Mantra Monday

Hey Guys-it's Monday.

Hope the weekend was all you wanted it to be.

Here in the North East, Old Man Winter made another fine appearance and left about three inches of snow so we hung out inside for most of the weekend. If anyone sees spring, would you please pass this message on, "We're w a i t i n g."

First, I'd like to ask a favor. One of my wonderful and supportive followers recently lost her mother. If you have a moment please stop by Diana's blog and offer a cyber hug. For those of us who know the pain of losing a mother, you can appreciate the power a few comforting words have. Diana, my thoughts are with you.

This Monday, my mantra comes courtesy of my former therapist and clinical supervisor, Dr. H. (By the way, if you find yourself ever in the market for a therapist-here's my litmus test-make sure they have been through the process themselves. If not they won't be able to tease our their own stuff from yours, which is critical to the therapeutic process).

Many years ago, Dr. H shared something very personal with me in an effort to help move me through an issue with which I was struggling. The act of sharing your own personal stories or experiences with a client is called self-disclosure and it should be used judiciously. But this story tremendously impacted me and her use of self-disclosure on this occasion was profoundly appropriate.

She grew up in Minnesota where the winters showed no mercy. One winter, when she was in her early twenties, her father killed himself.

There are no words to describe what this does to a family. Loss is hard enough but when suicide is the reason, it adds another dimension that complicates the grieving process.

Dr. H shared with me a memory she has of her mother in the wake of her father's death that left an indelible mark and ultimately became her own mantra for navigating her way through difficult and sorrowful periods.

Shovel and cry, shovel and cry.

Her father's death emotionally crippled her family. But she drew strength at the time and now in her own difficult and seemingly impossible circumstances, from the image of watching her mother in the bitter cold, that winter, shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying.

The snow didn't stop just because her family's heartbeat ended. It had to be cleared.

Often when sorrow shows up, the temptation to sit and let the "snow" pile up is hard to resist and in some circumstances I encourage my clients to do just that but as a rule, shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying is a reasonable mantra to help move the process along.

In my practice, I've seen people resist getting back into a normal routine because they have a sense it is a betrayal to the memory of their deceased loved one. When this issue comes up, I often share Dr. H's story with them.

Today, my heart is heavy. Someone close to me is facing a life threatening illness and the odds are against him that he will survive. Barring a miracle, he will die.

I don't feel like much like shoveling. I'd rather let the snow pile up. But as I write this, I am reminded of Dr. H's mother, whom I am certain never knew the impact that her simple act of shoveling and crying, shoveling and crying would have.

Today, I let the snow pile up. Tomorrow, I'm gonna shovel.

How 'bout you? Have you ever been in a place where you'd rather cry than shovel or maybe shoveled and cried? Did it help?