Life in Death by Regina Moomjean

In short, my Grandfather was my last living Grandparent. Ironically, though he was in my life the longest, it seems he took the longest for me to get to know. His wife of over 50 years, my Gram, was one of the closest and most influential people in my life. We lost her when I was only 13 years old and I am finding that one of the reasons the present loss of my Grandfather has been so layered and complex is because I am going through the emotion of losing her all again, it seems. The warmest and kindest of people, my grandfather was an amazing man. It wasn't that he didn't have time for us, or he was mean or anything awful like that. He was WONDERFUL. Always! But as a child, he was a man of few words. He was often in his back office, spending countless hours working on genealogy, one of his life's true passions. He would always come out to say hello, play for a little while, and then retire back to his room or the den for the rest of the my visit or sleepover with Gram. I didn't think anything of it.

And I would't think anything of it, until I lost her. Her passing was such a difficult time for me for an array of reasons. But most crucially, it was my first real experience with death. Even most of my friends hadn't lost grandparents yet. We were all very lucky. While death was something that I always knew of; I hadn't interacted with it personally, until her untimely death. I remember as a 13 year old being so frightened and genuinely heartbroken at the excruciating loss. I couldn't comprehend that at 13, every single memory I had of her would be the same that I'd have for the rest of my life. I wouldn't gain any new ones. I wouldn't have more. It would be just that. Just what we'd shared in those short 13 years.

Once she was gone, everything seemed to change. Visits to Grandad's felt hollow for me, and more than that, slightly uncomfortable. We would all sit in the front room of his beautiful home in Mission Hills, he'd sit rock in his rocking chair and we'd discuss things we'd been doing. The newest play I was in, my sister's soccer games, mom and work. It was all lovely, but it felt so strange. I would always long to go upstairs, being a person who is so in tune with spaces, and visuals and everything tangible that life has to offer. For me, it felt like Gram was still there if I could just go upstairs and spend time in the places that we would share our time. But I never did, because it would be strange for me to walk upstairs while everyone was sitting together in the front room. And as an early teenager, I didn't feel comfortable enough to explain that desire. More so, I was confused in my own head.

Years went on and we all became so much closer with my incredible Grandfather. My cousin, in particular, lived with him for a few years and truly pioneered a deeper relationship and I think, paved the way for many of us. It was a beautiful thing that she did.

Flashing forward, I am so blessed and thankful for the way everything played out. I would give anything to see my Gram again, and to have had her for so many more of those formative years in my life. But looking back now, I feel there is surely a reason things went the way they did. 

What I've learned in this chapter of my life, losing this person who was such an onion to me; is that my life is at a crossroads. I am finding that the peace and comfort that I am feeling is coming from those stories of the past. And I am so thankful to him for documenting them for us. I've found that I DID get to make new memories with Gram. I am still making memories with both of them. Whether it's the millions of photos they took traveling the world that I've asked to keep. Whether it's the couch I also asked to keep, that was one of my Grandparents first purchases as adults. These are pieces of them that I can cherish and help ease the pain of letting go. They allow me to feel like I don't have to let go. I can have coffee with Grandad on his couch. I can paint with Gram, using her old tablets and brushes.

I asked my mom if we could go to my Grandfather's house the weekend after his passing. It felt strange, being there. Now not only was the void of Gram ever present, but now there was a whole 'nother missing figure. An empty house that once was the scene of every holiday celebration. A place I can truly say I grew and learned about myself. I just wanted to go and be there. In silence. I wasn't even sad. It was more that I was finally saying, it's okay to do all those things you wanted to here. Go explore. Walk around. Take photos. Take hold of the memories and let them be alive and part of you, and not something you feel you have to keep only in your memory. Make them tangible.

For me, it was so cathartic. 

In addition, and I could go on forever…but I won't. I am someone who has always struggled with dealing with loss and sadness in general. I won't even watch 75% of movies, because I can't handle anything sad. I can't watch others suffer, and I can't process sadness. I am an eternal optimist, and what's more, is I am an eternal lover of the light. And so, in all things, my new great loss included; I've chosen to search for all the good that is still left. I've chosen to see myself as part of a long lineage of amazing people, who were artists and dreamers and travelers. I think that they are never truly gone because part of them really is in me. And if I let myself open up enough, they are there all the more.

I was always so scared of letting go. I still have fears, as anyone does, of losing those that I love as life goes on. But I am learning that the best way to deal is the share their stories. Make them still known to the people around you. They don't have to only live in the past. And if my Grandfather instilled anything, SURELY it's that I should always remember my past. It always helps to know where you came from. It gives you strong roots.

I will continue getting to know them better, as I think new thoughts and look at photos of them often.  I will see photos on the day of their wedding; traveling through Europe, spending time at their cabin in Big Bear, and I'll think… "I was there, too." "I wonder what they were thinking?" Unanswered questions can be hard to deal with, but I don't view them as a bad thing. Maybe over time, answers reveal themselves. I think they do. If you let them, and if you truly want to know.

For now, that's all. It's the realization that life is a journey, for all of us. Always. We all take turns going through the hard times, and we'll all take turns being strong for those we love when they have their turn. But I know the answer isn't shutting the hurt out. I know the answer isn't weeping and pain. I think the answer is to be ever searching and establishing all that you are feeling throughout the entire process. Sharing it, giving it a voice. Acting on what your heart is telling you to do. 

There's freedom in that. And for me, in this process, that's been the ticket.

I think I've read this at least fifteen times; is it not the loveliest? Do yourself a favor and follow this eternal lover of the light on Instagram at @ginamoom—your days will be that much brighter.

#MyFavoriteSelf

Do you have a favorite self?

Think of a time or two that was captured on camera when you felt really strong, or really weak, or really sexy, or really badass, or really natural, or really healthy, or really real. Really alive. This week, Love Force is challenging readers to post a favorite picture of themselves—we want to see you as your truest, freest self, most favorite self, whatever that looks like to you.

Post the picture on Instagram with the hashtag #myfavoriteself and tag @loveforceblog. Tell us why that's a favorite "you" and throughout the week, Love Force will be featuring your posts on our Instagram feed, with a winner announced Friday, May 1st. (Winner gets a copy of Amy Poehler's book Yes Please!)

And we want you to spread the word! Our hope is that taking a minute to think about your favorite self will inspire others to do the same. And the world could use a lot more favorite selves. Best of luck!

(Images from Tomboy Style, The Sartorialist, and ShootingFilm.net)

Painting Ourselves Red by Paul Clonts

High expectations of attractiveness for women and men has troubled me for years. Living with the reality of these standards affects my self-esteem, body image and confidence and has hindered several aspects of my life. And I know I'm not alone in feeling these effects. There are countless times I have heard friends saying, “If I lost fifteen pounds I’d probably have a boyfriend” or “I wish my skin didn’t look this way, (so-and-so) has perfect skin.”

In my perfect world, everyone would be admired and respected for their natural bodies and physical appearance, without modification or cover-up. I personally know many individuals who obsess over having the ideal bronzed skin, flawless make-up, and a perfect body. I know a woman who has overcome skin cancer developed at a tanning salon. I lament her situation; both the reasoning behind her tanning as well as the devastating effects from synthetic UV rays on her health. 

I believe in being physically active in order to have a healthy body, but the amount of money and time spent on a picturesque body is money and time wasted. It saddens me that these expectations and unnecessary pressures stem from fashion, design, and entertainment industries that seem to control the masses’ self-image. I also mourn that generally, we have subscribed to these benchmarks of attractiveness. 

One day I watching the movie Alice in Wonderland, specifically the scene when the Queen’s servants are out painting the roses red, and I saw a fitting metaphor for this concept. The Queen only sees the color red as attractive and beautiful, while the natural color of the roses is white. I had an image in my mind of millions of people painting their faces the way "the Queen" (fashion, design, and entertainment industries) would want. I began writing a satirical song to express my thoughts.

So you want to know true beauty? 

You want to make this garden home?

Come with me 

I'll show you all you must do, 

And who you’ve got to be, 

You're ashamed of your petals of white, 

They're your curse from God, 

It's hard accepting yourself, 

When pale is wrong and red is right 

Chorus: 

She don't care who you are, 

You don't look the way you should, 

She has come to paint you red, 

She's painting all the roses red. 

There is something you should know, 

She will cover all your faults, 

So wear the mask of beauty, 

Let her paint cover your troubled soul. 

She'll paint you red when your confidence is fading in the wind, 

Paint you red when loneliness becomes your only loyal friend, 

If you think you're pretty, she'll still paint you red, she'll paint you red.

 A huge thank you to Paul for sharing his music with Love Force. If you want more of that husky, honeyed voice, you can find Paul's band South Paw here and here.

Passion, Purpose and the Pursuit of Personhood by Jamie Frost

I have always loved to sing. As a child my imaginative play always involved singing in one way or another. Whether I was a pirate/singer, princess/singer, or even a mechanic/singer, the singer part was non-negotiable. In fact, my mother signed me up for figure skating lessons after I was mesmerized at Michelle Kwan’s performance in the 1998 Olympics, but even then I insisted that my figure skating hopes would only be complete if I could skate to songs I myself had recorded. I wrote my first song in the 3rd grade (in which basically I just named any major monument I could think of around a chorus of “around the wooooooorld”); and in the 5th grade my book report on The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler was a seven minute musical review. It never crossed my mind that I would end up doing anything but singing.

Until two years ago.

For me, singing was my freedom, it made me feel strong. It made me feel powerful. It was the source of my self-confidence and the manifestation of my best self. Knowing that I could take any piece of music and sing it, high notes, low notes, whatever, was the ultimate freeing thought. With jazz music, even just listening to certain riffs could make me feel like I was being wrapped in silky sheets of sunlight, and conquering a tough phrase filled me with a giddiness akin to a 6-year-old on Christmas morning. At age 23 I was in the midst of training with one of the top vocal coaches in the country when I met my now-husband.

Let me guess what you may be thinking, that this is a story about how I gave up on my dreams to get married and put myself on the backburner for my husband’s goals. I have to admit I also had that fear sweep across my mind once or twice, but each time, I realized the same thing I am about to explain to you: passions are not always meant to be permanent.

It is possible that their function, instead of being the end-all be-all of our lives, is to teach, to uplift, to inspire, and to guide. When they have taught us all they can, we move on.

As my relationship with my husband progressed, the excitement I had about singing gradually faded. It was no longer appealing to me to be gone on tour for three months at a time, nor was it appealing to have to spend my evenings at gigs or rehearsals. (Notice here that my vernacular changed from the once hopeful “get” to do these things to “have” to do these things.) My husband, a mental performance coach, went to great lengths to make sure what I was feeling wasn’t just burnout, or a case of temporary insanity. I really just didn’t love it anymore. While I still enjoy listening to soulful blues and jazz music, it doesn’t fill me with the same power and groove that it used to. And that’s okay with me.

At first this was very scary. Who was I if not a singer? Could my instincts about myself really have been so wrong as to make me think I was passionate about something I wasn’t? Had I wasted all of that time and effort on something that would never come to fruition?

I decided, however, that fear and stubbornness were not good enough driving factors to continue with something I no longer loved. Letting go of the identity of singer that I had tied myself to freed me up to explore other aspects of who I am. I discovered a love for cooking Italian food, history, languages, and yoga; I am starting a jiu jitsu class within the month, and I discovered I make a pretty decent wife, which is something I never imagined would be the case. I feel that I am closer to the version of myself I am ultimately meant to be than I was two years ago, in large part because I had the courage to abandon what I had relied on for self-validation and allowed myself to just be Jamie; not Jamie the aspiring singer, just Jamie. I was lucky enough to have a support system - my husband - to encourage and console me along my journey of self-acceptance as a person without the need of any other identifiers.

When I think about singing now, I am grateful, but not in the least bit regretful. I learned a lot about hard work and focused practice. I learned a lot about goals, dreams, and passions that I use to empathize and encourage those who are currently pursuing those things. Ultimately, however, the greatest gift that singing gave me was the lesson that I am enough without it. I am enough just being me.

"Too Much" by Tyler Ford

do you remember the first time you were called annoying?

how your breath stopped short in your chest

the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze

the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.

your eyes never left the floor that day.

you were 13.

you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”

apologies littering every other sentence,

words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.

i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.

all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard

for 3 minutes

for 10 minutes

for 2 hours

forever.

there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;

mostly because they can’t handle their own.

but you will never be

and have never been

“too much.”

Tyler Ford

More Tyler Ford here and here.

A Letter to My Future Self by McKenzie Bauer

Dear future McKenzie,

Disclaimer: Writing a letter to your future self is a bit strange. I have no idea where my life will be or what what my story will look like. However, I do hope to become a certain type of person and for the most part, I know what it will take to become that.

Anyway, I hope you love your husband even more deeply than you do now because you are crazy about him. As you should be, he’s one awesome guy! I hope that you never take him for granted—not once. Look him in the eyes each night before you fall asleep and tell him how much he means to you and hug him in the morning to let him know that you will always be by his side. Support him and recognize that he has fears and weaknesses, different from your own. You are there to help him overcome them.

Although I am not a mother while I write this, when you have kids of your own, make time to always be a mother, not just a mom. Don’t let problems become more important than your people. Snuggle them. Listen to them. Serve them. Strive to be as much like your mother as possible. And strive to be different as well. Teach them. Love them. And then teach some more. If you’re listening and loving in the right ways, hopefully you will know how to help them.

Don’t be a control freak. This is a problem you deal with every day and it’s a huge (and I mean huge) weakness of yours and you need to get over it. Go with the wind. Breathe and just let things be. Your attitude affects those around you—make sure your attitude is a positive one.

Keep in touch with old friends and make your new friends feel important. Learn from each other. Utilize the relationships in your life to better yourself and others.

Never stop praying.

Take care of your body. Go on lots of walks. Appreciate every sunset. Hug people. Don’t forget to have fun. Hang your kids artwork on the fridge. Stay organized. Keep up on your journal. Work hard.

Have a damn piece of cake every now and then and enjoy every last bite.

Every one of these things (except for the parts about motherhood) are things I am trying to improve on each day and guess what, I fail quite regularly. It’s kind of embarrassing actually, but that's life!

The great thing is, I also succeed. Every now and again I’ll remember to make a phone call to someone whose been on my mind or to say my morning prayers.

Don’t beat yourself up. Ask for help. And be happy.

These are things I am learning now and I hope that you (however you old you are) are also learning these things.

Be kind to yourself and know that I pray for you every day.

I know that God loves you and is looking out for you. He always has been and he always will be. I don’t know what trials you will face or the dark moments that lie ahead but from what I can tell, they always end.

Stay true to who you are but always be willing to accept where you need to change and then execute.

Love,

yourself.

P.S. Love yourself.

This woman is love and light; she's earnest, curious and has one of the biggest hearts I know. Get to know her yourself—find Kenzie on Instagram at @kenzebauer and at her blog here.

Pretty by Kate Makkai

Welcome to Wednesday morning, where poet and speaker Kate Makkai sends shivers down our spines as she delivers "Pretty" into our minds and hearts.

Language-edited version here, though I recommend watching the full version (one-word difference) to maintain the integrity of Makkai's forceful work.

Also—don't miss her interview about beauty, aesthetics and perception with FierceMag.