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Six days later, after his memorial service, one of my friends who is a professional writer said, “Mary, you could probably write a book.” Together we conjured the title, “The Mother’s Guide to Grief.” This light-hearted but sad conversation became the genesis of an idea. Before the month was out, another friend gave me a journal. On the front cover were the words: He pressed. He grew. He even gave when it hurt. He celebrated his competencies and he turned his failures into opportunities. He cared. He reached. He climbed and he enjoyed his view. He played as hard as he worked. He listened. He laughed and learned to give comfort. He moved with strength, touched with passion and overcame obstacles. He lived with intention. For weeks I went with those words. Determined not to forget, I recorded every detail I could recall about my son, his life, our family, the final days he was home, the week after his death. I wrote nearly daily about grief, pain, suffering, and longing. I gushed and I bled. Soon I had filled four journals. Thirteen months later, I kept my journals close as we endured a three-week-long trial in New Jersey for the first of the five defendants charged in his murder. Eighteen months after Peter’s death, I started a class in memoir at The Loft Center for Writers. I was scared to death to introduce myself or my work. What would others make of my scribbles? Would anyone give a rip? Being in the class—rereading my journals and preparing to read passages aloud—made me realize how important my writing had become for my grief. I came to understand my journals as a safe harbor, a sanctuary, a room of my own for my sorrow. I could see how I felt in the early weeks and months after Peter’s death and how I felt later in rereading them. I saw progress and hope. I saw a journey and a story of my new life. Writing became a habit, a process of going inward that calmed me, centered my feelings, kept me company in my solitude and pain. The practice felt totally worthwhile, a new discipline like working out on the treadmill and I was gratified with the results. I had new muscles of self-expression, new confidence in dealing with my feelings. I felt buff, even if my new writing muscles weren’t visible to others who saw me on the streets. Now I have ten journals. Recently I completed a 350-page manuscript, from which this story is excerpted, for a memoir tentatively entitled You Can Do This, Mom. Writing has helped me remember, but more importantly it has helped me survive.
Read the White Bear Press story, Healing with words, featuring Mary Rondeau Westra's work |
