Introduction

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.

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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.