El legado de un gran amor, A legacy of love

The following story comes from my friend, colleague and artist Araceli Galiano in Madrid. I believe that Mother's Day is also a time to honor grandmothers. It is a good time to remember, as Oprah Winfrey and others have said: "I stand on the shoulders of those who have come before me." Writer Araceli Galiano is the third in four generations of Aracelis. The name of her grandmother was given to her mother, to her, and Araceli chose to give it to her daughter. This story is just one of the reasons why it is important for them to keep this special woman's name alive. 

The story is fluid, impressionistic, y fuerte. Its simple telling reveals the tremendous inner strength of a woman who risked everything to marry the man she loved. The years that followed were years where an entire family learned from that kind of love and learned how to continue its true expression. 

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La historia que sigue viene de mi amiga, colega y artista Araceli (Tati) Galiano. Llamarla una historia de amor no es suficiente, aunque entre historias de amor, ésta ciertamente es una de las buenas. Es también una historia de sembrar, defender y legar el amor a generaciones. Hoy asistí a un servicio en una iglesia en donde la ministra dijo que nacimos del amor para amar. Esta es la clave a la vida; no los logros, la fama, ni lo que llamamos el éxito que viene del ganar una cantidad de dinero. Nacimos del amor para amar. Gracias a la primera de cuatro generaciones de las Araceli, tenemos aquí un ejemplo de la fuerza y dignidad que acompañan tal vida, la vida de amar.

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Amor desde siempre, hasta siempre

por Araceli (Tati) Galiano

Abuela Araceli, Guerra Civil 1936-39

Mi abuela Araceli tenía unos preciosos ojos verdes que cuando se nublaba el cielo se le ponían grises como un día de tormenta y cuando paseábamos por el campo le verdeaban como si las hojas de los árboles se hubieran instalado en ellos.  Para mi bisabuelo fue la niña de sus ojos y para ella acabó siendo mas dolor que provecho.

A los 19 años, Araceli se escapó de casa y se casó con el corazón, y en contra de su padre, con mi abuelo Jesús, un joven de su misma edad, un moreno guapo y alegre hasta en sus andares.

El corazón no se manda

José, padre de Araceli

Conocí al bisabuelo y recuerdo su carácter fuerte y tiránico. Acostumbrado a mandar y a que se le obedeciera, no pudo soportar que la niña de sus ojos se enamorara por su cuenta, sin que él lo dispusiera. Queriendo romper las costuras  que la pasión  había entrelazado, dispuso encerrar a mi abuela en su dormitorio “hasta que se le pasase el capricho”. Dio orden de que se le subiera la comida y que no recibiera a nadie, ni siquiera a su madre y hermanos. 

Pero no supo calcular el bisabuelo la fuerza de su amor. La abuela rechazó la comida, los piononos de Santa Fe, los tocinillos de cielo de López Mezquita y los vestidos de París que le regalaba para que olvidara a mi abuelo. En su encierro su amor fue creciendo y su obstinación también . Me hubiera gustado saber de que color eran por aquellos días sus ojos.

Araceli en el balcón de su casa

Parece ser que por medio de las sirvientas intercambiaba mensajes con mi abuelo y así planearon su huída. “Les casó en secreto un sacerdote aquí en Granada” —me dijo mi madre una noche de verano entre confidencias  y recuerdos. En la familia nunca se habló de ello, un sutil velo tapó los hechos para evitar habladurías en una ciudad dónde todos se conocían. Eran tan solo unos críos y la guerra civil se cernía sobre ellos. 

Mi abuelo Jesús partió para la guerra y mi abuela se quedó sola, con mi madre entre los brazos, llorando. Tanto lloró que la casa se le inundó de dolor y fue entonces cuando aprendió a salir a flote sola.

El apoyo de madre y hermana

Abuela Araceli con su hija Araceli

Araceli se veía a escondidas con su madre que le puso una señora de compañía para que no estuviera sola durante los bombardeos. Me contaba la abuela que habían preparado una habitación llena de colchones para protegerse las tres. Doña Estefanía, “la pobre…”—me decía, salió de misa una mañana y le cayó una bomba  a pocos metros de la Iglesia de la Magdalena y la mató junto con un lechero y su burro con la leche en las alforjas.  Ese día también se le derramó el alma a mi abuela que volvió a quedarse sola. 

Araceli con Doña Estafanía, Granada

Como ya se le habían gastado todas las lágrimas con la partida de su marido y con la muerte de Doña Estefanía,  lloraba en seco, hacia dentro y rezaba pidiendo para que ésta pesadilla se acabara. Rezaba cosiendo, rezaba cocinando la comida que su madre a hurtadillas le enviaba. La prohibición del bisabuelo seguía en pié y siguió hasta muchos, muchos años después. Sin embargo nunca oímos una palabra de reproche saliendo de la boca de mi abuela, ni vimos un gesto de rencor en ella, aunque la pena la llevó siempre en su corazón. 

Fue mi tía abuela Eloisa, su hermana, la que en el año 42 puso como condición a su padre para casarse que hiciera las paces con su hija Araceli. El accedió, pero no su arrogancia. Fue una conciliación carente de cariño, fría como el hielo, distante y sin aprecio. Para entonces la abuela ya tenía dos niñas más y mi madre tenía 9 años cuando conoció a su abuelo.  El resto de mis tíos, cuatro más, nunca lo conoció y el pobre abuelo Jesús nunca fue aceptado, las paces no le incluían a él. 

Araceli y Jesús, en espera de su 6º hijo Miguel

Mis abuelos supieron llevar éste destierro con mucha dignidad y elegancia, jamás hubo críticas ni reproches, se lo guardaron para ellos hasta el final igual que su amor que hasta el último día se tuvieron.

Un legado de comprensión, compasión y dignidad

Ahora, con el paso de los años puedo comprender la fortaleza de mi abuela, como su corazón pudo abarcar la pena  y con que sabiduría, humildad y generosidad supo llevarla y crear una gran familia que le está tan agradecida hasta ahora.

Siento un gran orgullo de ser su nieta y de llamarme Araceli como ella, como  mi hija, como mi madre, como mi  dulce prima que está con ella en el cielo cuidando de todos nosotros y la bisabuela. 

La abuela sigue teniendo unos hermosos ojos verdes en nuestros corazones.

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Nota de la redactora:

Las cuatro Aracelis. De izquierda a la derecha: Abuela Araceli, Nieta Araceli, Hija Araceli, e bisnieta Araceli. La luz y profundidad de los ojos de estas mujeres me dicen mucho que no se puede encajar en palabras solamente.

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Araceli Galiano es artista y escritora. Sus ilustraciones, collages y obras de papel cortado se han expuesto en varios sitios en España y vendido en varios países. Para ver ejemplos de su obra y otras cosas interesantes, visite su sitio web 
Tati Galiano y su blog La viajera más lenta

Texto y fotos, copyright Araceli Galiano, 2014. Todos los derechos reservados.

There is always a great turning and turning over at work in nature, of death going into life and vice versa. It helps me to remember that this is natural, not foreign; beneficial, not ultimately destructive. Troy Sims takes us into this turning, gently and with insight.

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Growing into New Life

by Troy Sims

When I was about 4, we moved “out to the country,” and my parents wanted to grow a garden. The problem was that the soil at our “new” house was hard, white clay that even grass and weeds had a hard time growing in, so my parents went to work to make it more fertile.

First, Dad had the area plowed and then he tilled it by hand. Next we took our food scraps, week after week, to spread over the garden-to-be. Man, did it stink! I hated when it was my turn to take the scraps out, wishing I had a 10-foot pole to hold the bucket far from my nose! We spread the ashes from our fireplace all over scraps, too.

We did this for years, but it made this less than fertile ground a place of abundant growth – not to mention a garden that yielded tasty veggies! The once hard, white clay became rich, brown soil. From death and ashes, new life burst forth.

Lent is a time of preparation for new life to come on Easter. A Lenten practice I encouraged the families of the church I serve to take part in was to plant something together and care for it with water and sunlight (noting that they didn’t have to use the stinky food scraps unless they just wanted to). “Together,” I advised them, “you can watch new life burst forth from the dead ground (or dirt in a pot) in anticipation of the new life of Christ that burst forth from the grave on Easter.”

My family had done this last year. I remember well the excitement my son Micah showed because he had been given a “kit” that included dirt, a cup, and a lima bean. We planted it, and EVERY morning, one of the first things Micah wanted was to see if his plant had grown yet. We kept it watered and made sure it got lots of sunlight. It seemed to take forever, but eventually something green began to protrude from the lifeless dirt, making Micah all the happier.

It didn’t take long before it began to have more form, and though it had been years since I’d seen a lima bean plant, I couldn’t help but think that this did not look one.  The more it grew, it became clear that it wasn't. It was a stalk of Johnson grass – a prominent weed in Texas. Fueled by Micah’s excitement, though, we continued to check on it, water it, and make sure it got plenty of sunlight.  Before you knew it, we had a 1.5-foot tall Johnson grass plant. The lima bean never appeared.

As I think about the life of faith, it takes a lot of practice and effort to make that life fruitful. How often are we disappointed that what grows is not what we expected or wanted?

I was certainly disappointed. I wanted Micah to have a chance to eat lima beans that he grew himself as I did as a child (even though I didn't really like them!). Yet, Micah was not disappointed at all. He had grown something.  Maybe that is all that was needed.

I wonder what this experience tells us:

about having a child-like faith, 

about giving up something for Lent, 

about resurrection and new life.

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Troy Sims earned his Master's of Divinity degree from Brite Divinity School in Fort Worth, Texas. He has served on the church staffs of several Texas churches and was a deacon and Christian Education minister at First United Methodist Church in Wichita Falls, TX, from 2005 to 2012. If you're interested in lively, thoughtful, progressive discussion on Christianity today, I highly recommend his blog, Loving God with All Your Mind. Text copyright 2014, Troy Sims.

Anniversary Fever

I've written posts related to this subject before (see below), but recent experience has returned me to the topic of  "Anniversary Fever," of how and when our bodies grieve. I've found this pattern to be most clear in the first one to two years after we lose a loved one. Sometimes, you find yourself feeling unwell on the monthly anniversaries of a death, funeral, event. Other times, it's the year-long mark or the birthday of someone who no longer celebrates that birthday here with us. I used to think that, after some certain period of time, the body would no longer experience these glitches. I was wrong.

The son of one of my lifelong friends died 12 years ago. Although we lived in separate countries at the time and neither of us knew what was occurring in each other's lives, her son's funeral occurred the same day that I left my home and experienced a loss so strange and painful that it simply cannot be brought into a public sphere.

Six months after those losses, my friend and I reconnected. We make it a point to discuss "the date," now, even 12 years later. On March 26 of this year, she went to the cemetery to place flowers at her son's grave and clean the grounds around it. She went to the cemetery feeling fine, and half an hour later, she didn't. The next day she had a full-blown sinus infection.  On the anniversary of her son's death, her husband experienced a knee problem "out of the blue," with nothing to be found as a "cause." On March 26, I awoke in the middle of the night with sharp, shooting pains in my legs and severe muscle spasms in most of my body. There was no physical reason for the midnight spasms. Also no reason for them to cause me worry. The date was reason enough for all of it.

I cannot explain this. I can only affirm that the body has its unique way of working through grief. Some of the grief recovery literature points to the lungs as an organ that stores grief, and I have indeed seen that many people suffer respiratory infections more frequently during the first year after a loss. But this is just one anecdote among many. Anniversaries may bring tears, illness, discomfort, nostalgia...but the one thing they are is insistent, as though the physical body is saying, "Let me have my say. Let me work through this grief, one more time, and one more time again." 

These anniversary reactions appear inconvenient, counter-intuitive and counter-productive. I have learned that, despite the passing of time, there are simply some anniversary dates when I know it is unwise to schedule an important meeting or take a trip. Even if symptoms don't appear, my energy level is likely to be considerably lower than normal. I used to think that by being aware of the date in advance, I could avoid a physical response to the anniversary, and perhaps, in some instances, I have. Or perhaps, I have made that physical response easier to manage.

You have likely heard any number of things about Tantra in the media. It has some points, though, that have nothing to do with any celebrity's sex life and everything to do with real life. One of these is the doctrine that "the body is a vehicle of truth." Again, I don't completely understand this, but I see the doctrine at work all the time. And I certainly see it in grief-related anniversaries.

I encourage everyone to be conscious of these anniversaries. I believe they are some kind of crossing-point or rite of passage that, in spite of the temporary pain they cause, are vital to our "getting along with grief." Perhaps they are as mysterious as death itself. Perhaps I will never fully understand why anniversary "symptoms" occur or what purpose they serve. For now, I can simply say that I choose to be conscious of them, that I prefer consciousness to lack thereof, and that I choose to see them as progress and a sign of my own wholeness...a sign that all of me lives all of my life. It occurs to me that I can use that consciousness in some way, choosing to remember that loved one, choosing to share memories of them with others, sending a memorial donation in their name to a favorite cause. These, among others, are "symptoms" I can choose and celebrate, even as my body works to release a yet-dissonant chord from my life's score.
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For earlier posts on this topic, see:
Managing Anniversaries
Building on the Changes
So Many Seasons in One Month

Mom and Mother's Day: Call for Submissions

Risking the sin of obviousness, I am issuing a call for submissions about moms and grandmothers, as Mother's Day approaches. Tributes, poem, photos, essays are all invited. What did your mother and/or grandmother teach you that has stayed with you?

My grandmother taught me a lot. One of eight children, by the time she reached her forties, she was the only surviving member of her family. She never spoke to me about any personal grief. She did, though, share some instructive phrases with me that I think came from her own grief experiences.

One night when I faced a great loss, I spoke to my grandmother on the phone, and she said, "You know, honey, sometimes it's just better not to think."

At the time, I thought her words were simply cute and endearing. Time passed, a time during which I also faced the loss of my grandmother. I cannot begin to count the number of times her phrase has revisited my mind and helped me through a tough moment. "Sometimes it's just better not to think."

What did your mother or grandmother make better for you, lead you to think about? Submissions on this theme are open through May 15. See guidelines at right for instructions.

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A slightly longer distance

Ascension's Robe by Ysabel de la Rosa

Anna and I met at a conference in the Rocky Mountains some 30 years ago. She was the first stranger I ever allowed to hug me. I moved to Denver a year later, and our friendship  grew. Even after I left the Mile-High City to return to Texas, we stayed in touch.

Anna was the first friend of mine to lose a child. Her 23-year-old son died of melanoma. During his illness and death, she faced numerous other traumas. There were complications with her son's insurance. The medical bills mounted. Her job did not pay much. The same week her son died, the bank came to take her car away. Her "personal" banker knew her situation, but cut her no slack. She had to move out of the town home where she had lived most of her adult life, had to abandon the place that held her family's "aura" and resonant memories of her children. During the time that Anna and I were in touch, she went through a host of losses, including her mother, ex-husband, a brother, a sister. One of her sisters had already lost four of her five children. Another sister and her father had died some years ago.

While her son was ill, I called her long-distance every day. This was before cell phones, Internet, or free long-distance calls. I called her every day for two years. She needed to talk as much after he died as she did before. So, every day we talked.

Time passed. Anna met a wonderful man and remarried. I spoke at the wedding. The wonderful man had a heart attack and died a year later. Anna then completed graduate school and became one of the country's finest grief recovery counselors. She was brilliant, compassionate, connected. Determined not to be stopped by grief or sorrow, she survived it all with pragmatic elegance. When there was emotional homework to do, she did it. When there was getting-on-with-life to do, she did that--with grace and a winning smile. In fact, as I see her again in my mind's eye, I would also say that she had a healing smile. When Anna smiled, her green eyes gave off sparks of light, and seeing her smile, I always felt closer to healing. I'm sure others did, too.

We did not visit often after I moved overseas. When I returned to the States, I had losses of my own to face, and the most I did to keep our communication going was to send Anna a Christmas card every year. In 2012, the card was returned. And in March of 2013, she died. I learned of her passing just yesterday.

There was a time when I would have indulged in intense self-flagellation (aka beating myself up) for not having done more to stay in touch with Anna these past few years. But I had my own set of circumstances to deal with, and staying in touch was not on the urgent agenda. Anything not urgent slipped far down the list of things to do. No one would have understood that better than Anna.

Anna and I used to talk about writing a book together. We were going to title it A Friend Through Grief. We didn't write it. We lived it. And I have tried to continue to live this concept. Since the death of Anna's son, I have shared in the process of eight other friends losing children. I never imagined I would know that many people in my own life who would lose a child. I was often grateful for what I shared with Anna, and she with me, at the time of her son's illness and death. It served me well. I believe that it made me more helpful to those other friends, and I know that it served, as Anna herself would say, as modeling behavior. It showed me how people survive the unthinkable. Her journey and her choices inspired, even admonished me to keep going at times when I thought I couldn't. My experience with her made me lose any fear I had about approaching someone who has lost a child.  I know there is no right thing to say. I also know the wrong thing to do is to let that not-knowing turn into absence when a friend is most in need.

I would have liked so much to speak with my dear friend before she moved on to her next life, but I am grateful to be at a stage in life where I know that she is just a slightly longer distance away than she was when I dialed her number every day for two years. I know she knows I love her. I even think she conspired with some other "force" to make it happen that I would learn of her death on the first-year anniversary of her passing.

I have spent the past 24 hours savoring memories of our shared times. I am allowing this new knowledge of her death to bathe me in gratitude for knowing her while she lived. Yesterday I received a lovely, newsy email from a dear friend in Italy. She wants us to have a conversation, she wrote. I will call her this weekend, feeling especially grateful for this opportunity to call a number, hear the lyrical voice of a sister-friend, and be in touch.

Text, copyright Ysabel de la Rosa, 2014.

Not a Sad Blog

Ysabel de la Rosa

I invited a friend to visit this blog a few weeks ago. It was her first and will most likely be her last visit to Getting Along with Grief. "It's sad," she said. "I prefer to celebrate." Her words set me thinking. Last week I visited my childhood home town. Like cinnamon and vanilla in a cake recipe, these two elements--her words and my recent trip--have seasoned my thoughts for a few days.

I grew up in a rural Texas town that had lots of potential, but was short on folks with vision. One visionary that did live there was my college art professor. I vividly remember looking at his drawings for the beautiful and architecturally significant place he believed that our town's 19th century "square" could become. I remember the light in his large, blue eyes as he talked about that vision. He did everything he could to share that future with others, even looking for funding sources. This was the 1960s in rural Texas, though. His dream was not realized in his lifetime, but it is alive and well today. I walked the square and saw my teacher's dream completely come to life. People were walking everywhere. There are two wine-tasting venues on the square now, antique stores, art galleries, day spas, restaurants--with lines of people waiting to get in. The church pictured at right is the church that my teacher and his family attended. Today it is part of the "restored" downtown he imagined. Could I experience all this with joy? Of course. Did I feel grief? También. Grief that my teacher was not physically present to see his dream come true. Grief that his vision was not understood in his lifetime. Did the joy outweigh the grief? Yes, it did. Was I sad? No. 

I have been reading a great book by Dr. Bill Stott and John Lee, Facing the Fire: Experiencing and Expressing Anger Appropriately. It is an excellent book, and I highly recommend it. Much of what they write about anger also applies to grief; above all, this:  It needs to be expressed. 

Emotion has motion inside. It is meant to move. If we dam a river at the wrong spot, there is hell to pay. This blog is here for the sake of expressing e-motion, and to help us move and then move on--productively. Just as anger, properly recognized and expressed, can motivate us to make important changes, expressing grief can free us to unblock the rivers inside us and keep life flowing within us.

Maybe this expression can do more than keep us moving, maybe expressing our grief(s) can free us to find new kinds of happiness. My comadre, whom I also saw on my trip "back home," lost her son in a car accident 12 years ago. I remember meeting that beautiful young man as a babe in arms. Then, two decades later, he was gone. Last weekend, though, I got to see my comadre with another baby:  her first grandson. What fun we had with him and he with us! Even at four months, his intelligence and sense of humor is evident. Watching him observe the world around him was, as it so often is with infants, a miracle moment.

My friend and I still talk about her son. We always will. We will always grieve him. And somehow that expression helps us open the door to this new joy, this new boy, this new wonder. I can't explain how it does this, but I can experience it.  And be grateful.

Grief is part of the tapestry, but only a part. Expressing our grief does not have to add sadness to our lives just as, Dr. Stott and John Lee explain, expressing anger does not have to bring destruction into our lives, if we can express it appropriately. Blocking such expression, however, can lead to deep sadness that holds us back from living life to the fullest.

I hope this blog's readers will understand that this blog, unlike so many others published today, is not about opinions, "likes," debates, or publicity. It is simply, and importantly, a safe and aesthetic "place," for expression of that deep and difficult emotion that life brings us: grief.

Ysabel de la Rosa

On my trip to my childhood home, I walked through the park where I spent many enchanted hours on the banks of the San Gabriel River. The river is more beautiful than ever, and I felt the same sense of wonder at age 59 as I did at age 9, looking at the roots of the trees that grow by its banks, gazing into the clear spring water that feeds into the river, and touching the odd rock "shelters" constructed around the springs.  Much has happened in those five decades, including many losses, and yet, the river flows. The river--not the same river, as Herclitus wisely told us--but the river and its flowing remain, alive as ever.

Ysabel de la Rosa

So, here's to getting along with grief...to its healthy expression, to loss lived, joy embraced, and the beauty that finds us along the way.