All There Is To It

Under the Expanded Sky

by Alice Wisler At the school parking lot, I watch the principal ease out of his car. Greeting him, I waste no time. We pick up from our discussion of nights earlier at the committee meeting. "I can't believe she's gone." Tears form in his large brown eyes. I ask more about her, knowing from experience that talking about the dead is such a healthy tribute. "She was so good with her students. She was a talented and vibrant person." His face holds anguish as he questions, "Why couldn't she have hit the grass instead?" But this young teacher's head hit the pavement when the horse threw her off, just a week ago.
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I feel my own heart break a little more as I think of her parents. How will they survive without her? Oh....I know. Like I have and do, since the death of my own son, five years ago. With pain, confusion, doubt, fear and that intense longing to see his little face and feel his arms around me. Suddenly Nayo is approaching me. In her son's memory she has created a program for students with learning disabilities. Since her son's suicide, she has risen with strength and boldness to help educate our society on teen suicide, desperate to prevent more untimely deaths. When I ask how she is doing, her reply comes out in slow breaths, "Some days are better than others. Today is a hard one." Later in the same parking lot, Andy, also on the committee, joins us. The warm spring air must be therapy at work this morning for he begins to share about the death of his brother thirty years ago. His focus is more on his parents and their lack of emotion, which Andy feels has caused him much turmoil over the years. "They never cried," he tells us. "I never ever saw them cry nor talk about my brother." Through self-help books Andy has had to grow on his own, in spite of his mother and father who were unable to parent him like he wanted them to once his brother died. I think of my own children — Rachel, Benjamin and Elizabeth. How will they grow up? My husband and I have shown our distress over our four-year-old Daniel's death. Tears have been no strangers in our household. Love for each other has abounded. My mind whispers: "But has it been enough?" Eventually our purpose for gathering is remembered and we enter the school. I am reluctant; there is so much I want to hear, more comfort I want to deliver. The conversations have impacted me so greatly that I go home to my computer and email a friend — a mother who has, over the years, lost two children. I write to ask her what she wants said and done at her funeral. I have no indication she is to die soon; she isn't sick, just in her seventies. But I know one day she will be gone. She understands, and even appreciates my message, telling me what she wants read at her service. She adds that she wishes more were open and willing to discuss her inevitable death.		Educating Merna Crying With My Ancestors Opening Grief as a Gift Living Life from the Graveyard Surviving the Tinsel Trees of the Ice Storm Is There Laughter After Death? Whatever Happened to the Old? Out of My Comfort Zone I Am Not Cheese As The Sixth Year Approaches The Dirty Green Van Judging Pain? Grief Meets the Answering Machine Closets, Revisited Unwinding with a Pen There is Nothing Wrong with You! Scared to Death of Dying and Denying Grief The Night the Christmas Tree Fell Baking Bereavement Bread For the Love of Mothers Bereaved Eyes A Wealthy Life The Power of Photographs Fragrance of Marigolds
That evening I feel compelled to stand in our yard beside the weeping willow tree. It is the tree we planted in memory of Daniel. I watch the sky form delicate strands of pink and orange. It is as though the dead and the living are coming together, finding each other over the vast sky. The two colors blend, united, forming a rich and warm quilt, no longer separated by anything. I feel myself in the blending of this one purple creation, knowing those we long for and are separated from are as visible as this night sky. The stars and moon appear, adding warm light. I see the night fabric spread over yesterday and today, stitched with the threads of love that know no time. Near me, in the trees and pond, bullfrogs and crickets orchestrate the music. The aroma of geraniums filters the air, bringing the comfort and solace of generations. And under the expanded sky, I find the familiar tears fill my eyes. Watching the grand creation above, I vow again to be the person unafraid of grief. I let my grief make me bold enough to share, to listen, to remember, to love, to grow.

Introduction: The Expanded Sky, a column by Alice Wisler

Heartache, sadness, sorrow, grief — uninvited yet ever-present members of our family. How many of us spend our energy building reinforced walls in a futile attempt to keep them at bay? For all our careful planning and work, all we really manage to do is displace these characters for a bit.

Alice Wisler, in her column "The Expanded Sky," talks about the possibilities of living with grief, instead of building walls against it. For those who've experienced precious losses, her words and ideas will provide empowering structure. For those who've been as yet untouched by loss, understanding grief now can be eye-opening preparation.