the Grief.

This is why Grief came knocking. This is why it got sticky + all stubborn - refusing to move off the couch until I listened. Grief had a purpose. Grief always has a purpose.

The Guest House

poem by Jalaluddin Rumi (13th century Sufi mystic); translated by Coleman Barks

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.