Posted in Lanscape of Loss


“There are some griefs so loud. They could bring down the sky…”

—May Sarton

I’m missing my mother something fierce after the sudden death of her brother. Uncle Bill was only 61. Three hundred miles away and an upcoming trip abroad deprives me of the ritual of gathering with family.

When I reach my sister on her cell, I find her at the home of the deceased. The coroner has just come to pronounce the d-e-a-t-h, and she describes our uncle’s appearance as peaceful and young.

Bill called his brother the day before to complain of indigestion, and then lied down on the couch with the dog–who was still trying to stir him hours later–when his wife arrived home to find her life incomprehensibly altered.

Marc, detail,

Bridgeen’s screams of anguish shake the background of my call. My sister hands her the phone, and I encounter:  The Banshee.

Although not always seen, the Banshee’s call is heard, usually at night–in earth rattling wails.

I silence my own tongue each time I’m tempted to offer words of comfort–and simply let my Aunt Bridgeen “be”–in the madness of grief.

No doubt, she won’t remember the call. But I will. It’s the call we each receive when it’s our turn to have our hearts ripped apart.

Today is the Fools Day, April 1st, and here in the Green Mountains of Vermont, it is snowing something fierce. This prolonged end of winter can make the soul sick so I’ve filled my house with flowers.

As I look past the blooms into the white world outside, my eyes catch the sight of the miniature, coral carnations drooping. These were the blossoms meant for longevity.

photo: Kelly Salasin

Regrets aside, I notice how their passing lends a greater beauty to the life left behind.

Kelly Salasin, April 1, 2011

Posted in Lanscape of Loss

The Power of Tears

“The cure for pain is in the pain. Good and bad are mixed.

If you don’t have both, you don’t know yourself.”


I feel drawn to write about the power of tears–though I am an unlikely candidate.  I can count the times I’ve cried in the past thirty years.   And yet perhaps it is my resistance to tears that makes it possible for me to clearly mark their impact.

Van Gogh/detail (

At 5 years of age, my tears were met with threats,  “I’ll give you something to cry about!

At 7, they provoked a slap, “Calm yourself down, right now!”

At 9, they were interrogated, “Why are you crying?”

At 11, they were shamed, “You’re acting like a baby.”

At 13, I began to hide them; and at 14, I turned them off altogether.

It was in the weeks following the untimely death of my grandmother that I was told my grief was self-indulgent.  I didn’t cry again for years, not even in the late seventies when tear-jerking films like Kramer vs. Kramer were the norm.

I prided myself on this steeliness and girded it through all manner of life’s passages, including the death of dear pets and the moving-away loss of precious friends.

At 19 however, I could hold off no more. Trauma was piled upon trauma as my father’s absence met my mother’s affair, met my parents divorce, met the loss of our house, met my mother’s drinking, met my father’s indifference, met our family’s collapse.

Vecellio/detail (

Despair eroded the wall of my guarded heart and I cried three times in one year–and the tears became mine.

Those early cries were uncontrollable gushes of despair, but over time they came with greater ease, leaving behind treasures for my keep.

I’ve never forgotten the quiet stream of grief shared with my younger sister in the wreck of our family. I reached across the table for her hand, carving out a lifelong path of love that flowed between us.  Though things didn’t get easier for a long, long time, we drank from this well of mutual compassion and were sustained.

As the years passed, my tears grew in their strength and helped me wash away things like pride and regret and fear–offering a husband, a home and two children in return.

The gift of writing followed tears of anguish in the loss of my mother; and tears of frustration brought me to loving my father without cause.

Though my tears frequently accompanied pain, they were always full of giving–which allowed me to relax into them again and again as they found their away around my walls.

Just yesterday, I was relieved to find myself crying in the very moments following a deep emotional gash (a milestone in emotional timeliness for me.)  I sobbed a watershed of tears—both old and new, and this time was gifted with the compassionate presence of my 14-year old son.  He sat down beside me on the front porch and rubbed my shoulders as I wept.

Kaufmann, detail(

This oldest son is as steely as his mother and I realized that my tears, however pain-filled, were a teacher for him.  Gratitude replaced my anguish as he tenderly kissed me on the neck.

Seven years earlier we had another family lesson in compassion when he shattered a treasured mug that my late mother had given me.  Surprising the entire family (including myself!), I ran from the kitchen to the couch with loud sobs.

Seeing my tears caused steely Lloyd to cry too and he joined me on the couch in a chorus of sobs,  Moments later his emotionally brilliant, two-year old brother added his cries, without needing to know why.  My husband came upon us last, and stood there before us, confused, not knowing what to “do.”

Maya cup (

That’s when I began to laugh.

Why are you happy, Mommy?” Lloyd asked through his sobs, “You’ll never be able to drink from Mom-mom’s mug again.”

But now I have this,” I told him with a squeeze.  “Now I have this memory of our tears together, and that is more precious than any thing.”

I can’t help but wonder if this memory came to Lloyd yesterday as he gingerly sat beside me on the porch to comfort my grief.

I have great hope that in his growing strength,

he’ll come to know

the precious power

of his “owned”


kelly salasin