The Power of Holding Space for Ourselves and Others

Many of us have done the painstaking work of "holding space," without even being familiar with its term. We have walked beside others in their pain without judgment, without trying to fix or change their situation. Instead, we've allowed them to be seen, heard, and acknowledged exactly as they are. And it's the most powerful gift we could have given them in my books. 

You may be thinking, "Holding space seems like a big undertaking, one that may be difficult for me to do." Yes, it isn't always easy to set aside our own emotions and give someone our undivided attention because most of us are hardwired to fix things. So rather than to just "let someone be in pain," our natural instinct is to swoop in and try and lessen the pain, to provide some kind of relief from it, or offer a solution to their problem.

However, the thing I've learned through my own self-care journey is this: Even with all of our good intentions — even with our kind and compassionate heart, we can't heal someone from emotional pain by rescuing them from it. Inner pain can only be healed when it has a safe space to be expressed and held. 

Why is it so much easier to hold space for others rather than for ourselves, though? Because I believe that to sustain and hold space effectively, we first need to learn how to hold space for ourselves and be vulnerable with our emotions, lest we risk emptying our own empathy tank.

For years, I lost myself in meeting the needs of others. Yet, to be vulnerable was something I was unwilling to do. I feared intimacy, which was intertwined with my fear of vulnerability. To be vulnerable meant allowing people into my world. Nevertheless, at the root of it all, what I feared the most was rejection and abandonment.

Let me take you back to my childhood, if you will. I was just five years old when my nine-year-old brother died. I recall how, night after night, I'd lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying. No one acknowledged my fears back then, nor was I given the space to express them. I say this not to place blame on anyone. But growing up in an era where grief was hush-hush, where children were considered too young to know about death, I did the only thing I knew to do: I froze my emotions, and, in turn, my five-year-old self became trapped in a traumatic time capsule.

I evolved as an adult. I married a wonderful man, raised two beautiful children, had a great career. But I'd this internal struggle, a restlessness, a deep inner void that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So I immersed myself in meeting the needs of others because, for one, it gave me a sense of love and belonging; and two, it made me feel worthy and valued.

I learned in therapy some years ago that, even though I'd evolved as an adult, the five-year-old child (me) remained stuck in my subconscious mind. Consequently, I'd gone through much of my adult life protecting and sheltering her from being hurt again. 

Essentially my emotional healing involved opening a time capsule of emotions to set my inner child free, a slow process of nurturing and holding a safe space for her to acknowledge and process her emotions. This life-changing, cathartic experience has given me a more profound sense of compassion and empathy to hold space not only for myself but for others as well.

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Thank you!

Joyce

The Art of Breadmaking

Experts say our sense of smell is one of the most powerful senses we have and can evoke memories or emotions. Perhaps that explains why I feel an "aha!" moment of nostalgia whenever the aroma of bread baking fills the air. 

Homemade bread wasn’t only a food staple growing up but also the cheapest, practical way to feed our large family of fourteen, and my mother baked it practically every other day. She never used a recipe. She knew from memory the exact ingredients to use. Her skill, timing, and practice (in my book) made her one of the best bread makers of all time.

As a little girl, I'd often watched my mother take a large pan of flour and transform it into a big doughboy. Her hands, I can still see her hands. They never seemed to tire as she kneaded and folded and punched the dough, repeatedly sprinkling it with flour until it became less sticky and made a cracking, whistling sound.

A couple hours later, the dough would be spilling out over the edges of the bread pan, requiring to be kneaded down for a second rising before being placed in pans. I recall how during each kneading process, my mother would give the doughboy a big slap. "That's for good luck! " she'd say with a smirk.

One of my all-time favorite memories was coming home from school to the aroma of freshly-baked bread. As the smell lured me into the kitchen, I'd cut off a thick slice, slather it with molasses, slump onto the couch and savor every bite before sneaking back to get another piece.

Toutons, known as fried dough, were also a big part of my childhood. On bread-making days, my siblings and I would often arrive home from school for lunch to fried toutons. They'd be piled high in the oven, and as Mom placed some on our plates, we'd drizzle them with molasses. They were so finger-licking good!

My mother's homemade bread was also used to make hot bread and milk poultice, a natural remedy for drawing out infections. I witnessed this when my older sister stepped on a rusty nail, causing an infection. My mother made a poultice, wrapped it in a cloth, and once cooled enough, she placed it on my sister's foot (twice a day) until the infection was gone.

As I got older, somewhere around ten, I became eager to learn the art of break-making. "Want to try!" my mother asked one day as she lowered the big pan of flour down onto a chair within my reach. Her eyes gleamed as she placed one of her aprons on me. I’ve never forgotten how patiently she demonstrated the rhythm required to work and knead the dough. Nor have I forgotten the art of bread making.

In fact, I look back with fond memories of upholding the bread-making tradition with my own daughter and how she used to hover over the bread pan when she was just a little girl. Wide-eyed, she’d watch me turn a pan of flour into a big doughboy, and we'd both laugh as I slapped the dough. Your Nanny Lambert said it's for good luck, I'd tell her.

Today the traditional bread-making pleasure is all but forgotten and replaced with a bread maker or fast-rising yeast. It saves time kneading the dough, after all. Life has gotten a lot faster since my growing-up days, so I can certainly understand why people don't have the time to set aside five hours to make bread "the old fashion way."

While I don't make homemade bread much anymore, when I do, I still like to make it from scratch because it's a memory that lives on in me from my mother, a memory I carry close to my heart, a moment in time that I will always treasure.

How about you? Do you have fond memories of your mother's homemade bread? Or perhaps there are other family traditions that you hold near and dear to your heart? 

How Grief Almost Destroyed Our Marriage —Thirty-Four Years Later

Grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly steals from us; it governs our lives in unexpected ways — especially in the death of loved ones. But whether it's a divorce, an illness, a job loss, a betrayal, injustice ... every loss we experience has some form of death attached to it.

August 25, 1987, is a day I will never forget. It's the day my mother suddenly died. It's the day life threw me a massive curveball, shattering my world into a million pieces as shock and numbness and disbelief engulfed my body.

In the aftermath of my mother's passing, it was as if time had stood still. I didn't shed the tears that grief required. I was too consumed with the what-ifs, the should-haves, the going back and forth between anger, blame, and guilt: angry because my mother had left me, guilty for not spending more time with her, and blame for not seeing the warning signs that she was ill.

The tension between Derick and me gradually began to crumble our five-year marriage. I'd put barriers around the world that once made sense, a world that left me shattered and confused. And as grief continued to sap my energy, solitude became my best friend. Yet, I somehow found the strength to get out of bed each day and care for our two children, then ages four years and five months.

It'd been over a year since my mother's death the night one of our BIG fights broke out — the straw that broke the camel's back in our marriage. "Joyce, If you don't seek help, I am leaving you. I can't handle your anger and mood swings anymore. You aren't the same person I married," my husband said through welled-up eyes. 

I was dumbstruck by Derick's words. I shouldn't have been. I mean, we'd stopped communicating. I didn't even consider that he, too, was grieving my mother's loss, compounded with the loss of our relationship. Nor did I realized how much grief was changing me. The only thing I knew was that I was in deep emotional pain, and when Derick couldn't soothe that pain (and believe me, he tried), I'd lash out at him for not caring, for not understanding. 

In short: Derick's words jarred me into seeking help to mourn my mother's loss that fateful night, and in turn, our marriage began to heal. But my understanding of grief and loss back then was only a "skim over" compared to the deep inner work I've done on grief and loss in the last ten years.

Grief is a personal journey. We all grieve differently because we all experience things differently. And while grief isn't linear or tied to a specific timeline, my experiences have taught me that, for our bodies to heal, grief does need to be heard; grief does need to be felt.

Having grown up in an era where crying was a sign of weakness, where culturally we were taught to be strong, to keep our emotions private, I was ill-equipped to allow grief in or even know how to process the pain of losing my mother because I was still trying to be that strong little girl of my youth.

Still today, there appears to be a gloominess associated with grief and loss in our culture, a clumsiness that causes us to turn away from our emotional pain, forcing us to squash it down as if it doesn't exist rather than embracing the discomfort of it. Until it becomes intolerable, that is. Until it begins to wreak havoc on our well-being and blocks our ability to fully embrace life. 

I am not saying that we ever have to be okay with the curveballs this life throws at us. Life is terrible and unfair sometimes. What I am saying is this: The transformation that comes from being present with our pain, from transforming our grief into growth, far outweighs the repercussions of remaining stuck in grief, of closing our heart off to it. 

Rest assured, if we do this, if we allow grief to have its way with us, we will find peace again, we find joy again, we find laughter again, and we will find a way to live away from our "old normal" and live into our "new normal," with our loved ones forever embedded in our heart. 

On April 10th, Derick and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary! It seems inconceivable now that, thirty-four years ago, unresolved grief and emotional pain were the driving forces that almost wrecked our marriage because grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly stole from me and governed my life in unexpected ways. I shudder to think what my life would have looked like had I not chosen to  heal.

Childhood Memories in Rrual Newfoundland

Since moving to New Brunswick last year, its rugged natural beauty has transformed me back into an outdoorsy woman. 

Living near the ocean and seemingly endless hiking trails has offered an escape from the isolation that COVID (at times) represents. And being a part of our grandchildren's bubble has blessed Derick and I immensely. 

I am not sure if it's the similar terrain, the ocean air, or the familiar culture, but whatever it is, it often triggers the floodgates of memory, transporting me back to the Newfoundland of my youth. It's incredible how life looks once our heart is healed because it allows us to gaze through a prism, once clouded by negativity. 

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, with my eight sisters and five brothers, in a secluded village along the rugged coast of Newfoundland, definitely had its share of hardships. But life was much simpler back then. We'd the freedom to explore, take on new adventures, and allow our imaginations to run wild.

I was the second oldest girl of fourteen children. Perhaps that's why I became somewhat of a mother hen to my younger siblings, for a brief moment in time, anyway. 

In the summer months, somewhere around the age of ten or eleven, with lunch bag in hand, I'd take on the responsibility of trekking through the woods en route to what was called "Blue Rock," a secluded swimming hole area. 

Time wasn't of the essence. The only stipulation was we'd return home before supper. I guess some would consider it neglect by today's standards; however, we grew up faster in those days, often out of necessity. Besides, there were other families at the swimming hole, and we all kinda looked out for one another.

My husband definitely took on more responsibility back in his growing-up days as well. At eleven years old, he and his thirteen-year-old brother not only learned how to build their own lobster traps but awoke at four am, headed out on the Atlantic ocean, by themselves, in some pretty rough conditions at times, I might add. And after they had hauled their traps, they would return home in time for school.

Derick looks back with fond memories and appreciates how it helped mold his adult work ethic. But can you imagine allowing your young boys to do such a thing now? 

The wintertime of my childhood was indeed cold and often snow ladened. But we still managed to make the outdoors exciting and fun. After all, there were no electronic devices to distract us in those days.

 A couple of winter escapades stand out to me. One was when Dad replaced Mom's old vinyl flooring in our kitchen/living room with contemporary black and white tiles. 

Now, you had to know my mother. She was adamant about having her floors waxed every Saturday, so you can imagine the wax build-up on that old flooring. 

I am not sure who or what spurred us to pull that old vinyl out of the garbage and use it for crazy carpets, but it sure made for one fast ride down over a steep hill near our house. Not to mention how the lack of cushion (I can still hear our infectious laughter now) left us in a fit of screaming, "Oh my butt, oh my butt hurts so bad!!" Yet, we'd continue to do it for hours! 

Another spontaneous makeshift sleigh adventure was when my brothers disconnected the hood from an old car. We'd all jump on it, and with one big push, we'd fly down over the hill and out onto the frozen harbor. The only problem was we had to drag that heavy car-hood back up the hill again. And while there were many whines and grunts and groans, we did it anyway, for the thrill of the ride, if nothing else.  

On a more serious note, I look at the modern and diverse school system my grandchildren are enrolled in today — with its no-touch and anti-bullying policies — and I can't help but remember the distinct contrast of my school years. 

The community schools in rural Newfoundland were religiously denominational back then. 

For instance, in some protestant towns, like my husbands, there might have been a few small schools, each run by a different church. 

On the other hand, my hometown was entirely Catholic. Therefore, my school experience was embedded in a strict Catholic school system. 

The classroom's disciplinary nature was something some of my older siblings and I were exposed to. Two scenes come vividly to mind: 1) Standing in a corner with book(s) on our hands. 2) Being punished with a leather strap. Both were frightening and humiliating and weren't a positive learning experience for me. 

But all our experiences, both good and bad, mold us into the people we become. We can either allow the negative ones to control us, or we can allow our spirit to heal and become a beacon of light for others. 

It's been a challenging year. Last Easter, we were heading into the thick of the pandemic. And now here we are with another Easter upon us, with some hope in sight, no doubt.

I don't know about you, but as I celebrate Jesus this Easter, the Risen Light, I want it to be a reminder of how His light shone through those dark and difficult days, a light that continues to extend His gift of grace and hope to our world. 

Happy New Year

With 2020 coming to a close, it'll be a year that we won't soon forget, a year that was highjacked by an invisible enemy. 

And with the Christmas rush now over, resolution ideas are circulating. For various reasons— and with good intentions—many will want to start their new year with an incentive to turn over a new leaf. And while some will be successful at it, others will become bored and deflated before January is over, tossing their goals aside in defeat.

Why, then, do many begin the new year motivated to make changes, only to end up feeling like a failure when they relapse? 

A couple of reasons stand out as to why my New Year's resolutions didn't work in past years: 1) I'd made them on a whim (or a dare). 2) I'd set unrealistic goals for myself without giving any real thought to how I wanted to achieve them.

But by setting realistic goals for ourselves, we are more apt to keep our resolutions throughout the year because we are better equipped to avoid the pitfalls unwarranted pressure can present.

As you look forward to a new year, whatever you're planning on giving up or adding, bear in mind, even if you relapse at some point, it doesn't mean you are a failure, so don't beat yourself up. Instead, celebrate your progress. Reflect on how far you have come, not on how far you have to go. Most all of all: keep believing in yourself, stay resolute, and focused on hope. 

Happy New Year! All the best in 2021!

Middle-Aged Orphans—The Forgotten Grievers

I am not the same person I was when my mom died. I am not the same person I was when my dad died. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am forever learning, forever growing, forever transitioning into a better version of myself, striving to accept life as a school rather than a victim of what it has taken from me. 

At the age of twenty-eight, my life was vibrant. I was happily married, a mother to a four-year-old and a five-month-old, and my mom and I were never closer. Then—in the blink of an eye—one week after her fifty-fifth birthday, she died of a massive heart attack. Nothing prepared me for her loss. Nothing prepared me for the raw sting of grief. Nothing prepared me for how my world would be forever changed.

 

When my eighty-two-year-old dad lost his five-year battle to congestive heart failure nine years ago, even though I anticipated his death, even though I'd the chance to say goodbye, to say all the things I wished I'd said to my mom, it didn't make my grief more accessible. I still grieved deeply for him. But the thought of being an orphan hadn't even crossed my mind. Nor did I encounter any feelings of the permanence of being parentless.

 

However, weeks later, the sudden awareness that both of my parents were now gone, that I'd lost my identity as their daughter, left a gaping void in my life, bringing with it inescapable loneliness.

 

While I realize everyone's journey is unique, it got me thinking about how middle-aged orphans are often the forgotten grievers. Why? Because, inadvertently, many in society deem middle-aged orphan grief less worthy of the attention it deserves, thereby robbing the unrestricted right to grieve, leaving grief in limbo. 

 

Like myself, you may have felt (or others have unknowingly made you feel) that because our loved one was older when they died, our daily routines should resume without much interruption because death is, after all, the natural order of life. 

 

But does that mean we should put a time limit on our grief? 

 

Can't we be grateful that our loved one lived to be a ripe old age and deeply bereave at the same time?

 

No doubt, losing my mom was very tragic, unlike the anticipation of losing my dad, but my point is: grief still altered my life in both instances.

 

Furthermore, when our last parent dies, whether we had a great relationship with them or whether we had unresolved issues or was estranged, their death marks an end to an era, sometimes forcing us to evaluate our lives and make peace with our imperfect childhood.

 

Helen Keller wisely said, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched; they must be felt with the heart." 

 

Writing became not only an avenue to tune into my emotions after Dad died but also the conduit that opened my heart to healing.

 

Whether it was through penmanship or sitting at my computer, the days I'd sit down to write about my childhood memories sparked a magical inspiration in me. It was the magic of a little girl coming to life in a new light. And as she wrote and dug deeper and deeper into her memory bank, whatever met her along the way, whatever rose in her body, soul, and mind, there in the midst, even amongst the tears, she found joy, she found laughter, she found happiness, as well as pain and regret. But most importantly, she found an incredible sense of peace. 

 

This encounter with peace paved the way to bridging the gap between my childhood and being a middle-aged orphan. It was the peace of knowing that both of my parents were finally together again, of understanding that being a middle-aged orphan doesn't have to represent an empty life or a lonely heart, nor does it have to define my personal history. Instead, glancing back reminds me that the good memories are to be cherished and the bad ones forgiven, if not forgotten. That the twenty-eight years I'd with my mom and the fifty-two years I'd with my dad fills my heart with so much thankfulness, presenting a realization that— as imperfect as my childhood was—my parents did the best they could for me.

 

All of us will have to cross the threshold of parental loss if we live long enough. Maybe you have already made the journey across. If so, while your parents won't be seated at the dinner table this Christmas, know that they will be present in your heart, sitting next to Christ, the Prince of Peace, lovingly whispering Merry Christmas to your soul.

                              Have a blessed Christmas and a prosperous New Year.