July is a month for fireworks and fireflies and we hope you find yourselves enjoying warm evenings with friends and family. It is also a good time for a mid-year pause of contemplation as Katie has done in this month's newsletter.

          Wherever this July finds you, here's to chasing - and finding - miracles with all of you.

Joan, Katie and Meb 

          Good Grief. It's a term I use often without thinking much about it. One of those oxymora, like pretty ugly or virtual reality. Or, is it? Is there really such a thing as good grief?

           Not long after my mother died in February, I was on a walk with a friend who asked if I had any thoughts on grief, if my recent experience had enlightened me. She had read the March newsletter that I had written and seemed disappointed that I hadn't said something more about it. It got me thinking. Do we allow ourselves to talk about grief enough? Do we feel that others are willing to engage in this conversation? Having lost her own mother not too long ago, my friend was willing to engage. "Do you have any regrets?" she wanted to know.
 

          What is it about death, the finality of it that allows us to feel things we should have known all along? When I flew to the Bay Area for the first time after the funeral, it struck me harder than the day my mother died that she was no longer there. My usual phone call right after landing didn't need to happen. No enthusiastic voice on the other end of the line to welcome me. "Home," such as it is for any of us, felt permanently altered. No matter that our roles had flip-flopped long ago after my father died, I didn't appreciate how much she anchored my own sense of belonging and identity. As Janie's daughter, I was well-versed in the art of etiquette, the proper use of "I" and "me," and that to stand up and be counted is our greatest responsibility as human beings, whether it is to lend our time for a cause that needs our help or to speak up in the face of prejudice. If, in grieving, we recognize the indelible marks left upon us, the testament to a life well-lived, then in this recognition, perhaps you could call it "good grief."

          Losing the second parent carries a particular sting. There is no older generation, no protective ceiling to shield you from your own mortality. If thirty years ago my father's death had the effect of scattering my four siblings and me to the winds, my mother's death had the opposite effect. In the days before and after her funeral we shared a generosity with each other that stands as a fitting tribute to legacy and love and here again, I can say "good grief."
 

          My mother was a big believer in miracles and held steadfast to her own faith. Home for her had long ago been diminished when my father died and so when she asked that I pray that, "God would take her home," I know she saw her own death as a win-win. Maybe knowing this is also "good grief. (Katie)
               

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