Larger Than Life

(Read at Cliff Wilder's funeral for his children - Jeff, Brian, Chad, and especially Terri)

It’s a cold and clear Monday morning in Northern Michigan. It’s a beautiful day. It’s a sad day. A day of remembering. A day of honoring. A day to be together.

Cliff Wilder was the All-American man. He was a great athlete, an enthusiastic outdoorsman, a loyal provider, a loving family man, an exceptional friend, and a responsible community member. He was everything to a lot of people. Large and larger than life, he was a force to be reckoned with. He was funny and warm and kind.

Cliff played many roles to many people – to me he was like a second father. His daughter Terri and I met behind the Manton Dairy Bar when we were three years old and we were best friends from that day on. We did everything together and spent a lot of time amidst each other’s families.

So many memories of Cliff are interwoven throughout my childhood. Learning to water-ski at Bear Lake. Me holding on for dear life, trying to circle the lake as many times as I could, with him trying to dump me as we made each wide-arcing turn. Fall football weekends and a call to the Wilder house that always was answered with a “Go Hawks!” Introductions to Cliff’s friends when he would say, “And this is my other daughter . . . “ I’d stand up a little taller just to live up to those words, so proud that he’d think of me that way.

As Terri and I got older and inevitably got into more trouble, Cliff seemed to always be there. Which for us was good and bad. He protected us from our teenage selves and seemed to always know where we were. We didn’t like that so much. But secretly, I think we loved it. He had our backs and nothing truly bad could happen with Cliff watching over. Yes, larger than life, he could take care of anything.

Terri and I have talked throughout the past three weeks about her family’s losses and answers are hard to come by. I so want to give her comfort at a time when she is in so much pain. I have no answers but the following quote gave me great solace when I was trying to make sense of my own dad’s death. It is by Rainer Maria Rilke:

. . . I would like to beg you . . ., as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

When Terri and I were little she drew me a picture of a rainbow with a quote that said, “Fling me a rainbow,” I cry to the troubled sky. “And look, she flings one.” I’d like to believe that Cliff, and Jeanette, are going to be up in heaven flinging us rainbows. And as we live the questions themselves, our rainbows will take shape – one color and hope at a time.

Bombarded By Loss

A week ago my best friend from childhood lost her mother suddenly. Tonight, her father– just as suddenly and unexpectedly. A friendly acquaintance – another mom from my daughter’s pre-school – was due last month with what they knew to be a healthy little boy; he was born with Down Syndrome. A customer who ordered a print from me and sent a note with her check shared that she had recently lost a child . . . Another pillar from Higgins Lake passed on last week.

It’s a lot. A lot of sadness for a heart to hold. And my greatest sadness is for those who are enduring these losses. Trying to understand. Make sense. Figure out what’s next and how you go on when the world as you know it has collapsed.

On September 4th it will be the eleventh anniversary of my dad’s sudden passing. In some ways it feels like yesterday and in others, a lifetime. The first few days were exhausting and numbing. I felt like a zombie. It wasn’t until after the funeral and I returned home to school and work that it sunk in. And sometimes I’d sink and sometimes I’d swim but I always knew that some way, somehow I had to stay afloat.

Sometimes that meant doing absolutely nothing. Or sobbing. Or walking. Or writing. Or calling a friend. Or going to a movie. Or looking at old pictures of my dad and reading letters he wrote to me. Sometimes I needed people. Sometimes I didn’t want anyone. Sometimes I simply didn’t want to be me in my life at that moment.

But there were other times later on where I’d catch a glimmer of my old self and almost remember what it felt like to be normal in my own skin. When I actually could eat something and really enjoy it. Or immerse myself in a conversation with a friend that wasn’t about me or my loss. Or go do something spontaneous and actually enjoy it. It happens. It really does. And I would never have believed anyone. That you could feel normal again after a nuclear bomb had shattered all you used to hold as dear and true. The weird part is, there’s no rhyme or reason to loss. There’s no timeline and no hard-fast protocol to follow. It’s just each to his or her own, knocking around, falling, getting up, sitting up, catching one’s breath. Breathing. Continuing to move through life. Growing and becoming more of who we are meant to be. Shaped by our losses. Our hopes. Our fears. Life and death.

Perhaps one of the greatest pieces of advice came from my grandmother – and she uses this one a lot – and dammit if it’s not true every time: This too shall pass. Because at the time, it seems incomprehensible that the pain and emptiness and sadness we feel, could ever resolve themselves into some other malleable form that would make us human again. Won’t ever happen, we say. But it does and it will.

My grandmother is right and so are you. Whatever losses you are bearing: They are yours. They are your life and your truth. They hold lessons and the keys to greater love and understanding. By surviving and moving through at your own pace and in your own way, you are composing your life and how you choose to live . . . by making sense of how we die and what we do in that seemingly empty space between here and there.

This is dedicated to the sister I never had but chose as my own – my oldest and dearest friend: Terri Lynn Wilder. My heart is always with you. No matter the distance between us, I am never far away.

On Becoming a Counselor . . . Or Simply a Better Person

While in grad school pursuing my Masters degree in Human Development Counseling, I was trained to help others through their rough spots: life transitions, divorce, parenting issues, break-ups, eating disorders, control issues, losses. But the best part about the program was actually applying what I learned to my own life. I may be a better counselor for having completed my program, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am a much better person for having experienced it.

Some of the key lessons I learned – some simple, some profound – include the following:

The Tip of the Iceberg: Being mad or angry is typically only the tip of the iceberg. Figure out what’s beneath. Usually it’s one of three feelings: fear, sadness, and/or frustration. Once we can name the feeling or root of the anger, we are much more capable of addressing the real issue and not the symptoms.

Feedback is critical and the importance of good feedback is essential. One of our instructors – Roger Aubrey – was one of the best teachers I ever had. He gave the most detailed and constructive feedback I have ever received from a professor. His insights and candor were spot-on and he made his students both better counselors and better people.

Sighs hold a lot of energy – even my kids know this one and call me on it. When we let out a big sigh, it can mean or signal a lot of things. Tired, frustrated, overwhelmed, or perhaps when we are full and have had enough of a good thing. Sometimes our sighs are even good – Ahhh, contentment. Those are the best kind and rarely need interpretation. Those others (the heavier ones) are great signals to help us tune in to how we are feeling.

Walking every day can cure just about any malady. I swear this one has saved my life at least nine times. Walking – even for 20-30 minutes a day – is great for your heart, mind, body, and soul. It gets you out of yourself by moving, listening to other sounds, and giving you a rhythm to follow. It is grounding and centering. And, if you are going through a difficult time, it is a must.

Asking for what you need is critical; figuring out what you need is paramount. Brenda Dew was our Marriage and Family professor. She is great at what she does. One of the most basic exercises she taught me about relationships was to make a list of what you want in a relationship and what you need. The wants are compromise-able; the needs are not. Doesn’t matter if your need seems unreasonable to anyone else. If it’s your need, claim it and honor it. And when it is met, you’ll be glad you stuck to your guns.

Life is like a helix (picture a DNA strand from your seventh grade science text book) – we often circle back to people and issues, albeit at different levels, within our own development. Each circle up and around finds us with new information in which to deal with life at that given moment. Embrace your own development and the “coming around again” moments as another opportunity to grow and connect with yourself and others.

Writing or reading something inspirational can transform your day. I used to journal every morning with my coffee, read an affirmation, and then go for a run. After my morning ritual, I felt ready for anything the day had in store. (These days, however, I’m lucky to gulp my coffee down and go for a run at some point in the day – and, not even every day . . .) Doing what you can to fit a snippet of time in for an “I am grateful for . . . “ list or reading your favorite poet (Rumi is wonderful) or going over an inspirational passage or quote will quiet your mind and center your heart on what is really important.

Grief and loss are processes not hurdles to get over; when we’ve experienced a loss it’s about working through it and finding ways to honor ourselves and the loss; to make meaning of it and shape how we will move forward. Grief is different for everyone and we need to accept others’ processes while offering to be with them – in whatever capacity they need. Because in our dark nights of the soul, we need to be met where we are. And then, we may take the next step.

Listening is, perhaps, the most important skill we can hone. And, it is one of the best gifts we can give. Deep listening and reflecting another’s feelings so they feel they are truly heard and understood is not easy. We so often are busy thinking about what we want to say next in a conversation. And, as stereotypical as it sounds, most men are busy offering solutions to problems whereas women typically just want to be able to express how they are feeling. But validation of one’s feelings, for both men and women, can be not only affirming but transformative as well. (The Carl Rogers Reader is a great place to read more.)

Lastly, as my friends and I went through the counseling program we were required to read an article by Gill Noam. We had to read it at both the beginning and end of the program and my friends and I talked at length about an idea Noam espoused. We called it the “happy pig vs. unhappy Socrates” dilemma. In our ignorance we are often just happy, little pigs stumbling along through life until we know better. And once we know better, the expectation is that we should do better. But the dilemma lies in the risk of becoming an unhappy Socrates: full of a lot of knowledge about what needs to be done to become a more evolved, self-actualized individual but not always wanting to undertake the work involved to get there.

So sometimes I’ve been known to say to all of this: “Today I’m just going to be a happy little pig. I’m not going to grow anymore today. I’m tired of growing.” And maybe that’s been one of my most important lessons: knowing when to say when. To know my limits. To find my balance . . . sometimes on tip-toe . . . on the top of an iceberg.

Mad at Mama

The kids have looked at me a couple times (O.K., maybe more than a couple) since getting home from MI and said “Mean Mama” or “You’re really M-E-A-N”. Sure, maybe I am being a little mean, but if giving them more structure and requiring them to actually help around the house equates with me being mean, well, then call me the Wicked Witch of the Southeast.

Mad is O.K. in our house. At least I’ve tried to teach them that it is O.K. to get angry. It is also expected that we try to find a way to work it out or at least talk about it. Sage goes around saying, “Even when we’re mad, we still love each other.” Yes, that’s one of my big lessons for them. One I think is so important. Even when we’re mad, we still love each other.

I was mad at my own mama just the other day. It was the day we were leaving Michigan and I’m sure that’s loaded for both of us on so many levels. We’d been around each other five weeks and we’re so close an unreliable psychologist once said he thought we might be co-dependent. I said unreliable but I do think he may have had a valid point. My mom and I are close. Close like we typically talk a couple times a day. Close like she would love for me to give her a back-rub regularly (I only acquiesce once in a while). Close like if anything ever happened to her, I’m afraid I’d be so lost I wouldn’t recognize myself.

On the morning the kids and I were leaving and probably for the two days prior, my mom was a stressed out crazy person. Not only because of our imminent departure but because the day after we left, she was flying out of town too – actually, out of the country. All of those are good reasons to be stressed and I get that. But my mom’s reaction is hibernation mode. Picture an ostrich asleep with its head in the sand. Whereas stress typically motivates me and shoves me into high gear, my mom slows down, procrastinates, gets into bed for three hours, and then gets up more stressed and anxious because of what she still has to do. It’s fun to be around her at these times. Add your typical two and a half year old and a seven year old to the mix and it’s a downright party. NOT. It’s miserable. For everyone, I think.

She’s worried about us leaving on time, she’s worried that she hasn’t packed yet, she’s worried that she won’t get back to town to go to the bank in time to deposit the checks she’s been holding onto for three weeks. She’s worried that the marina might call about the boat and she won't be there. She’s worried that she won’t get a letter written that she’s been meaning to write for three months. She’s worried because she didn’t see a certain friend in the 48 hours she was in town . . . Do you get where I’m going with this? It’s absolutely maddening. And I just read somewhere that 95% of the things we worry about never even come true!

So, in the midst of all this worry and leave-taking, I guess I should have offered my mom a backrub. But the best I could do as we headed down the road was write the letter for her she’d been putting off for months and list all her checks on her deposit ticket so they’d be ready when she sprinted back to the bank. It wasn’t everything but perhaps it was enough. Because even when I’m mad at her, she knows – without a doubt – that I still love her. And, even at her ostrich impersonating best, I know she loves me.

Wouldn’t you know, when I talked to her the next morning, everything had magically fallen into place. We got to the airport on time, she got packed, made it to the bank, talked to the friend she hadn’t seen (and hopefully thanked her friend Steve without whom most of my mom’s to-do list would never get done); she even had time for a pedicure. She might have earned three new wrinkles for all her worry and a “Mean Grammy” from her grand-kids, but other than that, it’s just water under a bridge somewhere a long way from Saginaw, MI - somewhere near Paris, France.


Note: The title of this essay came from a book called Llama, Llama Mad at Mama by Anna Dewdney. A great kid’s book full of familiar routines, feelings and a little llama drama. I didn’t mention llama drama above but Little Llama and a certain stressed-out ostrich might have had a lot to talk about . . .

Combing Out The Tangles

My daughter Sage has getting-longer-everyday blonde, unkempt hair. Finally shoulder length, my husband and son insist we let it grow, saying that they prefer long hair (and I have short hair, go figure!).

Now, for what it’s worth, Sage and I don’t care whether or not she has long hair. But, for now, it’s long. And, it’s a mess. The problem: she doesn’t want to comb it. And she doesn’t want me to. So, more often than not, she runs around with a veritable rat’s nest in the back of her hair. I don’t really mind (probably because I know what’s in store if I force a comb through her nest against her will . . . ).

She seems to prefer the wash-n-go look (and I totally get that). But there are days I’d love to coax her and her locks into a long, relaxing round of brushing. Her luxuriating in my gentle touch, her hair glistening in its blonde silky goldness, and me: full of pride at not having had to hog-tie my daughter to get a cute little bow in her shabby-chic locks.

Princesses we’re not. At least not the happily-ever-after kind. We’re the kind of princesses who don’t mind a little food on our clothes, chipped nail polish, or an unpolished ‘do. We’re the kind of princesses who like to eat ‘til our heart’s content, bunny hop around the house, and run around in our underpants.

We’re those princesses who are not waiting for our happily-ever-after. We’re those princesses who strive for happily ever in the moment. Doing our best to love what is: bow in or not.

No, no perfect hair for us. Just perfect moments. Getting clear on what matters. Tangles and all. Style vs. substance, my husband once said. I think I’d choose substance almost every time.