The Grief Room: Poetry for the Mothers

The Grief Room

Maureen Fannin

 

I’m learning to live.
My breath keeps going.
There is no other choice.

 

I will try again
on these holidays,
despite my will
to keep it all at bay.

 

My hands feel tired
in my growing old age.
Grief becomes a comfort,
a familiar weight,
heavy on some days.

 

I can hold you close,
remember your name.
The past unfolds—
another chance
in grief’s safe room.

 

I know I’m not alone.
So many mothers
crawl into this room.

 

The world won’t knock
or enter our crowded room.
It’s a sacred space,
where we hold onto
our children’s loving grace.

 

These mothers join together,
still learning from each other.
Our children gather too,
holding us
in grief’s safe room.

 

We’ll keep learning
how to come and go,
step in, step out—
because we are mothers, always,

 in grief’s safe crowded room.

 

The Art of Finding Meaning in Grief

I’m thinking of what to write for my November post, which surprisingly has been a beautiful month in my corner of the world. I always seem to associate November with rain drizzling and thick clouds of grey. This month has been nothing but blue skies and endless sunshine, which is a blessing after all the terrible tragedies of the recent hurricanes.

It’s been a productive month with my startup nonprofit, Ian’s Village, as we refine our mission and vision while moving forward. It’s not a particularly easy endeavor to combine intention, action, and purpose in a meaningful way. I’ve always been a seeker of meaning, although resistance has always been its shadow, ever in my wake.

Ian’s Village is inspired by my son’s life and death, and its mission lends to giving grief a second chance. However, grief doesn't easily allow for second chances. Its keeper is resistance, preventing us from moving forward and learning to live again.

When Ian first died from fentanyl poisoning, I rushed into the idea of creating Ian’s Village, a community to help our youth and young adults to find connection and growth in the creative arts. Finding meaning was central to its purpose. This meaning, in whatever ways it developed with each participant, may have been my effort at bargaining to keep his spirit alive. But I believe Ian’s story is all of our stories, with its central themes of creating, struggling, learning, striving, and finding our place in the world.

Although resistance soon cast its shadow once again as I moved through waves of grief. There were days when getting up and moving through my day felt impossible. I still have those days, but I think it’s the meaning I create for each day that gets me up and moving forward. Sometimes, the resistance wins, but the meaning I try to recreate in my life with my younger son is always there, waiting, as the grieving process unfolds.

There is an aspect of finding yourself in grief. As Trent Shelton, a motivational speaker, wisely said, "Your life isn’t about finding yourself; it’s about creating yourself." Not easily done, but finding meaning is an act of creation. It’s something we can cultivate as we face each new day. Resistance will always be our shadow in grief, but it can also inform us that we need to rest or do self-care.

Ian’s Village is my way of finding meaning and sharing Ian’s creative spirit. I hope whatever meaning you find in the process of recreating your life shines light into the loss you’ve endured.

Note:

• For more on the transformative power of grief, see Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief by David Kessler.
• To explore Trent Shelton’s motivational work, visit TrentShelton.com.

 

The Musicality of Grief

 “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ― Bob Marley

_____________________________________________________________________

I recently heard a remake of Christopher Cross’s song "Sailing." I was transported back to 1979, when my friend and I would walk up and down Route 50, going somewhere but really nowhere at all, always singing songs that held meaning for us. Life felt easier then, filled with hope and a sense of freedom.

The musicality of this song  captivates me; it combines intricate melodies and harmonies that resonate on an emotional level. It’s hard to believe that such a rich, complex piece emerged from one artist's mind. No AI here—he created this powerful melody. Interestingly, I learned that the strings introduction was actually a happy accident, as Bob Ross would say. I took the liberty of looking up the term musicality.

Musicality (music-al-ity) is defined as "the ability to interpret and express musical elements, including rhythm, melody, and harmony, in a way that reflects sensitivity and creativity." It encompasses qualities such as expressiveness, nuance, and a deep understanding of musical structures that evoke emotional responses in listeners."

Ian had that kind of musicality. He was incredibly sensitive and sometimes raw, which comes through in all his recordings. Music is a powerful tool for processing grief, connecting emotions, reliving memories, and reconnecting to what is meaningful in our lives. Neuroscience tells us that music is also good for our brains. I certainly don’t need neuroscience to understand how music affects the mind, body, and soul; I know it’s true through my senses, feeling the way music can uplift, soothe, and connect.

Ian was just twenty years old when he died, a young adult who shared his thoughts and struggles with substance use, love, crippling depression, and anxiety, all while trying to find his place in the world. He expressed himself through writing rap lyrics and harnessed his musicality to create some amazing rap songs. He also faced daily challenges in navigating life. His music helped him in ways I will never fully understand, but his passion for it spoke volumes. I feel profoundly lucky to have all of Ian’s recordings. Many are unfinished, but that doesn’t matter. Those footprints of his life are there for me to touch and experience over and over.

Listening to songs like "Sailing," the music transports me to another place, allowing me to remember parts of my life—painful or not—in a peaceful state. Memories become sharper, and I’m free from the inner dialogue that often keeps me frozen. The lyrics and music could stand alone, but together they create pure musicality; we are all sailing on the open ocean. Our brains relax, and the feelings are real, engaging our senses, whether we’ve ever stepped on a sailboat or not. The music evokes a sense of paradise and tranquility from the moment the song begins.

I think that’s why the opening lyric in “Sailing" is so powerful: “Well, it’s not far down to paradise; at least it’s not for me.” Just simply click play.  "Sailing" Christopher Cross/Lexington Lab Band

 

"The Fight to Hold On: Love, Loss, and Life's Ironies"

    

"If you think these parents' pain is unimaginable, you should see their strength"Author Unknown

   

    The hardest part of loss is wanting to understand why it happened. I don’t know why people leave. I wish I did. Sometimes I think this world was just too much for Ian. There are no simple answers to the question of why. I have a meme about loss that says, “People are like cats. When they want to go, there is no stopping them.” Have you ever tried to hold on to a cat? It’s a bloody battle, one that can’t easily be won. Sometimes I think Ian was like that cat. I fought like hell to hold on, did everything I knew, but that one day—he got away.

    Maybe life is a lot like trying to  hold on to cats, but don’t ever be sorry for the fight. Parents of children who struggle with addiction face so many battles, often without much support. It’s a lonely, painful journey, and many of those battles are lost. So much stigma, so many theories about drug use—what works, what doesn’t. Words like co-dependent, enabling, tough love, boundaries, limits, reparenting, trauma-informed, cognitive therapy—the list goes on. But when all is said and done, all you really want is for them to live.

    Ian was a living, breathing human, growing, changing, stumbling, falling, pivoting, and always spinning. He was like a quiet spark, moving through life in his own unique way. Some of the most amazing people I’ve known have struggled with addiction or loved someone with addiction. So, what works? Maybe it’s trying to catch those pivots and hold on tight. Keeping the faith and staying in the fight, even when you lose. I know Ian knew I fought like hell, and despite this unbearable loss, I find solace in that. Love is the fight.

One of my life’s ironies is we always called Ian the Cat Whisperer.

---

 

Moments

"And when great souls die, after a period 

peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly.  

Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric 

vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be

the same, whisper to us. They existed.  

They existed. We can be.  Be and be better.  

For they existed.”     -Maya Angelou- 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

    There are a few times in my life when I remember feeling the most peaceful. I would describe them as states of flow, where I felt in sync and aligned with myself and the universe—dare I say, even happy, perhaps blissful. These were simple moments, but one memory stands out to me the most.

    I was twenty-five years old, visiting a friend in Sacramento, California. One day I was lying on her couch while she was at work. The house was quiet, and a rectangular window sat across the room from the couch. Rays of sunlight streamed through the window, and a soft breeze gently reached over me. The temperature was perfect. The sheer curtain billowed in waves, in harmony with the breeze, allowing it to fill the room. I remember lying on my side, watching the fluttering curtain, feeling the soft wind as my eyes grew heavy. I began to drift off, lulled by the sound of the breeze in that perfect silence, and eventually fell asleep.

I’ve always loved the wind. I need to remember this—remember that Ian is in the wind.

"Grief is the price we pay for love" Elizabeth II

     "Grief is the price we pay for love." I had no idea a price would be paid when Ian was born.  We all fear the unthinkable happening but never do we actually expect it. Now my life is sliced in two. Life before with Ian and now life without him. I hear someone mentioning the year 2007, and my brain fires off like an automatic time stamp. Ian was alive then. He was seven or facebook memories pop up and right on cue Ian was alive then. He was ten. You didn't know what was coming. You look so strange and different. Who is that person?  

    Photos of my life before 2021 challenge me in unexpected ways.  I look at the images and hardly recognized myself. Sometimes I feel shame seeing myself as some happy idiot. That may seem harsh, but grief makes you look at your entire life. Did somehow every choice and action lead to this point in time. How did the shadow of fentanyl find my son? 

    I have spent many minutes, hours and days contemplating this very question. It's not just the guilt of failing as a parent but of trying to find some kind of reconciliation and reprocessing of Ian's story and myself as his mother.  It's a beautiful and complicated story where he was my teacher as well as my son.  I feel he deserves my contemplation and his birth and death have changed me in ways I'm still discovering. This is the work of trauma and grief. 

     Writing in therapeutic and my sudden lift in mood is validation. It's true what is said about grief coming in waves.  Sometimes it's crushing and other times gentle and peaceful. However, the most powerful and amazing thing about grief is it brings you to shore.  Perhaps this blog is one shore of many waiting as I wander through it.  I just hope to speak my truth and share my story.  After all, grief feels better when seen. I feel Ian smiling now.