“I don’t want to move forward without them.”
The new year can be a hard time for people who have lost a loved one. Even as many welcomed the end of 2020 and hoped for a better year in 2021, for those who are grieving, that passage of time can be bittersweet and sometimes just bitter. Sentiments I hear include:
“I don’t want to go into the new year without my dad.”
“2020 was the last year we were a whole family.”
“This year will mark 20 years since she’s been gone.”
There can be a feeling of pain associated with the idea of leaving the loved ones we lost behind. I want to share how I cope with this painful thought, with a concept called The Dash Between.
You can watch the video above, or read on:
After my mom died, I started to compulsively do a form of math.
1947 – 2013
The year she was born. The year she died. A dash between.
The difference was 66.
My mom had just turned 66 when she died suddenly and unexpectedly of a stroke.
66 years. It doesn’t seem like a lot considering how health conscious and active she was. It doesn’t seem like enough considering all the plans she still had.
My grandmother had died at the age of 67 from cervical cancer. And my mother had always lamented that was so young. And then for my mom to die even younger — that seemed so wrong.
The math seemed off. Calculate it again.
After my mother died, I went around compulsively calculating.
It seemed like that math problem was everywhere:
Year of birth, year of death. What’s the difference in years?
Now, I like going to museums and galleries as much as I can. And the year of birth and year of death tend to feature prominently: Next to the artist’s name in the labels for artwork. In their biographies.
And I calculated and I figured: How long did that person get?
How did that painter who lived in poverty in the 1800s live to 80-something when my healthy, active mother only got 66 years?
Some people had open-ended dashes — a living artist!
And I puzzled: How is that sculptor born in 1930 still alive?
Calculate it again.
But over time and many calculations, I realized:
What was important wasn’t the year of birth and the year of death. It was that dash between.
Not even the length of it, but the quality of it. The breadth of it, as I’ve heard some say. (Ralph Waldo Emerson is quoted as saying what’s important is “not the length of life, but the depth of life.”)
What was important was:
Not when the person was born and when they died
But what was done between:
What works created, what lives touched, what meaning left behind.
What is important
is not when my mom was born
not how and when she died
But how she lived.
That dash between
Is what really matters
The dash between
Is all that matters
My mom didn’t know she would only have 66 years. (As evidenced by the 5 wool coats she bought the winter she died. On sale! What a bargain!)
Most of us don’t know what our end dates will be.
How long our own dash will be.
How many years we get.
But what matters is our dash is still ongoing.
Our dates are still open-ended.
Our dates are not set.
I don’t know how many years I’ll get.
Yes, my mom maybe should have had more years.
I still choose to believe that.
But my dash is still open-ended —
What an incredible gift.
Her dash has ended
But mine is still open-ended
And when I look closer, my dash — my ongoing life —
is now more textured, more colorful, more faceted, brighter, more bitter and more beautiful.
Because of my mom.
Because I bring my mom forward with me
Forward into the new year
Into each new year.
Her own dash has ended
But she lives on into 2021 and beyond.
In my heart, my mind, my memories, my words, my work.
Like in a relay race, her memory is carried on
Like a baton
Or a torch
Carried into the future
And I’ll keep carrying her forward
As long as my dash goes on
So keep going on
Keep carrying them forward
And may all our own dashes
Be better and brighter for it
Because that’s all that matters:
The dash between
Questions for the reader and griever:
- Who are you going to be carrying forward with you?
- How is your dash, your life moving forward, different and better for having had them in your life? Is it more delicious? More glittery? Softer? Bolder? Let me know in the comments or by email at hello [at] griefgritgrace.com