His presence has been active (felt) this month—March, in which he was born and his daughter was born and he died—more than previous years.
Birthdays and the Ever After
Author: Lynn Haraldson
For more than 25 years, I've been writing about love, change, grief, and (occasionally) politics, trusting that there is more that unites than divides us. When I address weight-ish issues these days, it’s through a different lens than when I wrote my Lynn’s Weigh blog (2005-2015). May it–and my scale–rest in peace. I was 33 and blond when I started my writing career. Now, 58 and gray, I feel like (with apologies to The Carpenters) I’ve only just begun to live…and write.
What’s Real vs What’s True
What’s true is that it’s not possible to hate or disregard someone who doesn’t pray or look like you, or to take advantage of or purposely hurt someone, unless you’re afraid of losing something.
Grief in the Body (on ICE)
"What does the ache ask from you? Does it want Doritos? That’s okay. Eat them. A smoke? A high?"
How “This is Us” got motherhood and grief right
"I am who I am because the person I loved most in one moment in time was alive and then he died."
Grieving the White House
This is full blown grief, my friends; the inability to comprehend what’s being said and done in the moment.
Another day, another earworm
I woke up this morning with the 1975 Austin Robert’s song “Rocky” playing in my head. It’s been decades since I’ve heard it, but there it was, in my ears, and I remembered every single sad word.
And now for something not so different… Fiction v nonfiction
To paraphrase the Beatles, there’s nothing we can know that isn’t already known.
Grief is a wild child…
“Grief is a wild child. You’ll never tame it, but it’s ok to let it flow through you. Better through than around. Be good to yourself, and don’t take shortcuts.”
Fifty First Everythings All the Time
I still expected him to “snap out of it,” come to his senses, want to improve, remember who he used to be. Remember who he used to be to me.
Gobsmacked (but I’m back…)
I suppose it’s possible to “fake it ‘til I make it,” but make it to where? Oblivion?
Lynn Haraldson, Author and Writing Mentor 