Gorgeous, gorgeous words about grief. I met and lost my Benjamin in the same moment. He didn’t get to see the sun set, or the waves crash. But the grief found me just the same. I often think how exponentially more terrible, more painful it is when they breathe, when they live, when you know the color of their eyes and the sound of their laugh and then they go. It is my terror with my living child (perhaps every parent’s terror). Thank you for this lifeboat for those tumbling in the waves, for our tender hearts.
Mary - 15 yrs ago I lost the mother of my two boys. I’d lost her as partner 15 yrs before that, her drug addiction hidden to me. I nearly lost my son to the addiction she had drawn him into. I was at her bedside with my sons when she passed. I cried there and mourned her passing more deeply than I could’ve expected. This is the first time since that I have cried so openly. May our tears slowly wash away the pain and leave only the glowing warmth of having known the presence of such beauty in our lives.
Yes, we hold the memories, good and bad: the loss of your partner, mother to your son and then the realization at her bedside of the depth of the loss. Grief has its own voice. We must listen and we must answer as you have done here. I thank you so for the open vulnerability you bravely expressed here--I connect to you, Richard. I do.
Thank you Mary - and please forgive me for making it about my loss. You write beautifully and the loss you suffer, made so clear in your letter, put me back in touch with something I thought I’d let go of. He sounds like a wonderful young man, nearly the same age as my older son Brian. It seems, that like my sons, yours was adventurous and full of life. I can’t know your loss Mary, but I’ve imagined it every time Brian throws himself down a mountain trail on his mt bike or every time my younger son, Joel, goes to work in the wind turbines or pulls himself up a cliff. I imagine your son’s wine was a reflection of his life - rich, full bodied and deep. What a privilege it must have been to raise him. I wish you a growing and sustaining peace.
Thank you for sharing your raw heart with us. And for sharing your son.
I believe that we live on within the hearts of those who know us, and you’ve now given each of us a small piece of his light and yours.
I hope that you are able to share more as it bubbles up.
I wish I had words that would comfort your sorrow, but there are none. I send you an energetic hug from another woman out here in the world who is a Mother.
Mary, in the face of tragedy this is so gorgeous and so rare. I know as you do that our culture deals with grief poorly, or more to the point, not at all. With profound loss, we experience the seeming impossibility of seeing the world go on when we feel our world has stopped. There is so much silence from the world around, and when not silent, so much failure to know how to connect, how to empathize.
Lifeboat is a beautiful, perfect metaphor. You not only grieve, you reach out. You teach us how it feels. The “raw threads” of an inside-out sweater. “The ash of stay — and gone.” The still, splayed splash in the lake where something has fallen. Over and over you bring us to understanding and, one hopes, the ability to express true empathy and connection. “Others may be lost and searching… others too may have felt as if they were drowning, that they too have been without a lifeboat. To them I say: Comfort can abide not-knowing and that you, who read this, are the lifeboat in my ocean.”
Knowing that you are here, even if it is only you, offering this, gets us through.
My heart in love and hope to yours for such a gorgeous comment, sol eloquently stated and the offer of courage to write again. With all this, witness to my life, I thank you.
Mary, I am glad I saw your interview with Kimberly Warner before I read Lifeboat. It offered a deeper insight, especially to the multiple rejections from publishers (their huge loss) and the discussion about it being written in note form. It is perfect this way because it is real, it is you, and it is Benjamin. Each note offers us a chance to see, to feel, and to sit with your pain as well as our own. Reading each one I had the sense of you conveying the essence of what I hold in my own grief, only to go on to the next one and the next one. It is amazing that, in your own writing, you seem to also see me.
Thank you for this vulnerable share and allowing us to hold your son in our hearts.
Donna, dear, the very fact that you say that you are seen gives me not only hope for the repair the writing gave me but faith in the creative side of my life that stopped short when my son died. I honor you with this comment because you are part of my lifeboat that keeps me afloat in the sea of loss. I am hoping that some of my other work up here that is not about this loss might give you that sense as well, but I say that knowing well how time is so limited to read others.
Donna, I want you to know that, as over subscribed as I am, my policy on Substack is to read and comment on every person who does that for me with a comment on anything. That exchange is taking me longer than usual for "Lifeboat", but I will catch up. To put it more simply: If you read me and comment, I read you and comment. That I have discovered builds connection--much more than the easy "heart" as a "like": Thus, "Only connect ..." the title of my Substack.
If we didn't love, the loss would not have been so great. Hearing you read your notes stopped me in my tracks from all the have to do's and should do's and lists reminding me loudly about responsibility and timing. This cuts through all of that. This reminds me of my mother's horrendous loss when her youngest, my baby brother, died in 1993 at the age of 31. He left behind a 30-day baby girl and a two-and-a-half year old girl at home. It is the worst when they die before their time. Yet, my brother was saying goodbye before it happened. He summed up my life 85 days before he lost his life. My response? "Steven, I'm not dead yet."
I commune with my brother every day. I feel him messaging me from beyond, getting ever more clear with each passing year. In 1993, I shut down for a decade. I've heard they can't come through when we are so deep in grief. Both my folks are gone now as well. Last night when working with the #6 Sony Digital recorder that had 3 more hours of recordable time on it (Steve died on 6/3) ... I came across my mom's voice comforting me from my fears about cancer in folder A, the 8th of 73 files in that folder. My mom brought me to 873 Stevely from the hospital. My baby brother was conceived at 873 Stevely. He was named Steve(n).
It is only if we truly love, that we deeply grow. You pouring this out to the community here proves just how important not only writing is, but being in a community of writers who write because they must write. Most of us know we must feel, but feeling is difficult. Someone who can feel and express their feelings as beautifully as you do, grace this world forever. I hope with each day you begin to delight with the possibility of how many ways he can still seek you, fly you, give to you, remind you how grateful he was to have YOU as his mom.
Eloquent, personal --I so thank you for sharing your story about Steve and doing so with such candor. Age 31 is so out of order. I wonder if you experienced the silence I tried to break with this essay that took me so long to write and courage to post? Your words encourage my belief that the writing matters and I thank you from my heart.
Mary, I'm so very sorry for your loss. There are no words of comfort, except that I can feel how much you love and miss him, and in your heart he is always there. This is deeply touching and reflective of the complexities of grief, living with grief, how grief transforms through time.
Mary, the most beautiful sunset I ever saw was from Fremantle, WA, looking out over the Indian Ocean. That memory will now be forever infused with your beautiful words in tribute to your son.
A sunset is the result of barely comprehensible forces that somehow forge a scene of great loveliness. And you have grappled with unimaginable grief to fashion a truly wonderful tribute to your son. My heart goes out to you in sorrow, and in gratitude.
From my heart to yours, Jeffrey, for this empathic expression and eloquent phrasing and doing just what most folks can't do with grief: add the personal in some way. I talk about this aspect of grief in western culture in an interview about the piece with Kimberly Warner, Alisa Kennedy Jones and Veronika Bond. So hard that was to do after the courage it took me to post this essay: That difficult interview will appear, I think, from Kimberly soon. If I can figure out how to cross post it, will do. I want to express my gratitude for your friendship from afar and that I never would have found were it not for this site. xx ~ Mary
Mary, I cling onto every word of this as if clinging to his life or your relationship itself. It is beautiful, haunting. As soon as I became a mother, I began worrying about losing my son and this is the worst nightmare we all hope to never experience. But your writing also describes the most brilliant love even over an ocean. That “beam me up” part really got me. Love to you. 💜💜💜
Kathleen, Yes, motherhood. The fact that you could say that you "cling to every word" gives me hope and courage as I move through ... The making of this essay was a beginning and the novel that stopped has begun again. The painting I hope will also come. Everything is ready. Thank you so for taking the time to read and comment.
I’m not sure why, but #12 speaks to me in a way that feels outside of my self. I just adore the way you tie so much emotion into every syllable. Your writing elicits so much comfort even as the words are of sorrow. I am yet another person who you have touched with your story. TY
Oh, Mary. I have sat with this exquisite tribute to your son for days now, not knowing how to express how much it rocks and moves in my heart, like the sea you described so beautifully. I think of your son as driving his Porsche, the vehicle he worked so hard and so long for. I see his life transformed into Blake’s chariot of fire, crossing the firmament each day; I see him building Jerusalem, his work on earth not yet finished. I felt every word of this.
Your soul is aching. As is mine, and those of so many in this world today. You cannot weigh one grief against another. But to lose a child is such a primal hurt. I can’t fathom the pain.
The details, so rich. The inside-out sweater, with the knots and seams, exposing your rawness. The two-year-old found playing on a swing, the fire of his being already soaring to the heavens. The ashes, the dust you taste. The gutting of seeing him dressed, in violation of all that is sacred.
That dream. “He’s not here,” and yet he is, you can hear his voice. I’ve dreamt of my husband once, maybe twice, too painful to remember, staring off away from me , everything monotone. So, so, hard. There, and not there.
And yet, you’ve written this so vividly. The blues and greens of the sea. The intense brightness of fire: all colors, like a color wheel spun fiercely until it becomes white-hot and searing. Above all, the intense blue of his eyes.
Beaming you across the sea: one ray of light catching another.
The watercolor and ink drawing on crumpled paper; A4 paper, stated with the precision of the drawing itself. Your power to describe, to summon. What a gifted writer you are.
I’m feeling so much pain right now. We all are. But your writing steadies and comforts me. It comes from a place of love and compassion. And that is what we need at this moment. Thank you for holding us in your heart.
Oh, Mary, yes his green eyes reflect the ocean he loved. Your words written with such care and fervor, a close read that honors my writing and my son, held in my heart. Love to you, with gratitude.
Nathan, means so much. My heart to yours. I say this because the loss of words for the writing, let alone the loss, says much about your empathic heart.
Mary - this quote "I’ve learned my heart is a lake where something has fallen, a splash appears and stays. Fronds of water rise around what has fallen. The splash instead of a return to surface calm stays, open and splayed." rings loud and true about loss for me. It doesn't go away, it can just stay whether it's an invited guest or not. I am deeply sorry for your loss; I cannot imagine what you've been through and continue to go through. Please know your words are indeed a lifeboat for me. XX, s
Oh, I'm so glad you found it. Did you find my reply from my personal email? it's a me.com email. I, of course, wrote back and that probably ended in your spam as well. xo Mary
Mary - I have not words for the deep, deep feelings of loss portrayed in your beautiful essay. I say if writing helps, keep writing. You have a gift. Thank you for sharing your loss and your gift. -- Olga
Thank you so, Olga, for reading, for taking the time to leave such an empathic comment. I also so appreciate your subscription and your reply to my welcome letter. I wrote back to your email address: do check your spam as the reply came from my personal email that I believe is in the welcome letter, but still the reply could have ended in your gmail spam.
Looking forward to... as I said in my reply. ~ Mary
Gorgeous, gorgeous words about grief. I met and lost my Benjamin in the same moment. He didn’t get to see the sun set, or the waves crash. But the grief found me just the same. I often think how exponentially more terrible, more painful it is when they breathe, when they live, when you know the color of their eyes and the sound of their laugh and then they go. It is my terror with my living child (perhaps every parent’s terror). Thank you for this lifeboat for those tumbling in the waves, for our tender hearts.
Oh, Alana, your Benjamin, too! Heart breaks and you word here is poetic, so generous in the spirit of the writing. My heart to your, Mary
Mary - 15 yrs ago I lost the mother of my two boys. I’d lost her as partner 15 yrs before that, her drug addiction hidden to me. I nearly lost my son to the addiction she had drawn him into. I was at her bedside with my sons when she passed. I cried there and mourned her passing more deeply than I could’ve expected. This is the first time since that I have cried so openly. May our tears slowly wash away the pain and leave only the glowing warmth of having known the presence of such beauty in our lives.
Yes, we hold the memories, good and bad: the loss of your partner, mother to your son and then the realization at her bedside of the depth of the loss. Grief has its own voice. We must listen and we must answer as you have done here. I thank you so for the open vulnerability you bravely expressed here--I connect to you, Richard. I do.
Thank you Mary - and please forgive me for making it about my loss. You write beautifully and the loss you suffer, made so clear in your letter, put me back in touch with something I thought I’d let go of. He sounds like a wonderful young man, nearly the same age as my older son Brian. It seems, that like my sons, yours was adventurous and full of life. I can’t know your loss Mary, but I’ve imagined it every time Brian throws himself down a mountain trail on his mt bike or every time my younger son, Joel, goes to work in the wind turbines or pulls himself up a cliff. I imagine your son’s wine was a reflection of his life - rich, full bodied and deep. What a privilege it must have been to raise him. I wish you a growing and sustaining peace.
Wow. This was so moving. I have no words other than, thank you.
Oh, Michael Edward, my heartfelt thanks for your meaningful words that went straight to my heart. ~ Mary
Thank you for sharing your raw heart with us. And for sharing your son.
I believe that we live on within the hearts of those who know us, and you’ve now given each of us a small piece of his light and yours.
I hope that you are able to share more as it bubbles up.
I wish I had words that would comfort your sorrow, but there are none. I send you an energetic hug from another woman out here in the world who is a Mother.
Ah, Teyani, my heart to yours. I thank you with my words and with yours that give me courage.
Mary, in the face of tragedy this is so gorgeous and so rare. I know as you do that our culture deals with grief poorly, or more to the point, not at all. With profound loss, we experience the seeming impossibility of seeing the world go on when we feel our world has stopped. There is so much silence from the world around, and when not silent, so much failure to know how to connect, how to empathize.
Lifeboat is a beautiful, perfect metaphor. You not only grieve, you reach out. You teach us how it feels. The “raw threads” of an inside-out sweater. “The ash of stay — and gone.” The still, splayed splash in the lake where something has fallen. Over and over you bring us to understanding and, one hopes, the ability to express true empathy and connection. “Others may be lost and searching… others too may have felt as if they were drowning, that they too have been without a lifeboat. To them I say: Comfort can abide not-knowing and that you, who read this, are the lifeboat in my ocean.”
Knowing that you are here, even if it is only you, offering this, gets us through.
Thank you.
My heart in love and hope to yours for such a gorgeous comment, sol eloquently stated and the offer of courage to write again. With all this, witness to my life, I thank you.
Mary, I am glad I saw your interview with Kimberly Warner before I read Lifeboat. It offered a deeper insight, especially to the multiple rejections from publishers (their huge loss) and the discussion about it being written in note form. It is perfect this way because it is real, it is you, and it is Benjamin. Each note offers us a chance to see, to feel, and to sit with your pain as well as our own. Reading each one I had the sense of you conveying the essence of what I hold in my own grief, only to go on to the next one and the next one. It is amazing that, in your own writing, you seem to also see me.
Thank you for this vulnerable share and allowing us to hold your son in our hearts.
Donna, dear, the very fact that you say that you are seen gives me not only hope for the repair the writing gave me but faith in the creative side of my life that stopped short when my son died. I honor you with this comment because you are part of my lifeboat that keeps me afloat in the sea of loss. I am hoping that some of my other work up here that is not about this loss might give you that sense as well, but I say that knowing well how time is so limited to read others.
I know what you mean about time to read being limited, and yet I certainly look forward to diving into your other essays.
Donna, I want you to know that, as over subscribed as I am, my policy on Substack is to read and comment on every person who does that for me with a comment on anything. That exchange is taking me longer than usual for "Lifeboat", but I will catch up. To put it more simply: If you read me and comment, I read you and comment. That I have discovered builds connection--much more than the easy "heart" as a "like": Thus, "Only connect ..." the title of my Substack.
If we didn't love, the loss would not have been so great. Hearing you read your notes stopped me in my tracks from all the have to do's and should do's and lists reminding me loudly about responsibility and timing. This cuts through all of that. This reminds me of my mother's horrendous loss when her youngest, my baby brother, died in 1993 at the age of 31. He left behind a 30-day baby girl and a two-and-a-half year old girl at home. It is the worst when they die before their time. Yet, my brother was saying goodbye before it happened. He summed up my life 85 days before he lost his life. My response? "Steven, I'm not dead yet."
I commune with my brother every day. I feel him messaging me from beyond, getting ever more clear with each passing year. In 1993, I shut down for a decade. I've heard they can't come through when we are so deep in grief. Both my folks are gone now as well. Last night when working with the #6 Sony Digital recorder that had 3 more hours of recordable time on it (Steve died on 6/3) ... I came across my mom's voice comforting me from my fears about cancer in folder A, the 8th of 73 files in that folder. My mom brought me to 873 Stevely from the hospital. My baby brother was conceived at 873 Stevely. He was named Steve(n).
It is only if we truly love, that we deeply grow. You pouring this out to the community here proves just how important not only writing is, but being in a community of writers who write because they must write. Most of us know we must feel, but feeling is difficult. Someone who can feel and express their feelings as beautifully as you do, grace this world forever. I hope with each day you begin to delight with the possibility of how many ways he can still seek you, fly you, give to you, remind you how grateful he was to have YOU as his mom.
Eloquent, personal --I so thank you for sharing your story about Steve and doing so with such candor. Age 31 is so out of order. I wonder if you experienced the silence I tried to break with this essay that took me so long to write and courage to post? Your words encourage my belief that the writing matters and I thank you from my heart.
Mary, I'm so very sorry for your loss. There are no words of comfort, except that I can feel how much you love and miss him, and in your heart he is always there. This is deeply touching and reflective of the complexities of grief, living with grief, how grief transforms through time.
Tender, empathic. and lovely: Helps more than you can know, Nadia!
Big virtual hugs to you, Mary!
Mary, the most beautiful sunset I ever saw was from Fremantle, WA, looking out over the Indian Ocean. That memory will now be forever infused with your beautiful words in tribute to your son.
A sunset is the result of barely comprehensible forces that somehow forge a scene of great loveliness. And you have grappled with unimaginable grief to fashion a truly wonderful tribute to your son. My heart goes out to you in sorrow, and in gratitude.
From my heart to yours, Jeffrey, for this empathic expression and eloquent phrasing and doing just what most folks can't do with grief: add the personal in some way. I talk about this aspect of grief in western culture in an interview about the piece with Kimberly Warner, Alisa Kennedy Jones and Veronika Bond. So hard that was to do after the courage it took me to post this essay: That difficult interview will appear, I think, from Kimberly soon. If I can figure out how to cross post it, will do. I want to express my gratitude for your friendship from afar and that I never would have found were it not for this site. xx ~ Mary
I look forward to listening to that interview, Mary. Aside from your eloquence, I’m in awe of your bravery.
Mary, I cling onto every word of this as if clinging to his life or your relationship itself. It is beautiful, haunting. As soon as I became a mother, I began worrying about losing my son and this is the worst nightmare we all hope to never experience. But your writing also describes the most brilliant love even over an ocean. That “beam me up” part really got me. Love to you. 💜💜💜
Kathleen, Yes, motherhood. The fact that you could say that you "cling to every word" gives me hope and courage as I move through ... The making of this essay was a beginning and the novel that stopped has begun again. The painting I hope will also come. Everything is ready. Thank you so for taking the time to read and comment.
PS this incredible painting! I do hope you paint again one day.
I’m not sure why, but #12 speaks to me in a way that feels outside of my self. I just adore the way you tie so much emotion into every syllable. Your writing elicits so much comfort even as the words are of sorrow. I am yet another person who you have touched with your story. TY
BW, your specificity on #12 speaks so much and all you say here. I am quite moved by your words and your thanks are returned with 💞.
Oh, Mary. I have sat with this exquisite tribute to your son for days now, not knowing how to express how much it rocks and moves in my heart, like the sea you described so beautifully. I think of your son as driving his Porsche, the vehicle he worked so hard and so long for. I see his life transformed into Blake’s chariot of fire, crossing the firmament each day; I see him building Jerusalem, his work on earth not yet finished. I felt every word of this.
Your soul is aching. As is mine, and those of so many in this world today. You cannot weigh one grief against another. But to lose a child is such a primal hurt. I can’t fathom the pain.
The details, so rich. The inside-out sweater, with the knots and seams, exposing your rawness. The two-year-old found playing on a swing, the fire of his being already soaring to the heavens. The ashes, the dust you taste. The gutting of seeing him dressed, in violation of all that is sacred.
That dream. “He’s not here,” and yet he is, you can hear his voice. I’ve dreamt of my husband once, maybe twice, too painful to remember, staring off away from me , everything monotone. So, so, hard. There, and not there.
And yet, you’ve written this so vividly. The blues and greens of the sea. The intense brightness of fire: all colors, like a color wheel spun fiercely until it becomes white-hot and searing. Above all, the intense blue of his eyes.
Beaming you across the sea: one ray of light catching another.
The watercolor and ink drawing on crumpled paper; A4 paper, stated with the precision of the drawing itself. Your power to describe, to summon. What a gifted writer you are.
I’m feeling so much pain right now. We all are. But your writing steadies and comforts me. It comes from a place of love and compassion. And that is what we need at this moment. Thank you for holding us in your heart.
Mary xoxo
A2 paper.
Oh, Mary, yes his green eyes reflect the ocean he loved. Your words written with such care and fervor, a close read that honors my writing and my son, held in my heart. Love to you, with gratitude.
Mary, so sorry. I messed up the details. But not the emotions. Love you so much.🫶
You hit it exactly right. No sorry necessary EVER! 💞
Mary, this was all staggeringly beautiful. I don't think I can do it any justice with my comment here other than to say it moved me deeply.
I'm so sorry for you loss.
Nathan, means so much. My heart to yours. I say this because the loss of words for the writing, let alone the loss, says much about your empathic heart.
Mary - this quote "I’ve learned my heart is a lake where something has fallen, a splash appears and stays. Fronds of water rise around what has fallen. The splash instead of a return to surface calm stays, open and splayed." rings loud and true about loss for me. It doesn't go away, it can just stay whether it's an invited guest or not. I am deeply sorry for your loss; I cannot imagine what you've been through and continue to go through. Please know your words are indeed a lifeboat for me. XX, s
Susan, with your open heart and kind words you join me in the lifeboat. With gratitude and love, Mary
Mary, I'm honored to be in the boat with you. Hugs and love, Susan
Mary - I did get your welcome email and it was in my spam so thanks for pointing that out. I look forward to reading more of your posts. Cheers, Olga
Oh, I'm so glad you found it. Did you find my reply from my personal email? it's a me.com email. I, of course, wrote back and that probably ended in your spam as well. xo Mary
Mary - I have not words for the deep, deep feelings of loss portrayed in your beautiful essay. I say if writing helps, keep writing. You have a gift. Thank you for sharing your loss and your gift. -- Olga
Thank you so, Olga, for reading, for taking the time to leave such an empathic comment. I also so appreciate your subscription and your reply to my welcome letter. I wrote back to your email address: do check your spam as the reply came from my personal email that I believe is in the welcome letter, but still the reply could have ended in your gmail spam.
Looking forward to... as I said in my reply. ~ Mary