Open the Door
June 2023
On the night that Ohia died my friend Patricia invited me to her house for a healing session. I laid my heavy broken body on her bed with my partner next to me. Patricia placed her hands on me. My breathing pattern changed with long pauses and quick breaths for air as if I was working through the ventilator that kept Ohia alive for the last 48 hours of his life. The smell of the hospital turned into the scent of roses. Everything that came into my consciousness turned to love. I was aware of the pediatric intensive care unit that he was in. Love filled the room all the way back through time for all the other children who may have lived and died there. Love moved forward to all the other children and families who would be in that room in the future. Love went everywhere from there: to prisons, hospitals, Ukraine. Then I found myself in a temple that felt like a place in between–a resting place for those making the journey. Ohia was there. I turned to him and said “Ohia, I am so sorry.” He replied, “No big deal.” I said, “But you were going to go to college.” He said, “The school I am going to is much higher.” We then walked together. He told me a couple things that I hold closely in. This painting (and a series of them) came out of this experience that night. This is my sense of the space between this world and the next–the experience between this life and the next. There are many doorways, akin to "choose your own adventure". My intuition tells me that this space is beautiful. When friends see this painting I ask them which doorway do you feel compelled to walk through? We don’t have to wait until we die to open a door. What door will you open?
Making our way home
7/17/23 8"x10” acrylic
You will find gates and doorways in much of my artwork. Sometimes this is unintentional and other times an opening just appears. Being with my child as his lifeforce left him was both horrific and a deep honor. I felt I was a channel to help him to release and ascend. I believe that we do this for one another, some of us on this side and others on the other side, working together to make our way home.
Self-Dissolving
September 18, 2023
The world has cracked open and I have fallen in. How can I find myself? I am lost without you. The death of a child gives way to the death of the self. Who I was before my child died is gone. I am reduced to nothingness, completely deconstructed. This is its own layer of grieving. What I once found meaningful no longer carries the same meaning. My solid sense of self has shattered. While at times incredibly disorienting and painful, I am sometimes able to tap into a feeling of possibility. I never once imagined that my child would die by suicide. I never considered that I would carry a loss like this. On the flip side, I ask myself who do I want to be now? What life can I imagine for myself that I never once imagined was possible. There is freedom here. I am becoming more of myself–who I was meant to be all along.
Last Tree Standing
I went on an ancestral pilgrimage to Japan during the first year following Ohia’s death. The final stop on my trip was Hiroshima, where 140,000 people were killed by the atomic bomb dropped on August 6, 1945. As I approached the epicenter of the bombing, I wept. I felt a sense of kinship with those who had suffered. I said to them, I understand. I have also had a devastating loss. I am so sorry and I am with you.
This monoprint is of a 200 year old ginko tree that was the only tree that survived the atomic bombing. It stands slanted by the atomic blast, yet it still stands. I stood before this tree and asked how it managed to keep living. There are many questions we the bereaved ask ourselves. One question asked over and over again is: “Will I survive this devastating loss?” followed by “How will I survive?” There were many days early on when the only thing I asked myself to do was simply get through this one day and in making it through the day I would be one day closer to being with Ohia. Those were very dark days. I am still learning the answer to this question which is reflected in the way I live my life. I do believe that, in time, bereaved parents actually have a greater appreciation for life. Our hearts have broken open wide to touch into the suffering of others. I am grateful for this capacity while also wishing it was not so.
Mother, hold me
9/17/24 mixed media
I am a baby. You, child, are my mother. You contain everything and everything contains you. My love has grown as wide as the sky, as deep as the ocean, as high as the heavens expanding infinitely. That is how much I love. Love has grown to meet you in your vastness. May I settle into this love. All is love. The 911 call, love. The paramedics arrival, love. The police banging on my door, love. The emergency room, love. The pediatric ICU, love. The last breath, love. Climbing up into the hospital bed and holding your body, love. All of it, love. A gift from your soul to my soul, love.
And the heavens opened
10/25/23 mixed media
Grief is a portal. Sometimes grief starts at my feet and rises up like a powerful wave that drops my body to the ground. Resisting the wave takes enormous effort that I am simply not capable of. I am learning how to be with grief, to allow it to carry me. Where it is taking me, I have no idea. It is said that grief is love. Grief is love and so much more. I think about grief as a companion that embraces me like a lover or a friend. Can I allow grief to transform me? Can I trust her destructive force as well as her fierce love and possibility to create extraordinary beauty?