From House Wife To Film Maker

In life there are certain things common to us all. Birth, death, love, happiness, sadness, and bad news. News that knocks the wind out of you and causes your knees to go weak and leaves you standing at a gas station pump wondering how everyone could be merrily chugging along when “this” is happening and it’s terrible. I can equate this pain to when my baby girl died 21 years ago this October. I never thought that there would be pain that cut that deeply again unless someone as close to me died. But I have now lived long enough to learn that in life there are other deaths that cause the same searing pain as the death of a child. Yesterday was a very long and sorrowful day, this morning was tough getting out of bed. And today I have fumbled around sincerely attempting to get the books assembled for the kids in the writing workshop. I wish I could say they were done.

After the death of my daughter my life did move forward. I did begin to laugh again, and then some more, and slowly her death stopped being at the forefront of my mind, and slipped silently into the background as a wonderful memory, and life returned to normal. But not without transformation. I was more mature, more aware, more compassionate, and exuded more wisdom, more depth, and more insight, I was braver, bolder, and stronger. And I became someone who could honestly say to another hurting person, “I understand,” and provide a shoulder for them to lean on and draw strength from.

As with death, this is my grieving process. This is me moving through the suffocating awareness of what is. For now there is grief. Grief is painful but good. It’s a process that causes us to slow down, to stop us if necessary in order for the mind and body to adjust and heal properly. It’s the normal human experience that carries us through to the next phase of life: living with the reality. And even as bad as this is and could grow to become, as I move through the blur of the last couple days and into today, after all I’ve been through, I know this . . . the sun will come up tomorrow and strength will return to my flesh. I will move forward, but not without transformation . . .

Theresa

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