Phoenix, this is stunning.... so much of this intensely resonated with my own experience of grieving my dad. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, I think there's something quietly beautiful about how our relationship with someone we've lost transforms over time. Your Papa is most certainly with you through every cycle and transformation. Thank you for sharing, as always. Thinking about you.
Sophia, it makes so much sense to me, knowing a bit of your own dad story, that this hit home for you... And that is a special kind of resonance. I'm with you, wholeheartedly, on the beauty of these relationships transforming even in death. Thank you for understanding this in your own unique, quietly intense way. Every time I see your words here, they are a gift. Thinking of you, grateful for you. xo
thanks for sharing this. My Dad died in 2021 of complications from Alzheimer's. The last few months of his life, he thought I was his cousin Jerry from California. He started disappearing quickly after her was diagnosed. The complicated and tragic way your Dad died must've been so hard. When a hawk flies over, that's my Dad saying hello. Whether it's sandals, or something else, I hope it gives you some peace.
I also feel sadness hearing your dad lived and died with Alzheimer's, Mal... It's a devastating, brutal disease - for the ones who have it and the ones who love them. It makes my heart smile to know your dad says hello to you through hawks. It also brings me peace to look for my Papa in the world around me... helps me feel he's still alive, in some form. I'm so grateful for this ongoing kinship, and I love that you understand this in your own ways. xo
Thanks for sharing the tender ache of this sandal-spawned encounter with grief, friend. Grief's process so often strikes with a stunning stealth and slipperiness. It's an honor to witness yours through your beautiful words. Sending you lots of gentleness and spaciousness to you and your Papa. 💞❤️🩹🕊️
Wow… today I was going through pictures on my phone and looked at the last pictures Denise and I took of my Dad alone and her picture of us together. July 8, 2023 was when he quietly slipped through the veil to join my Mom. He was the last of our parents and it was difficult to watch dementia take its toll on him.
What a beautiful and powerful reflection, Phoenix! Thank you for sharing your heart with us. Much love to you 💖💖
Oh, the little synchronicities of these moments, Michael... I love when this happens. It helps me feel more connected to others - even people I haven't met in person, like yourself. In my caregiving years, I got a taste of watching dementia claim people, slowly and quietly. It was heartbreaking and surreal sometimes, how the losses could blend so well into the backdrop of 'mundane' days.
I've noticed as human beings, we seem inclined to rank losses on which seem "harder," and I couldn't possibly tell anyone which would have been harder - losing my dad to dementia or terminal illness, or losing him in quick succession of traumatic moments. They both carry the same weight of grief, perhaps with different edges. I'm sorry dementia took your dad; that sounds devastating. And I'm sending so much love to you. Thank you for reading. <3
Thank you for this. I feel the same bond with my dad, and he died 9 years ago. I felt understood and accepted with him. Learning to be secure with self acceptance is a lesson he taught me. I suspect it’s harder when you’re an introspective dreamer, and we were kindred spirits. His memory still helps me on that journey.
I love hearing when people have such resonant experiences, Lexie - especially here, having had a dad who was a kindred spirit. I don't know about you, but it can be an unusual thing to describe, having both "lost" someone in a literal, physical sense and still "having" them in an equally real but mostly intangible sense. I'm grateful for this nuance, and I suspect you understand this, too.
Grief. It never leaves us. As you so aptly describe it, it sinks deeper beneath our skin as time goes by. Its scars may recede from the surface, but they imbed themselves in our souls.
OMG, you are soooo like your dad! Two peas from the same pod! My dad and I were at odds for 50 some years until one night after an "accidental" encounter far from either of our homes, sharing a double bed - he finally said the words "I love you and am proud of the person you have become". Dads are an important connection to the past to nurture the present and enable the future. You and I are both very fortunate.
Dennis... this moment with your dad moves me so much. I'm deeply grateful you finally heard these words from him. I do feel fortunate to have had a dad who, in the time he was alive, accepted me as I was. It comforts me in the loss of family that has followed.
Sending much love as I read this beautiful reflection on the power of love and grief to continue to transform. Thank you for sharing your heart so openly. ❤️
You said this perfectly, Brigid ... "the power of love and grief to continue to transform." I never knew until losing my dad how much grief can also be a companion and teacher. When I began to understand that grief *is* love, it somehow felt more welcome. My grief continues to be a reminder of the ongoing presence of love. I so appreciate the love you send - right back at you. Thank you for being here. xo
You do look like him. And obviously I have no idea what happens after we die, but I believe with every part of me that has been hard-born from the death of my mom when I was 26, that wherever he is now, he is really, really proud of you.
In the event I’m wrong (I don’t think I am), I’M proud of you. xo
Absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking. This brought tears to my eyes. He would be so proud of you and your strength in becoming who you are.
Deborah, I really appreciate how you came along with me as I shared from my heart. It means a lot.
Phoenix, this is stunning.... so much of this intensely resonated with my own experience of grieving my dad. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, I think there's something quietly beautiful about how our relationship with someone we've lost transforms over time. Your Papa is most certainly with you through every cycle and transformation. Thank you for sharing, as always. Thinking about you.
Sophia, it makes so much sense to me, knowing a bit of your own dad story, that this hit home for you... And that is a special kind of resonance. I'm with you, wholeheartedly, on the beauty of these relationships transforming even in death. Thank you for understanding this in your own unique, quietly intense way. Every time I see your words here, they are a gift. Thinking of you, grateful for you. xo
thanks for sharing this. My Dad died in 2021 of complications from Alzheimer's. The last few months of his life, he thought I was his cousin Jerry from California. He started disappearing quickly after her was diagnosed. The complicated and tragic way your Dad died must've been so hard. When a hawk flies over, that's my Dad saying hello. Whether it's sandals, or something else, I hope it gives you some peace.
I also feel sadness hearing your dad lived and died with Alzheimer's, Mal... It's a devastating, brutal disease - for the ones who have it and the ones who love them. It makes my heart smile to know your dad says hello to you through hawks. It also brings me peace to look for my Papa in the world around me... helps me feel he's still alive, in some form. I'm so grateful for this ongoing kinship, and I love that you understand this in your own ways. xo
🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻
Thanks for sharing the tender ache of this sandal-spawned encounter with grief, friend. Grief's process so often strikes with a stunning stealth and slipperiness. It's an honor to witness yours through your beautiful words. Sending you lots of gentleness and spaciousness to you and your Papa. 💞❤️🩹🕊️
Your gentleness is a balm, dear friend. It always is. And I'm so grateful. xo
Wow… today I was going through pictures on my phone and looked at the last pictures Denise and I took of my Dad alone and her picture of us together. July 8, 2023 was when he quietly slipped through the veil to join my Mom. He was the last of our parents and it was difficult to watch dementia take its toll on him.
What a beautiful and powerful reflection, Phoenix! Thank you for sharing your heart with us. Much love to you 💖💖
Oh, the little synchronicities of these moments, Michael... I love when this happens. It helps me feel more connected to others - even people I haven't met in person, like yourself. In my caregiving years, I got a taste of watching dementia claim people, slowly and quietly. It was heartbreaking and surreal sometimes, how the losses could blend so well into the backdrop of 'mundane' days.
I've noticed as human beings, we seem inclined to rank losses on which seem "harder," and I couldn't possibly tell anyone which would have been harder - losing my dad to dementia or terminal illness, or losing him in quick succession of traumatic moments. They both carry the same weight of grief, perhaps with different edges. I'm sorry dementia took your dad; that sounds devastating. And I'm sending so much love to you. Thank you for reading. <3
Thank you , Phoenix 💖💖
Thank you for this. I feel the same bond with my dad, and he died 9 years ago. I felt understood and accepted with him. Learning to be secure with self acceptance is a lesson he taught me. I suspect it’s harder when you’re an introspective dreamer, and we were kindred spirits. His memory still helps me on that journey.
I love hearing when people have such resonant experiences, Lexie - especially here, having had a dad who was a kindred spirit. I don't know about you, but it can be an unusual thing to describe, having both "lost" someone in a literal, physical sense and still "having" them in an equally real but mostly intangible sense. I'm grateful for this nuance, and I suspect you understand this, too.
Grief. It never leaves us. As you so aptly describe it, it sinks deeper beneath our skin as time goes by. Its scars may recede from the surface, but they imbed themselves in our souls.
Beautiful memory. Thanks for sharing. Be well.
This is poetic truth, Christopher... thank you. It's a comfort to hear from someone who understands the nature of grief.
OMG, you are soooo like your dad! Two peas from the same pod! My dad and I were at odds for 50 some years until one night after an "accidental" encounter far from either of our homes, sharing a double bed - he finally said the words "I love you and am proud of the person you have become". Dads are an important connection to the past to nurture the present and enable the future. You and I are both very fortunate.
Dennis... this moment with your dad moves me so much. I'm deeply grateful you finally heard these words from him. I do feel fortunate to have had a dad who, in the time he was alive, accepted me as I was. It comforts me in the loss of family that has followed.
Sending much love as I read this beautiful reflection on the power of love and grief to continue to transform. Thank you for sharing your heart so openly. ❤️
You said this perfectly, Brigid ... "the power of love and grief to continue to transform." I never knew until losing my dad how much grief can also be a companion and teacher. When I began to understand that grief *is* love, it somehow felt more welcome. My grief continues to be a reminder of the ongoing presence of love. I so appreciate the love you send - right back at you. Thank you for being here. xo
You do look like him. And obviously I have no idea what happens after we die, but I believe with every part of me that has been hard-born from the death of my mom when I was 26, that wherever he is now, he is really, really proud of you.
In the event I’m wrong (I don’t think I am), I’M proud of you. xo
I feel this, Kate - from him and also from you. And from you, this feels like a generous offering. Thank you so much. xo