They will need to tell their stories…

They will need to tell their stories. These people uprooted by Harvey. Just like the refugees of Katrina and Sandy and Camille and on; they will need to sit with you and hold your hand and cry as they describe the water rising in the night, their baby’s favorite teddy bear floating out of reach, their last look back at the home they love.

Losing a place carries a weight that never lifts; scars you with memories of a gracious Water Oak or a blue hydrangea growing by the door. Scars you with a sense of longing forever.

They will need to tell their stories. Tell them to the bone. Write them, scream them, cry them out. Over and over. We will need to listen. To hand them a notebook and say keep writing it so you don’t forget. Keep writing it so you can carry your home within.

To those of us already scarred with the loss of place, we will keep telling our stories over and over; screaming them, writing them, crying them out to heal ourselves and to help the new hurricane grievers know that their pain is understood; that when everything is washed away all that remains are our gorgeous spirits reaching out to save one other.

I wrote about my Hurricane Camille loss in Water Oak: The Happiness of Longing. The loss of that sacred place is still my core grief and my greatest inspiration. Tell me your story. Let’s carry these together.

My Shared Death Experience

Loved speaking at the IANDS conference this weekend. I shared an except from Water Oak: The Happiness of Longing that describes what’s being called a “shared death experience” – something that many people experience when a loved one dies. Here’s the excerpt:
Paul appears to me now in a dream, wakes me from a deep slumber on the floor beside the hospital bed. He’s vibrantly healthy, happy and smiling, pulling me to stand up. “Wake up” he says. “Wake up and hold me like you said you would.”
 I open my eyes and realize another day has cycled in through the hospital window, illuminating us with rainy light, dappled and glowing. His labored breathing hasn’t changed. 
“Paul was just with me. He’s ready to go,” I say to his mother, moving to stand by the bed. She nods. We ask everyone to leave and we stand beside him, looking out the window at the soft summer rain, the green gentle foothills sloping upwards. We rub his arms and legs. “Go play outside my baby, I’ll always love you. I’ll be okay. You’re free to go,” I whisper in his ear. 
At those words, his tortured breathing stops; he takes one peaceful sigh and the light leaves his body. I watch it rise and travel up through the window and out to the green hills. We move to the window watching; the rain seems to lift briefly, then sprinkle again, sunlight peppering in through the clouds, shining in on us – a golden surprise.
This is a moment beyond words. My logical mind can’t understand it. But my heart and soul know. I’ve just witnessed a miracle; an everyday miracle, a soul lifting peacefully from a body, slipping into the invisible. It’s not a death. What a very wrong thing to call it. He shifted gracefully into something, purposefully, lovingly towards – not away from. He freed himself, leaving like a gentle kiss, slipping blissfully towards what I once called heaven.
I feel giddy, without borders, lifted. I know in an instant that there is a rule, a law, a purpose to everything, to my life, to Paul’s pain; that I’ve always been guided, held to the task I came here to accomplish. This sense of knowing follows me for days and weeks. 
I see the divine order within each moment; signs that all is well in every conversation with a friend, in the magical apartment that Paul reveals to me in a dream and I rent the next day. I feel light and free, untethered and joyful, without appetite for food or sleep. 
Living in the invisible realms now, my true home, I’m aware of the briefness of earthly lifetimes. I feel held by the angels who cherish me; they whisper in my ear at night when Paul visits, wrapping his fuzzy legs around mine in bed; holding me close until an angel calls him away. This physical world is truly not real and it’s such a relief to know it. Fully. Vividly. Through my senses know it. Costumes peel away. I see spirit everywhere. Paul has taken me with him.
Until my body pulls me back down to this weighty realm – the one I agreed to live in. But I don’t want to feel this heaviness, don’t want to be fully back in the body. I want my awareness to perch above it, heart soaring in the invisible. Everything I want is there not here and yet my body comes tumbling down, crashing into the earth with such force that I dry heave all night. It’s been four weeks, maybe five, since Paul died.
The lack of food and sleep, the exhaustion from months of changing canisters of bile, adjusting tubes, filling syringes, measuring fluids, giving shots, counting pills, sleeping on the floor beside his bed, praying, cheering, living fearlessly in dark terror of what awaited.
Those vivid pictures of Paul’s disintegration pour back into my soul now poisoning my once sweet dreams of him. I feel sick, sicker than I’ve ever felt. Friends grow concerned over my weight loss, take me to dinner. The smell of food sends me running outside of every café, every restaurant, every kitchen. Dry heaving in the grass. Embarrassed. Just want to go home. Finally I eat grapes and they stay.
I need to write, to tell this story, the story of Paul. I spend hours at the typewriter filling in the details of pain. I write 90,000 words of torture. No one can read it. Too much suffering but how well I’ve documented it. Perhaps journalism school, they suggest. But it’s what happened to Paul, I tell them. Doesn’t matter. Un-publishable.
But I must tell it. Start journalism school. Get a job at the paper. Profoundly wise editor pushes me to write an article about the Boulder Hospice. I finally do. It breaks me wide open.
-By Sue Frederick

It was the smell of Water Oak that I craved everyday…

It was always a secret favorite thing to do; to wake early and slip outside into the salty morning air, walk barefoot along the dewy grass across the lawn and up to the Water Oak. We had built a little ladder, Russell and I; just a few steps to get us off the ground high enough to reach our arms up and around the lowest hanging branch, then heave ourselves into the hidden basin, the hollowed out sacred place in the middle of the trunk, right where the branches began their journey, pulling apart and reaching up towards the sky; winding their arms high above our heads to shake their leaves at heaven.

I would nestle deep into that hollowed basin, sniffing the tree bark, inhaling it with the deepest breath I could take; it was the smell of the Water Oak that I craved everyday; it was the scent of sand and oyster shells, of fireworks and sugar cane; and it smelled the way my daddy’s voice sounded when we were swimming in the shallows and he was teaching me to reach my arms deep into the wave, stretch out with each long stroke to glide across the water like he did. It smelled exactly like that.

And it was that smell that I craved most after Long Beach was gone; when we made brief visits and I would walk over to the tree, lean into it; its hollowed branches no longer able to lift me up, support my weight; but it always offered up its scent, the comfort of its magic after everything was gone.

Long Beach was my home; my only home. It didn’t matter that I never really lived there, was only allowed to visit; didn’t get to spend entire summers the way Russell and Davis did.

What mattered was that whenever I leaned into the tree, or lifted a shell from the driveway, I came back to me; came back to my dad.

From my book: Water Oak: The Happiness of Longing