Author Archives: Lisa Saxton

Grief is something we will all unfortunately experience at one time or another in our lifetimes. It comes in many forms and there are varying degrees of the grief we will feel. No matter that form or degree, grief is always an unwelcome visitor at your door.

When grief first comes it arrives like an angry steam roller, barreling through and flattening everything in its path. It doesn’t have eyes to see what’s in front of it so it doesn’t know what it’s destroying.

It doesn’t care that you loved something more than anything else in this world. It doesn’t care if you don’t know how you’ll get through each minute of each day. It doesn’t care that you feel like you’ve been shattered into a million different pieces that can’t ever be put back together again.

When grief moves in it hangs the heavy, dark drapes on all the windows so the sunlight can’t make its way through them. It makes everything cold to where you don’t know if you’ll ever feel the warmth again. It takes all the beautiful colors of the rainbow away and replaces them with a thousand different shades of gray.

You can try and hide from it but it won’t go away. It knows all the places you go to in hopes of it not finding you. It sees you in the dark with your head buried in the pillow. It finds you in the shower and in your car. It slaps you in the face while looking at pictures or reading a book to a 4 year old. You might think it can’t find you in your quiet place of worshiping your higher power, but it knows where that’s at, too. Grief pulls up a chair and deposits itself right next to you and it’s not leaving anytime soon.

If you try to ignore grief’s existence you won’t be successful. The longer you do try and ignore it the harder it will be to get through it. Grief most certainly will demand to be dealt with eventually so you may as well let it in the door now.

Sit with grief for as long as it takes.

Ask grief why it showed up at your door.

Cry uncontrollable tears at grief.

Yell at grief.

Be silent with grief.

Tell grief you hate its existence.

Scream at grief.

Tell grief why you’re angry.

Tell grief why you’re full of rage.

Tell grief that things are not fair.

Ask grief how long things will be like this.

Ask grief how long you will hurt like this.

Ask grief if you will ever see the light again.

Ask grief if you will ever feel the warmth again.

Ask grief if you will ever see the beautiful colors of the rainbow again.

Ask grief if you will ever be okay again.

Beg grief to never show up again.

Sit quietly with the grief that has made a permanent home inside you.

Realize that no one is immune to grief.

Come to terms with the fact that grief is a part of life and our door will be knocked on by the unwelcome visitor at some point during everyone’s time here.

These are the hands of the man I love. The man I loved from the very first moment I met him and for every day after for 35 and half years. The man I’ll never stop loving for the rest of my days here on this earth. The man who chose me to travel through life with him. A life that was happy with its fair share of sadness. A life that was often times hard. A life that we built together and one we expected to share till we both turned old and gray. These are the hands of an incredibly beautiful man who was taken away from us much too early in what feels like a terrible and unfair crime committed against us.

These are the hands that held the door open for me on our first date like all men should. They belonged to a young man of 22 who was quiet and shy. A young man that carried emotional scars from long ago that he buried so deep in an attempt to hide away his pain. A young man who found a kindred spirit in the young woman he met in his father’s restaurant. A young man who that young woman had wished for and years later would realize she had manifested into her life.

These are the hands who moved hand me down furniture into the tiny duplex on the water that was the first place we lived together. A man of 24 who was excited to be able to wake up every morning next to the young woman he loved. A man who sat outside with me and watched the boats sail down the Intercoastal Waterway. A man who rode bicycles at night with me through the quiet neighborhood we lived in. A man who never complained as he ate the food I burned in the oven because I was just learning to cook.

These are the hands that I placed a gold wedding band on when we got married on a Friday afternoon in February so long ago. They belonged to a man of 28 who stood waiting for me at the old church’s altar as my father walked me down the aisle in a light pink wedding dress. A man who I pledged my eternal love and devotion to for the life we were starting together. A man who I couldn’t believe I was so lucky to have found. A man who looked at me with faithful eyes that every woman deserves. A man who I believed could have had any other woman he wanted but who chose me instead.

These are the hands that held mine in the hallway at the emergency room when our first baby was lost to miscarriage. They belonged to a hopeful father of 29 who cried hard tears for the baby we’d never meet. Those hands held me tight through the physical pain of the surgery I had to have and the emotional pain of the grief that followed.

These are the hands that cradled our firstborn, a daughter who had hair exactly like her father. They belonged to a man of 30 who was relieved that his wife and his baby were both okay after labor complications resulted in an emergency c-section. A man who came back to the hospital in the middle of the night to see his newborn daughter again after celebrating in a bar with his sisters. A man who everyone in the nursery knew which baby was his because of the curly red hair he shared with that baby girl.

These are the hands that held our second born, a son who looked like his father. They belonged to a man of 32 who held his brand new son for just a few seconds before he was taken away and placed in a neonatal incubator to spend the first day of his life because of breathing problems. A man who took his wife in a wheelchair into that ICU later that night so she could finally hold their son for the first time. A man who felt like his family was now perfect and complete since he had both a daughter and a son.

These are the hands that bought the first house for his family. A man of 34 who was overjoyed to finally be able to put down roots in a home of his own instead of renting houses that other people owned. A man who tore out carpet and flooring to replace it before he brought his family there to live. A man who helped his wife paint glow in the dark stars on the ceilings of their children’s bedrooms to surprise them. A man who built a swing set in the backyard for his children. A man who let those children hammer the nails in the deck and garage he built at that house. A man who became good friends with the neighbors and spent many nights sitting on their porch in good conversation.

These are the hands that taught his children to ride a surfboard like his older brother had taught him so long ago. A man who watched over his children as they rode bicycles in the court. A man who lit sparklers for his children on the 4th of July. A man who took his children around the neighborhood to trick-or-treat on Halloween and taught them not to take unwrapped candy. A man who watched his children’s eyes widen in wonder and disbelief on Christmas mornings when they saw Santa’s boot mark on the fireplace hearth that he made himself late the night before with his own work boot. A man who taught his children to ride dirt bikes and skateboards, like he did himself in his youth. A man who attended all his children’s school and scouting events so they would always remember their father supporting them in whatever they did. A man who encouraged them in growing into two amazing artists.

These are the hands that bought the bigger house for his family who’d outgrown the little house they lived in before. A man of 42 who made a $100,000 down payment on the bigger house from the sale of the little house. A man who had worked long and hard to get to that point. A man who was proud of that hard work and loved coming home to a house with more space. A man who felt like he had finally “made it” by buying that big house. A man that built a skateboard ramp and a tree fort in the backyard of the big house with his son. A man that bought a trampoline for that backyard because his children had begged him for one.

These are the hands that held mine in a court room where we sat numb as a bankruptcy judge went over our assets as we tried in vain to save that bigger house from foreclosure. A man of 47 who felt like he had failed his family (he didn’t, not ever) because the economy and real estate market had crashed, causing him to lose about 80 percent of his income. A man who could never forgive himself for circumstances that were never in his control. A man that continued to blame himself for the loss of that house though it was never his fault. A man that carried a heavy burden that wasn’t his to carry. A man who didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to that big house. A man that never healed from the pain of losing that house.

These are the hands who put the alcohol down on the table one day and never, ever picked it up again after his wife and children asked him to quit drinking. A man of 49 who chose his family over the more than 30 year habit he used to numb his lifelong emotional pain. A man who quit drinking cold-turkey that day and had such strong willpower that he never had to go for treatment. A man who had to now face his emotional pain when the alcohol was no longer numbing it. A man whose raw emotions finally rose to the surface and demanded to be dealt with. A man who leaned on his wife for the strength to get through that emotional pain that had been buried so deep within himself for so very long. A man who eventually came to terms with his alcoholism and couldn’t understand why other people chose to drink their lives away. A man who could finally tell others the reason he no longer drank.

These are the hands of a master carpenter who perfected his craft over 40 years. Hands that were hard, rough and calloused. Hands that always had splinters buried deep in them. Hands that had fingernails bitten off short. Hands that had scars on them and hurt from arthritis. Hands that had blackened fingernails from hitting them with the left-handed Stiletto hammer his children had given him one year as a gift. Hands that had band-aids on the cuts he had on them all the time from the wood he carried with them. Hands that could pick up the heaviest nail gun and mitre box like they were feathers. Hands that meticulously rolled up his extension cords and never tangled them. Hands that used scrap pieces of wood to write measurements on. These are the hands of a man who built many beautiful things for many happy customers over the years who waited patiently for him to be available for their projects. A man who had many repeat customers because he was so good at what he did. A man who often had pictures of his work stolen by other carpenters and used as their own to advertise their business. These are the hands I watched draw plans for the projects he built over the years. These are the hands that wrote numbers down on paper in his messy handwriting as he figured out countless estimates over the years for the people who hired him. These are the hands of a man who valued a handshake as his word.

These are the hands that held his new grandson. A man of 54 who cradled the baby born on his daughter’s own birthday. A man whose grandson ended up with the same dark auburn curls that he himself had. A man who held his grandson’s tiny hand gently in his own giant hand. A man whose lap was his grandson’s favorite place to sit. A man who put his grandson on a skateboard and showed him how to hold his feet on it. A man who built a slide for that grandson and let him help with his own little tools. A man who colored and drew silly pictures with that grandson. A man who sat on the floor and built Lincoln Logs with that grandson. A man who played with Play-Doh and read books to his favorite little boy in this world. A man who became his grandson’s favorite person in this world. A man who forged a bond so tight with that grandson that nothing, including death, could ever break it.

These are the hands that I held tightly as the man that I love laid in a hospital bed in the ICU fighting for his life. A man of 58 who was hooked up to more machines than I had ever in my life seen a person hooked up to. A man whom I begged and pleaded with to fight against the damage his heart we didn’t know was so weakened had done to his body. A man who I tried so hard to wake up by talking to him and telling him how deeply I loved him. A man who I played videos of our grandson to so he could hear his voice. A man who I prayed so hard to God to please save.

These are the hands I held as you took your last breath. A man of 58 years, 1 month, and 9 days who should have had many more years here on this earth. A man who’s chest I held my hand on till his heart took it’s final beat. A man whose body my tears spilled all over. A man whose lips I kissed for the very last time after his soul left his body. A man whose wedding ring I took off his left ring finger. A man who’s dark auburn curls I cut to save in a plastic bag. A man whose strong arms and chest I ran my small hands over for the final time.

These are the hands I didn’t want to let go of after he left this world. A man who was the other half of me and made me feel complete. A man who had been faithful to me and I to him since the moment we first met. A man who loved me unconditionally through all our years together, even though I made it hard to do so too many times. A man who never let anyone else but me see his vulnerable side that was in so much emotional pain. A man who was my shelter and who I became a shelter for him in return. A man who was my best friend. A man who was my soul mate. A man taken away much too young and much too soon. A man who I don’t know how I’ll be able to make it through each day without. A man who I thank God for every day for bringing him into my life. A man that I’ll never stop loving even though he’s no longer here. These are the hands I wish I could hold just one more time…..and I wish that one more time would last forever.

The sepia colored pictures of my husband’s hands in this post were taken by my son for a project he was given to do at the art school he attended during high school. The project was to show a journey of some type. He chose to photograph his father’s hands and his own hands to show the journey of the older man’s hands through years of carpentry work in contrast to the young man’s hands that were not calloused and rough as his father’s hands were. They rubbed dirty rags on their hands to make the lines on them more prominent in the pictures. The dirt captured every wrinkle, callous and cut on my husband’s hands perfectly and showed the years of hard work he had done to take care of his family. My son’s pictures shows you the story of his father’s hands while what I wrote tells the story of those hands. These pictures are priceless to me and I am so thankful to have them.

Every one of us has a list of things we want to do in life. We wait for someday to do them. There’s a million and one excuses why we can’t do them now. Fear is one of those excuses. So is doubt.

“I don’t have enough money”

“I don’t have time to do it right now”

“I’ll do it when the kids are older”

“I’ll do it when I retire”

All those things are just excuses. You can find more excuses NOT to do something than you can find reasons TO do it. It’s easy to talk yourself out of what you really want to do when you can find so many reasons not to do it.

The longer you keep putting off what you want to do the harder it is to keep it in your sight. Eventually, it’s so far off in the distance you don’t know how you’ll ever do it. That someday will eventually turn into never.

When never comes knocking at the door it brings a companion named regret. When they show up someday has already been pushed off the porch. Never and regret didn’t even have to work hard to overcome someday because someday didn’t even put up a fight.

Eventually, never leaves and all that’s left is regret. Regret will never leave. It will stay with you forever. Regret settles deep into your gut and you can’t make it go away.

Don’t let never happen. Don’t let regret happen. Don’t even let someday happen. Kick fear and doubt out of the way. Let NOW happen instead.

Go do the thing.

Go do it NOW.

Go take that trip across the country to see your son.

Go take the art classes you’ve always wanted to take.

Go take Qi Gong classes with your husband.

Go write that book you always said you wanted to write.

Go dig crystals out of the earth in the mountains.

Go buy another house after you lost the other one you had.

Go see that old friend you haven’t seen in such a long time.

Go walk barefoot on the beach with your best friend and soul mate.

Just go do the thing…….whatever the thing is.

Do it now so you don’t have regrets later.

Go do the thing…..

While channeling my spirit guides last year a message came across for me that really surprised me. That message was “Say it loud”. It was a strong message and one that my guides were probably trying to get me to hear my whole entire life but I just didn’t know it. It took me learning to harness the abilities I’ve always had to be able to finally hear this important message.

Interestingly enough, this message came right around the time that something rose up inside of me where I needed to start speaking my truth. It was almost like a switch turned on inside me that I didn’t even know existed. Historically, I’ve been silent and passive on just about everything and I wasn’t assertive at all. I swallowed my words all the time. I was like this for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t in my nature to speak up; it was actually painful for me to do so.

The remarks from teachers on my school report cards over the years said things like “Lisa is very quiet” and “Lisa needs to speak up in class”. Though I was quiet on the outside, I was screaming on the inside because I wanted to be heard. Not being able to speak up makes you feel small. It makes you feel insignificant and like you don’t matter at all. That kind of silence takes its toll on a person and it builds up over time. When it finally comes out it’s like a volcano erupting.

One thing I’ve noticed is that when the historically silent person finds their voice it’s uncomfortable for people who’ve only known them as the person who doesn’t speak up. Many who’ve known me for a long time have had a hard time accepting the fact that I’ve chosen to voice my opinions, especially when it collides with theirs. It’s unpalatable to them. They’d rather have the silent me than have to deal with the vocal me. At first I was offended by this but then I realized that it’s their problem, not mine. I can’t remain silent to appease them. That won’t serve my highest good.

Finding my voice has empowered me in ways I didn’t expect. I don’t let people steamroll me the way I always had before. I don’t cower in fear when faced with adversity. It’s also made me stand up and face head on storms that I ran away and hid from before. If you’ve ever seen the “Fearless Girl” sculpture of the young girl standing in front of the charging bull that’s near Wall Street in New York then that’s what me finding my voice feels like.

The past year of speaking up and out has been very liberating for me. I’ve grown tremendously and I can’t see myself ever retreating back to that place of painful silence that I lived in for more than 50 years. I often wonder how my parents would react to the only one of their children that was quiet and passive finally finding her voice. My mom may have thought “I knew you could do it all along”. My dad may have thought “It’s about time”. One thing is for sure though…..they’d both be proud.