“All our progress is an unfolding, like a vegetable bud.
You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge as the plant has root, bud, and fruit.
Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
It’s a hard life today. Had he lived, he would be forty. He lived to 21.
Suicide: It coats the tongue like rancid lard and heavy sand; makes it hard to swallow. Harder to think.
Suicide. It has the sound of pest control, but it is so different when I feel the wordÂ in my heart. It lacks color when I see it in my mind’s eye. Suicide. Grey. Dim. Dull.
Never believe there is no energy attached to words. The energetic charge of suicide is palpable. It causes other to back away as if it will get on them if they linger too long. Suicide: It separates the friends from the acquaintances. It’s a word laced with a thick cord ofÂ fear. It causes others to judge.
I was one of those judges, prior, of course, until the karmic slap woke me to the vast truth; caused me to re-evaluate and re-calibrate, and most certainly, to explore where the word led.
What ifs blossomed like popcorn popping on an apricot tree. Insane. Surreal. What if I had been there? What if I had known…? What if?
What ifsÂ are a dreadful waste of time and effort. What is, is all we have. There’s a testament of staying present in suicide, and in what is.
The journey led inward: The search for sense from senselessness. My curious mind had to know what lays beneath, before, behind the curtain of social mores and judgements and culpability. And it led to HELL. A deep pool within, deeper than the layer of sanity protects us from the sheer craziness that could be. Led to a poolÂ where the dead stir putrid swirls ~ripples radiate, seep out into daylight. And although it’s a cold, dead place, it burns with reality. Dead. Your child is dead. And no religion, no spirituality, no prayers, no magic cures can change this brutally heart-ripping awareness.
Life went on. Shoppers shopped at Walmart. People kept eating. They went to movies, and fell in love and laughed. And my universe was not aligned with the laughter. Not for many months would I hear the foreign sound of laughter escape my mouth.
But it came. My purposeÂ unfolded with the inner journey that brought me into the mire and back out to the light. Like a tight bud opening to the light, but not until the bulb had been in the dark for the necessary time, I opened to the experience….
I heard the laugh. I looked around when I first heard it. Like a stranger on-looking, I heard the laugh come out and it was clear that it had been too longÂ that laugh had been squelched.
Suicide. It was not the end, but was the beginning of my journey inward to the authenticity of me. And this is really hard to convey, but I learned long ago that there is a gift in every episode of life, even in the nefarious. And so, I look back and see the jewel: I wrote a book (my first, not last) that purged my insides out and today heals others; I started a non-profit for suicide awareness; I enlightened masses; I saved some lives along the way and healed some broken hearts; I learned valuable lessons of non-judgment and survival. And the greatest gem of all, is that of love. There is no deeper love than that from a mother to her child, and to lose a child reveals a love deeper than imaginable, unless you’re a member of the club. I pray you never are. And yet, to be deprived of this unfolding of purpose and calling would be worse, I sense, than death.
Our subjective purpose transcends time, matter, and perhaps, even reason. And yet, our purpose is like a secret treasure that we excavate and reveal over time. Everything, every event, every oneÂ has a place in the universal flow. Even the gritty lard that coats my tongue.