It took me seven months to get to a point where I could even start to wrap my mind around the subject.
I spoke with a colleague several months ago. He said, “J, you’re struggling. Write about it.”
But I couldn’t. My tears, my grief wouldn’t let me see through to my heart.
Why are you writing this book? If it hurts so much, why put it out there and revisit the pain?
Said my amazing husband, attempting to hold his wife’s heart in his hands, nurturing it, protecting it from the world.
Almost immediately, my response: to help others and to help myself.
One my dearest friend’s uses our hero, Harriett Tubman, when she speaks around the United States. Harriett Tubman went back once she was free, to save thousands and thousands of slaves from a life full of anguish.
Now, in no way shape or form am I comparing myself to the brilliant and kind and courageous Ms. Tubman, but the acts she did to save others, (humanity and grace are two words that come to mind) gave me the encouragement to write this book. I want to go back and tell the others:
Here is my experience. Here’s what I’ve learned. I am with you.
If it’s one thing I’ve always done correctly, I’m a trial and error learner, you see, I have always followed my heart.
Sometimes the price is worth the pain. And more times than not, it’s worth carrying a message.
I listened to a speaker yesterday and she talked about making ourselves vulnerable.
What a yucky word. Right?
But then, she said:
By making ourselves vulnerable, we heal. And then we help others heal.
The life situations that we experience that cause these feelings might be different, but our emotions are humanistic. Right?
Alas, another book, a book very personal to me, has navigated into my mind and to my heart (finally), the words thrown up on a page for the world to see.
My hope, with this book, we will call it ‘untitled’ for now, is that it reaches into people’s hearts and connects not just with grief and loss, but more importantly, healing and forgiveness.
Trust me, I don’t always want to forgive, sometimes I just want sit in my own shit, but I can’t stay there. I can’t live there because, then, I cannot be the wife, the mother, daughter, aunt, friend or cousin I want to be. And these feelings, although totally valid, will turn into something beautiful someday.