www.HoneyIShrunkTheGrief.com
© 2012 Eric Vaiksnoras

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”
.~Og Mandino (1923-1996)
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Memorials have become a powerful driving force in my life. This has come about largely because of my attraction to the challenge of finding life within death. I have grief to thank for initiating this quest, and I am forever grateful for it. I feel it teaching me that death is an illusion. It’s showing me that love is the very essence of our being. And it’s showing me that love is invincible.

Like all energy, love is incapable of being destroyed; it simply transfers from one state to another. So how can death be anything but an illusion? Death is not the end, rather simply the beginning of another beautiful part of life. This is why I am not afraid to allow myself to connect deeply with a memorial. I feel safe doing so because it is not death I am connecting with, it is life — love.

Memorials give me strength, especially during trying times. They energize me. Fill in the cracks. Make me more complete. An example of this occurs during one of my favorite activities, running.  I run on most days. And along one of my frequently traveled running routes, there are three trees that have been dedicated to the memory of three neighborhood children. I don’t know their stories, but I can still feel their love when I stop for a moment during my run to connect with each of their memorials. My body is typically depleted from my workout, and even after the briefest of visits, I can feel the love from these memorials repairing me. I leave and continue on with my run, feeling as strong as ever. Memorials have become one of the high-octane gas stations of my life.

There are other memorials that are important to me. Two of which are located at the elementary school where Julie taught. Inside the school library, there is a precious bronze statue of a little girl engrossed in a book. The statue is dedicated to Julie and very much feels like a perfect fit to me because it captures her innocence and love of learning.

Julie’s Memorial Statue
Timmons Elementary School Library

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And outside the library, in a little corner nook at the back of the school, a peaceful and scenic memorial garden was created in her honor; complete with a birdbath, a stepping stone with the words, “Teachers Plant Seeds That Grow Forever”, and an inviting bench that has Julie’s name and a special saying engraved on it.

On anniversaries, I will often choose a trip to the school rather than the cemetery. The school Julie taught at was such an important part of her life, so it feels good to connect with her there; it’s a place that feels happy. Even when it’s after school hours and no one is around, it is still filled with such life. It’s not just a building, it’s so much more. It feels holy to me. I can feel the energy of the children that occupy the grounds during the school day. It feels as if their laughter and joy leave an indelible mark in the air. For these reasons, the memorials at her school are extra meaningful things to me.

Julie’s Memorial Garden
Daddy(30) & David(11months)
October 2004

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And of course there’s one of the most traditional of memorials, the cemetery, where Julie’s ashes lie encased in a box, inside a mausoleum. The cemetery is a final resting place for the remains of countless others; a place where, over the years, I have felt both comfort and conflict.
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Julie’s Tombstone

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One cemetery experience that I found very challenging occurred when I first met with the cemetery director. She asked me if I wanted to purchase a plot for myself as well, directly next to Julie’s. That way, down the road when it was my turn, I’d be guaranteed a spot next to her. This thought was too much for me to take on. Here I was, 30 years old . . . being asked to pick out my final resting place?! Absurd! While I understood the reasoning behind the question, I sensed alarm bells going off inside. My gut was telling me this wasn’t right for me. I felt trapped in a no-win situation. If I didn’t choose to purchase the neighboring plot, I felt I would be dishonoring the love that I had with Julie; if I chose to purchase the plot, I felt I was limiting my future.

It was a grueling choice, being presented with two legitimate paths that were so opposing to one another. I ultimately rejected the offer to purchase the plot. In my mind, purchasing it then felt too much like conceding to a life forever as a widower, something I discovered I was not willing to do. There were too many unforeseen variables at that point in my life. What if I remarried and spent 40 years with another woman? Where should I be buried then? Next to Julie? Next to my love I grew old with? In the middle of them both? It all made my head spin.

As grueling of a choice as it was, I have never regretted my decision because it planted a seed within my psyche. A seed tagged with a label that read: “I have more living and loving to do”. I am so much more than a widower. And while I live with the intention to embrace my past, and let it bless me, I am determined not to let it define me. I define me. I define me with hopeful reactions to what I have control over.

In spite of my discomfort at times with the cemetery, it remains a very special place for me. I appreciate the fact that her physical remains are in a public place accessible to any loved one who needs to connect with her. I think I prefer other forms of memorials because they keep my focus on what’s here (i.e. her love), versus what’s gone (her physical presence), but that’s not always the case. It’s amazing how a mix of experiences, time, and healing, can gradually — or at times, very quickly — change perspectives.

Here’s a portion of an email I wrote to a friend in July, 2011, roughly 7 years after Julie’s death, that illustrates what I mean:

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David slept over his Grandpa’s house last night. After I dropped him off, I went to the cemetery. I hadn’t been there in a long time, and it’s 5 minutes from his Grandpa’s, so it seemed like a good thing to do. It was an extra emotional visit. While I was there I realized that I’m usually with someone; David, or others, but I’m hardly ever there by myself. I think this allowed me to break down a little in a way that I usually don’t. It felt really good. I was there for maybe an hour, and during the course of my stay, the sun had gone down. You would think that being in a cemetery at night would make me feel a little uncomfortable, but I didn’t mind. I looked at a bunch of pictures on the tombstones that filled the mausoleum, looked at some of the father’s day cards and family pictures, and felt a degree of loss, but mostly felt love. So much love. There was nothing to be scared of…there was this overwhelming sense of love everywhere. And then I got in the car and a beautiful acoustic version of These Are Days by Natalie Merchant was playing on the radio. It was pitch black outside at this time, and I cranked up the radio and listened to the song with the windows down, as I slowly drove out of the cemetery. The lyrics couldn’t have been any more perfect…

“These are the days
These are days you’ll remember
Never before and never since, I promise
Will the whole world be warm as this
And as you feel it, You’ll know it’s true
That you are blessed and lucky
It’s true that you
Are touched by something
That will grow and bloom in you”

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My wedding ring became another powerful and comforting memorial for me. Not at first though. For the first three months after Julie died I left my wedding ring on my left ring finger where it had always been. During that time it still felt much more like a wedding ring than anything else.

Then one day, I remember staring at the ring on my left hand and feeling like I was ready to start thinking about what to do with it. I was still feeling married at that time, but I was also feeling strong enough emotionally to begin to take some actions to physically show the world, and myself, that I was no longer married.

The ring had represented everything to me during our nearly 4 years of marriage, and it had rarely left my finger, so removing it for good was quite an event. I can still clearly remember being flooded with emotions when I took it off. I held it in my hand and searched my heart for answers to what I should do with it. As my mind was racing, I unconsciously passed the ring back and forth between my fingertips. I soon found myself seeing if it would fit on my right hand. It did. It fit perfectly on my right ring finger. And it left me with a very satisfied feeling. I realized I had just found a good home for it. A new and comfortable location that would help me to further accept that I was no longer married, while still acknowledging the wonderful union that I once had, and all the wonderful love that I still feel.

The ring remained on my right ring finger for the next 4 years. During that time it was mostly a positive thing for me. There were occasions though, where it weighed heavily on my soul. I believe these moments were largely due to the internal conflict involved with accepting that my marriage was over, while still having a ring on that was such a strong symbol of my marriage. And I faced other ring dilemmas too. I received varying degrees of flak for it from some of the women whom I dated during that time. These tough to resolve conflicts added to the feelings of discomfort I already had on my own.

The ring bothered one woman so much that I decided I would take it off for a brief trial period to see how it made me feel. I discovered I felt ok not wearing it. It had served its time as a comforting memorial to me, but now it just didn’t feel right anymore. It felt like it was holding me back more than it was aiding me. I was changing, healing, and I now had different needs.

I spent the next year without a ring. I was okay with that for a while, but I soon began to miss the comfort that my wedding ring had provided. I liked having a tangible thing close to me, with me, yet I knew I now needed a different memorial, so I contemplated other choices. I thought about getting a tattoo; both liking and disliking the permanence of such a thing.

I ended up deciding to get a whole new ring. A ring that would feel significantly different because it was not so directly connected to my marriage, yet would still be a comforting reminder of all the love that still surrounded me.

I put great effort into picking out this ring. It needed to have certain characteristics in order to feel just right. It was very important that when I looked at it or felt it — as I knew I often would — that it give me feelings that matched what I needed it to represent.

After looking into different metals, I decided on titanium. I liked the fact that titanium was inexpensive. This appealed to me because in my mind I associated the ring with love, and love is inexpensive. I also appreciated the fact that titanium is a very light yet super strong metal (NASA uses it a great deal in the construction of space shuttles). These attributes were very appealing to me because the ring would be something that I would wear daily. I wanted it to feel light on my soul. I also wanted it to be strong; something that felt indestructible, like the love I felt for Julie.

There was another important thing to consider — color. The ring was available in several different colors. I decided on blue. Sky blue. For reasons that I do not fully understand, the color of blue (particularly the lighter shades) has been a very strong and positive influence on me throughout my widowed years. I have intentionally surrounded myself with this color on numerous occasions. David and I each had bedrooms that I painted blue. I bought a blue car, blue running shoes, a blue running jacket, and the list goes on and on. Conveniently, even David’s eyes are blue! I frequently choose this color because it feels so hopeful to me, and during the many trying times when I felt hope-deficient, I needed to surround myself with things that would help remind me of all the possibility that remained in my life.

I initially wanted to have “Live well, Laugh often, Love much” engraved on the outside of the ring, circling the middle blue section. I was disappointed to learn that the jeweler wasn’t able to inscribe this within the concave section of my ring. After further reflection, however, I realized that not having the engraving might be for the best because then the ring could be more of a blank slate. I could place a mentally engraved message on it, whenever I needed to, and that message could change depending on my current needs.

This turned out to be a good decision. As I had hoped, the ring has indeed become many things and has given me several comforting and supporting messages. It currently feels more like a Hope ring than a Memorial ring, and I’m okay with that. I’m actually amazed by it. It fascinates me that my ring changes into whatever I need it to be. And being that I’m always wearing it, I very much appreciate that fact. Whenever I need some strength to get through a challenging time, a quick glance or touch of my ring always makes me smile and provides me with instant support.

My Memorial Ring
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There have been other memorials over the years that have been a great source of strength. One of which was an idea I borrowed from a friend. Her late husband loved to run, so as a special tribute to him, she would write his initials on her running shoes. I loved the idea, as did David. So with permanent marker in hand, David and I each put Julies initials “JV” on our running shoes. It was a great reminder to us that the steps we take will always include Julie. And because I felt such a connection to my dear friend’s late husband, who also loved to run, I added his initials “CW” to my shoes too. He has been in my heart through countless runs and continues to be an incredible inspiration to me.

Two of My Best Running Partners

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Finally, one of the most meaningful memorials in my life is a Pre-Cana prayer that Julie and I created in April of 2000, just a couple of months before we were married. This prayer was in so many ways what our marriage was built upon. If we were a growing business, I would consider this to be our Mission Statement ― the foundation that would give our company vision and allow our union to grow and stay strong.

Julie and I decided we would join hands and say this prayer together every evening before dinner to keep it fresh in our hearts throughout our marriage. It quickly became a wonderful daily ritual.

When Julie died, I realized that the prayer didn’t have to. David was only months old at the time, and I would hold him close at night, softly saying the prayer aloud before I tucked him in. That tradition would continue, and as David got older, he was able to say the prayer with me. To this day, our prayer remains just as powerful as ever. The last thing we do at night is pray the following prayer together:
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Dear God,
Thank you for the challenges and wonderful things that happened today. Help us to use our experiences today to build and strengthen our lives together and with you. Help us to see your wonderful world and guide us through all our tomorrows.
Amen!

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I believe certain memorials have become a part of me because they just fit, like a puzzle piece that is made to interlock with another. I am comforted and awed by this process. I am blessed with the ability to let the darkness, which is inherently a part of any memorial, nourish me. I am able to do this more and more often, as I become more proficient at allowing myself to follow my instincts and gravitate towards the love within each memorial. It amazes me how surrounded I am by love. I never have to look far.

Love will find a way.

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