Amy Collette

Yesterday I was listening to heartbreaking stories of remembrance on the radio, and I realized I had to turn it off for my own sanity. I felt a little guilty – maybe I “should” listen out of respect for those who died…

But there are countless ways to respect and remember.

Consider turning off the news and taking some time to reflect in a way that feels right.

I went out on a hike and found solace here:

After my friend Mary died, I was surprised by the waves that would hit me. They would come at weird times, like in the shower or while I was driving. I didn’t even know I had so many memories of her, until I would smell her favorite food, drive past our old happy-hour bar, or see a bee on a flower. My connection with her was strong in life, and has become even stronger since she passed. She taught me so much in life, and is still there to point things out or show me the gift in an experience.

Grief can be a brutal teacher. But it can help show you the strength within that has been waiting until now to show up.

• Feel what you’re feeling. Grief is uncomfortable to watch, but it’s intense to survive. Whatever you feel is your “normal.” Allow yourself to define what is ok for you to be doing, thinking, or feeling.
• Go easy on yourself – there’s no “right” way to handle it. Your experience is unique and you cope with it your own way.
• Give yourself time. Your grief is a process – allow it to unfold however it appears.
• Let yourself smile. Sometimes when you’re missing the one you’ve lost, a happy memory shows up. Bees on a flower remind me that Mary is an angel in my  life.
• Let people in. Trust your friends when they say they want to help. You may want to be a hermit at times, but tell your friends what you need: help with meals, making phone calls, cleaning, etc. And it’s ok to let them know when you need to be alone.
• Accept the spiritual support that is all around you. Your angels are always there for you, supporting you and lifting you up, whether you’re aware of it or not. Meditation, prayer, quiet time, flower essences, chakra clearing, a walk outside, and time with a pet are all ways to access that support.
• Reach out for professional help when you need it. If you’re worried you might be stuck in a place so deep that you can’t see a pathway, seek some help to talk it out.

The purple iris did it. Yesterday I spotted the first purple iris of the season, and I lost it. I was instantly crying for our house, for Gertrude, for my history. Those purple blooms define my connections to the house I’ve lived in for the past 14 years. After we bought the house, my husband Tom taught me about flowers – how to plant them, how to care for them, what their names are. The bulbs originally came from the house Tom grew up in. The whole family gets nostalgic when they see those flowers spring up in our yard. Tom’s mother, Gertrude, loved those iris – she passed away last December.

It’s time now for us to leave this house and the purple iris behind. The tears that came when I saw them at first made me put on the brakes and think – oh, no. Maybe we’re making a mistake. Maybe we should stay here forever instead of following our hearts to new places…

And then I smiled. My guidance let me know that it was one of those transformation moments. The lesson is that there are ties here. Those ties could hold me down, or I can acknowledge, honor, and release them. One way to do that is to give myself some time to reflect, remember, and grieve. To be grateful for the good times and the beautiful memories. To thank this house for being a safe and welcome home to us and to the friends and family who have found refuge here.

Then I can move on to our next adventure. And the purple iris will be a happy touchstone to connect me to this part of my life. When they come up next year, I’ll remember.

Gertrude is a gentle, old-world name, and belonged to a kind, soft-spoken woman. “Gert,” as I knew her, was quiet but with a deep spirit that gave her great strength. She said more with her eyes than with her mouth, and listened much more than she spoke.

I’m grateful to Gert for the things she showed me in the way she lived her life and how she raised her son, my wonderful husband, Tom. I’m grateful that she showed me what she saw on the other side, when she was dying. She told me who was waiting and what she saw. Her mother, her sister, and her baby daughter were all there. And she was so impressed that the men took care of the babies!

Thank you Gert, for all you were and are to me, for including me as one of your own.