And Then I Met James

The older we grow as we travel this journey called Life, the more we realize we don't walk alone; many have influenced us. Friends, family, clergy, and others have provided guidance over the years.

After my son died, I filled journals with emotions, questions, woes----basically, lots of pain. Most of the pages were not ones I wished to share with anyone. Even though I felt I was losing my mind, fading from who I used to be, and finding the future scary, writing gave me comfort. Journaing brought clarity, and sometimes even solace. To help me on my rocky journey, I also devoured books about grief from memoirs to tomes on writing. It was in Louise DeSalvo's book that I met James Pennebaker.

Who is James? In a nutshell, he's a professor at the University of Texas at Austin whose studies have shown the value of expressive writing when dealing with turmoil. James' work piqued my interest.

In one six-week study, he had half his class write about trivial things and the other half write about wounds and the more sorrowful parts of life. At the end of the study, those who had written deeply were healthier. Pulse rates, heart rates, etc., were checked before and after the study to prove this.

James writes: “If keeping a secret about a trauma was unhealthy, it made sense that having people reveal the secret should improve health. As a social psychologist, I was concerned with having people talk about their secrets to another person because of the complicated social dynamics that would likely result. Consequently, I decided to have participants write about the most traumatic experience of their lives or, for those in a control condition, write about superficial topics.”

I knew writing worked, but because of James' studies, the value of writing as a tool for healing has become more "scientific" for me. The findings from his work are evidence I can use when I advocate for writing as a means of healing. It's not just me telling others writing works because it worked for me (and continues to do so), but there is research that validates how effective what I call "grief and loss writing" is.

My "After Daniel" journals were safe places to unleash all the feelings bottled in my heart. These tear-stained epistles now sit in my closet in a large canvas bag given to me by Sascha, a twice-bereaved mom, poet, and friend. These journals represent my journey of healing, and are one of the reasons, like James, I believe in the writing-health connection.

Writing through life's traumas is good therapy!

Can Grief Make Us Creative?

I remember being overwhelmed, guilt-ridden, and shocked at tears that sprung on me in the bank, the cereal aisle, and when watching a commerical on TV for St. Jude's. As I cried at the clinic, I told my midwife I feared my excessive tears would hurt the baby in my womb. I recall those early days of wanting to drive into the truck ahead of me on the road and die. I could not do this bereavement life, I could not continue in a world without my son Daniel.

Yet I, somehow, was propelled to write. Not just in my journal, but articles, poems, and essays. I didn't have energy to meet with friends, but I could sit at my kitchen table and put words onto paper. Ideas for articles filtered through me as easliy as waves topple the shore. I jotted outlines onto note cards while my toddler napped and and my eldest learned to read at her elementary school. I submitted some of my work to magazines and newsletters. When my first piece was published, I danced around the living room shouting to the sofa and walls, "Daniel, we did it!"

Often the phone rang as I wrote; I ignored it and let the answering machine take the call. Grief flattened my self-confidence, my purpose, and my faith. But writing kept me sane and motivated. Writing helped make sense of the senseless death of my four-year-old boy. The ability to express myself made me bold. Best of all, the connection I felt to Daniel as I wrote about him made my heart feel warm and hugged.

And then when another bereaved parent wrote to say my article communicated what she felt but was unable to form into words, I felt heard and understood.

~~ Alice J. Wisler believes in the power of the pen for healing, health, and hope. Join her on April 27th at the Hampton Inn and Suites in Raleigh for an all-day writing workshop, Weep Boldly; Write Bravely.

Healing Ink: Writing into Your Grief

Another birthday without Daniel has come and gone. I recall those first years when special days without him (and all the ordinary ones in between) suffocated me. Now I live the days in gratitude for the time I had with him, and I also live with sadness. There will always be that tinge of sadness. Some days it is light; other seasons it hits hard and it seems like it was only days ago that he left us.

One of the things that helped me was writing. I don't mean exceptional prose or great insights. I mean just taking out a familar pen and unleashing my heartache onto the lined journal page. I learned during those early years that the paper can hold sorrow and struggle and even regret.

Here's an article that will hopefully help you as you journey the long path of grief and loss. It's from my cookbook of memories, Down the Cereal Aisle that was published in 2003, six years into my life as a bereaved mom.

Healing Ink: Writing Into Your Grief

A weeping willow tree, one flowery journal, two pens (in case one ran out of ink), and a box of Puffs tissues. Those objects stayed close beside me. In my early confusion over the loss of my son, these items never ignored my grief or told me to “get over it.”

When it grew too dark to see underneath the stringy weeping willow, I carried my pen and journal inside a house that seemed too empty, and wrote some more. At night, I woke to grapple with turmoil, with the noises in my head, the flashbacks of the cancer ward, the cries of my son. I wrote the ugly words “why?” and “how come?” before I could sleep again.

I scribbled through myths and cliches. I unleashed resentment and longing. I addressed prayers to God.

And, surprisingly, I discovered. Some of the confusion slid away, some of the guilt abandoned me. There was nothing I could have done to save my four-year-old’s life. Even my love had not been strong enough to destroy that infection that flared inside his tiny body. I was human and really not as in control as I wanted to believe. I would have to live with that.

I began to understand the new me. She was a tower of strength and compassion; she was tender and vulnerable, realistic, with just the right touch of cynicism. She needed protection from too many plastic smiles; she could not go long without a hug or sharing a story about a blue-eyed boy with an infectious laugh.

My written words healed me. And I jumped at the opportunity to tell others. I’d found comfort and clarity. I smiled at my husband and three young children, and at last, I didn’t want to run my van over the cliff; I wanted to smell the peonies and taste the salt from the ocean on my skin.

The beauty about grief-writing is that no one has to read it. You don’t have to worry about a teacher correcting your spelling or grammar. There’s no grade, no pass or fail. No one cares if your letters are sloppy. It’s written by you and for you. And, yes, it works.

Find a secluded place to write where you can think clearly without distraction.

* Write, at first, for your eyes only. It doesn’t have to be shared with anyone.

* Write to chart progress for you to read years down the road.

* Write with the feeling, “I will survive this.”

* Write to identify your emotions and feelings.

* Write to help solve some of the new situations you must now face.

* Think of your journal as a friend who never judges and who can never hurt you.

* Write your spiritual struggles.

* Write to rebuild your self-esteem and your self-confidence.

(From Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances by Alice J. Wisler)