Sunday, January 31, 2010


If I must take steps forward, I'd rather they be colorful. . . and clear. Black is nice, and the shades of gray. But I remember days when there were bright greens, vibrant blues...and purples. And they were crisp and textured and beautiful.

For weeks everything has been foggy. Or like I'm looking through those glass cubes used in bathrooms - they still let enough light in, but you can't really see what's behind them.

At first it was the pain meds. Then the shock. But what do I blame it on now? What tangible and acceptable excuse do I have? Grief alone doesn't cut it. Unless they've experienced it, people aren't going to accept or understand that everything still is rather black, fuzzy, and bland. Everyone tells you to grieve in your own time, but then expects a positive response to the question, "How's it going?" 

I'm not trying to dally in the fog...I don't enjoy the lack of color. I just don't feel like I have much of path to follow now. We had plans to bring our little girl home and have our world change to feedings and diaper changes. Instead we brought home a memory box, and a new "normal" to try and adjust to.

"You, the child's mother or father, seem to have violated a natural law. You have outlived your child. Tragically, at the same time, during a period when you are most confused, you have to make a fundamental determination. From here on, will you have a life or an existence?"

LJ and I had a similar discussion prior to my reading that quote in a bereavement book. "What if we can't move past this? What if we don't have the vivacity and spontaneity that we had before? Or will we always be shadows of who we once were?"

So this is my attempt live. To see color. And texture. And beauty. And to imagine and dream that there is hope despite the pain. That this is a way to honor Lyra. That this grief is not all there can be. That I am more than a shadow.

Seeing the Creative Everyday website gives me a tangible way of taking a tiny step. I hope it gives me a relevant expression for both my grief/pain and a glimmer of who I am as an artist/wife/mom. I will not get caught up in perfection...or my insecurities as an artist. I will be honest and real, even if it disappoints whomever might stumble across this blog.

Though life right now is mainly grays and black and foggy, maybe through this exercise in creativity, one color can return. Then two. And eventually, in my own time, the whole spectrum will be visible and clear.

Lyra was stillborn 7 months into the pregnancy due to placental abruption. She was perfectly healthy, and absolutely beautiful. We delivered her December 18, 2009 and her burial was December 19, 2009.


  1. what a beautiful, heartfelt post. love the art. i know that art can't totally heal the grief, but it does help. keep on taking those small steps. (((((hugs and love))))

  2. I'm so sorry for you loss. I too am babylost and this road sucks. I am thankful for art as a release and expression of the intense grief.

    Your drawing "empty" is powerful and heartbreaking.

  3. I was in a similar place myself a couple of years ago. I'm glad you have such a great way to express your feelings and share your art. I made grief art too actually. I don't usually share it because it honestly kind of scares me. You seem very brave and honest. Thank you for sharing. (hugs)

  4. So you know, I'm here, reading. I appreciate getting to see your art, and you giving me an opportunity to grieve with you. May your first color be purple.

  5. I'm so sorry for the loss of your daughter. Your art work is powerful and I'm thankful to see it. We lost our Gracie dec.10.2009 at 26 1/2 weeks pregnant and I have felt very much the same recently that I don't have any color and wondering if my new normal is going to be anything but black and grey. Thank you for sharing your art.

  6. We lost Nara 7 weeks ago today. She was born at 25 weeks and 2 days gestation after 8 weeks of bedpan bedrest following PPROM (Preterm Premature Rupture of Membranes). I was in the hospital when my chord prolapsed and they had to get her out via emergency C-section. She lived for 28 hours. I keep updating my facebook notes and my caring bridge site. Somehow I feel that when I send her name and my grief through the computer and out to whomever cares to read it that it went "somewhere" and that brings me comfort. I have never followed a blog in my life. I was captivated by your art on Etsy. I am captivated by this, your first posting, as well. I will try to become a blog reader. I so need to read and know that we are not alone...but I'm sorry we find ourselves linked by such tragedy.