Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: August 2025

Bucket List Bound

August 31, 2025 /

When I was a young girl, I was fearless. I jumped off higher ledges than any boy. I drove the go-karts faster than anyone else. I fought for the underdog without any thought I too would be beaten up. I loved to explore everything. I had dreams of far away countries to visit. And then I grew up.

Adulthood, specifically motherhood, brought the realization that I was not invincible.  I now had little people counting on me. I had to be safe. I had to be careful. If there were glimpses of maybe I could be more daring, they were shattered when Zane was killed. His death glued me to the belief that nothing can happen to me because my family really needs me now. It’s not ego that this comes from.  It is pure fear.

So, this upcoming trip to meet my husband and daughter in Ireland has me scared. I hate to travel, but I am now travelling alone, over the ocean. Anxiety is at an all-time high. Nothing about airplane safety, the reassurance from my friends, or my brain telling me it’s going to be ok is comforting.  I asked my Guides for signs. I need spiritual convincing that this trip will be a beautiful earthly experience.

I was cleaning out a box of old journals and one book drew me into opening it and reading some of the passages I wrote from decades ago. Included in it was a bucket list, and on this list was to own a VW beetle. I smiled, remembering the time after that list, when I was looking for a car and wanted a beetle, but it was impractical. It wouldn’t fit my multiple event supplies, or the kids golf clubs. It was Zane who said, “mama, you have always wanted this car. It’s on your bucket list. Get the damn car. Dad can drive our clubs.” I bought the car. It was the same car that I drove all over Alberta and Montana in. It was the same car my children learned to drive in. It was a bucket list item I loved, no regrets.

I continued reading the list. It was simple, motherly things like a home my children felt safe in. A quiet afternoon to enjoy nature. To write a book. And to visit Ireland. I stopped. Ireland? Where did this come from? I don’t remember writing down Ireland. I laughed out loud. 

I think my spirit guides are playing with me. What better sign than to stumble across an old diary page that tells me I wanted to see Ireland. I’m off to Ireland. And I believe with the blessing of the Universe to have a safe and magical holiday.  As only the leprechauns of this fair emerald country can bring.

Finding the Blue Sky by Joseph Emet

August 24, 2025 /

Grief brings with it a lot of negative thinking. Happiness is elusive. The book “Finding the Blue Sky” by Joseph Emet was a suggested read for me to help move my own grey clouds. An enlightening read containing twelve chapters. Each begins with a story, then a reflection and a practice. It is a book that I will be sharing with my grief circle as another tool to help ease our pain.

Mr. Emet speaks of the importance of regulating our moods to obtain balance.  Only in finding balance, will we experience peace. How this comes to be we tend to complicate unnecessarily. We become caught up in ‘our own story’ to which can keep us closed to understanding the pain of others. He shares the story of a noisy neighbor who kept him up all night and when the neighbor shared with him of his multiple losses, Mr. Emet writes, “…all traces of “poor me” slowly drained out of my own story of the night before.”  Being open to the fact that all of us are struggling doesn’t make us happy, it makes us compassionate. He reminds us that there are also stories within stories.  You must be aware of the purpose of your story; of the effect your story has on you. Our stories can deplete our happiness.  He suggests “Do not give up on your happiness. Give up the story you are telling yourself instead.”

How do those grieving change their story? How does our story of loss hold any happiness? Mr. Emet had his work cut out to prove this to me as I continued reading. And the following chapters reaffirmed what we already know. In his delightful and soothing compilations, he reminded me that I must not apologize for my grief. I must own it. I must tend to it through meditation, patience and self-care.

We must be mindful of our real needs and value them. “If we don’t value our needs, others may not value them either.” Mr. Emet suggests that needs can be satisfied through fun. Involving ourselves in activities that we enjoy, is a form of self-care. We can connect and appreciate the ‘right now’ better.  This practice of including fun in our lives helps with our relationships with others and our own self growth.

“We see the world differently depending on our emotional state”. This is so true for those of us whose eternal emotional state is bittersweet. His suggestion is to train your brain to stay in the here and now, to thank your brain for each thought but to not get caught up in that thought. This practice can help wake our soul to what happens, “…not when the alarm rings, but when the meditation bell rings”.  

An enlightening reminder is the tip from Mr. Emet, “Don’t get in your own way”. He writes, “If you want to go someplace, take your foot off the brake.”  So often when grieving we get stuck. Fear, heartache, lack of energy are all realities that hinder exploring happiness. We tend to stay put because we don’t want to leave our loved ones behind. We must remember that they are right beside us. They can be our driving partner. And with that belief, finding the blue sky, might be possible.

A Toast to Zane

August 17, 2025 /

We made it another year. August is our toughest month. We relive the day Zane was killed. We celebrate his birthday. We battle through, holding each other and feeling our heartache, the bruises of this journey. It is what each grief warrior experiences with the death day and the birthday of their loved one. Our family is no different.  This is how we have chosen to deal with it.

Seven years ago, when our world changed forever, we asked Zane’s friends how they wished to celebrate him. It was unanimous that the 7th was to be quiet, individually pausing, no fanfare but the 13th, the day of his arrival to earth, well, that day had to be cheered. And thus, each year, we are blessed to have many of his friends join us for a toast to Zane. This year was very difficult.

Other recent losses our family is experiencing are loud this month. But before these new hardships entered, I was already feeling the angst of August. I think mostly because of the number. There is something about seven that bothers me. It seems so long ago and yet we don’t feel that way. This year’s celebration was held at Zane’s first favorite pub and twenty of his friends came to play pool, catch up, enjoy the night and share stories of our unforgettable boy.

Each year I make a toast. This year I had to write it down. I was afraid of not remembering what I needed to say.  Each year, I give out a little token, symbolic of something Zane would like or do. This year it was a key chain, a compass with a quote from Henry Thoreau that Zane loved. The line, “Live the life you have imagined” was one of Zane’s last journal entries. It is the line we had on his celebration card. It is what I reminded his friends to do in his memory with the following toast:

Today is Zane’s 34th birthday. A “seven” in numerology. No coincidence that it happens to fall on the 7th year since he was here physically. There is some magic, some supernatural cosmic underlying energy about this year.

7 is a heavenly number. A vibration of introspection and connection. Something Zane was all about. It is about paths becoming clearer. Direction becoming clearer. A push to move toward purpose.

In that number, action needed includes all things Zane loves. Exploring, discovering, lighting the world on fire. 

Let’s use this year, the magical number 7 as a message of hope. A confirmation that our loved ones are forever connected to us. Death does not change that.

This birthday, let our gift to Zane be what he said 7 years ago, “Live the life you have imagined.”

And with that toast, we continued laughing and crying until my family poured me home to bed, taking the next day off to recover. Another year, our tribe continues to survive. Together.

Connection Through a Wind Phone

August 10, 2025 /

I came across the story of the Wind Phone a few years ago and called the woman who brought this novel idea from Japan to the U.S. It is a symbolic phone booth built and placed in a public spot, for those grieving, giving them the experience to call their loved ones. A healing concept I felt should be brought to Calgary. Time marched on and when I investigated how this might happen, I found out it was already here.

I waited to experience it, choosing the day before Zane’s ‘death day’.  I found this simple undecorated wooden telephone box on stilts, with a black push button phone inside. This wind phone is found in the lovely and peaceful Union Cemetery. I walked up and picked up the receiver. I dialed Zane’s cell number. I imagined him picking up the other end, “hello?” and I began to speak into the phone.

“Hi Zane.”

“Hey mama…”

“So, here we are. I keep saying to everyone, can you believe it’s been seven years.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe this. I am at a loss pooh bear of how I have not yet awakened from this madness. I keep searching for you, waiting for you to come home.”

“Mama, I’m good.”

“I know.”

“Do you see the signs I send you?”

“Yes, I am grateful for them. Thank you.”

“I’m always close. You can’t forget that.”

“I know. I won’t forget. It just hurts…”

I continue, telling him about the latest events in our family. And after a few minutes, I said,

“Well, I’ll let you go, but I’ll call again soon.”

“Love you mama.”

“Love you more.”

And then something happened.  It was time to hang up. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to end my conversation.  Suddenly, I felt like I had this real connection through this unplugged phone to the heavens and what would happen if I hung up? It was a bizarre feeling of not wanting to say goodbye.  Again.

I just stood there, holding the phone to my ear. Finally, I whispered, “please stay in touch.”  I gently placed the handset back into place. I sat on a set of cement stairs next to the booth, placed my head in my hands and cried. When I caught my breath, I stood up and began to walk through the cemetery, accompanied by butterflies and a blue dragon fly. It was a beautiful, quiet, grounding experience to walk in the gardens amidst the markers of so many souls.

I am grateful for those who took part in the placement of a wind phone for all of us. The opportunity to be able to call a loved one and to hold conversation with them is therapeutic. Spiritually fitting, the phone, in a setting that holds so many stories and has witnessed so many tears. The same place that now connects hearts across the realm to be able to utter, “I miss you.” And the wind carries the message home.   

Dancing In the Dark

August 3, 2025 /

I was invited to attend a musical to which my nephew was working at. This was his first professional gig aligned with the secondary education he has achieved. We are all so pleased for him. When the invite came, I was excited to be there, watching him in his element. What I wasn’t sharing with anyone was the anxiety I had over the idea of sitting in a room full of people listening to music for two hours. Music is my biggest grief trigger.

Zane loved music. As a kid, he played the piano and the guitar.  He had thousands of songs on his playlist. He went to every concert. His ear pods were an everyday necessity. Music was his therapy. At his celebration of life, his video eulogy played to his favorite tunes. His friends danced to Back Street Boys in our back yard. Music and my son are one. I cry, even now, every time a song that he would enjoy begins to play.

The theme of the night was music from the 1980’s. It was my hope that this genre would not strangle me with memories. I had a plan of how I would leave if it did. I put on the ‘big girl panties’ and set out to enjoy the night and celebrate my nephew. He deserved this.  I wanted to be witness to it.

The show began. The actors were brilliant. We were encouraged to sing along, clap and shout. We obliged as the songs from the era I enjoyed filled the room. At one point, I looked over to see my nephew owning his role and my heart filled with a sense of joy. I reached over to the empty chair that was next to me and tapped it, whispering to myself, “see your son Dan? How proud are you?” Suddenly Bruce Springsteen was singing Dancing in the Dark and coming my way!

He reached out his hand and pulled me onto the floor and we danced to the verse, “you can’t start a fire sitting ‘round crying over a broken heart…” and when I was back in my seat and he was singing his way to the next guest, I knew Zane was also there. He wouldn’t miss a concert.  Even in spirit.

That thought brought me strength. I laughed silently at the idea that my son found a way to reach out to me to remind me there was a time I too enjoyed music. That I am going to hurt no matter what. Would I rather shy away from the things that once brought me happiness because they now bring me sadness. Or am I brave enough to start a fire to spark change. Changes that may transform my sadness into moments of enjoyment. As did that evening.  Bliss can be present, even if we are dancing in the dark.

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