I can't believe that I made it to week 5 of the 6 week online course in Wholehearted living! 
Brené Brown, (PhD - Expert in Vulnerability, Shame and how Imperfection leads to Joy!), has been leading this course that I bravely signed up for it - and bought the required journal, art supplies (yes, of course I had stuff at home, but it's always fun to buy more!!!), and the book "The Gifts of Imperfection" (yes, also by Brené)...

On Wednesday this week, I heard that Gijs, one of my students at the HvA, had died suddenly at the age of 26. I liked Gijs; he was a likable, friendly, enthusiastic guy. All the teachers liked him. Students too. He's the kind of person who probably has had very few enemies.  At that moment, I felt like the world was slipping away, a black hole opening up, immense sadness overcome me although I have only known Gijs since September this year.
The reason for that mountain of emotion is, I think, what I refer to in the title, as the Domino Effect. When you have already experienced grief in your life, and then you are later faced with another moment of grief, you may feel as if the new grief echoes the old one. In other words, I was not only feeling sad because of Gijs, but also feeling for a while the way I felt when my own son died. So many familiar feelings welled up inside of me. It's unfair, he's too young, could I have done something to prevent this? 

How many times a day do you have your ideas shot down with someone's "Yes but..."?
The best and fastest way to kill creativity and enthusiasm in a group is by throwing in a "Yes, but..."
It's amazing and sad to see how everyone shuts up, no one else dares to propose new ideas and the joy is swept out of the room, like a slow but sure leak from a balloon.
So, what to do?

Today I'm feeling particularly solution focused...
Rather than blame others for being negative, try yourself to say a lot more of "Yes and"!
For some ideas, check out this site: http://www.yes-but.org

Last week, I lost someone dear to me. It brought up all the old losses, the newer losses, the unfinished and finished grief still lingering in me. I told a friend that I was reading a book on grief (Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's On Grief and Grieving). He said, "Why don't you write a book yourself?" After all, I have suffered what some consider the 'ultimate loss' - the loss of a child. My firstborn, to be precise. And now, 15 years later, the story is there, perhaps waiting to come out. Would it help others if I were to tell Yarden's story? Or my story? I have survived such a terrible loss, and yet have grown stronger, more resilient. I have discovered coping skills in me that I never knew I had. I learned so much from my young boy, merely 4 when he died.  And like I said, each new loss of someone else I knew and loved, again awakens the feelings. Sadness, love, a bottomless pit, an emptiness... and then gratefulness for having known them, and for the lessons learned. Perhaps indeed the story needs to be told...

The thing is, I don't know how to begin... With his death? Birth? My wanting to have a child, but the difficulty in parenting once he was born? The temporary relief I felt after Yarden slipped away with little pain, and the guilt that relief brought? All the things I'm writing down seem the wrong thing to say, and I know that is my critical self. All the feelings I had and have are legitimate. The more honest I am, the more others might be able to connect with this, and with their own feelings. And that is my aim. To say, 'it's ok to feel what you are feeling. It's all ok, it's all normal.' 

Today, driving back from shopping, I began to think about the dear woman who died last Thursday, the one who I loved like a mother many years ago. And thinking of her brought up tears which I blinked back, thinking how unwise it would be to drive and cry. And how sad I am that I am far from her family and cannot go there to sit with them, and grieve together. Minutes later I passed the garden center and thought about planting flowers in my garden to welcome the spring which I hope will be coming soon to Holland... It's ok to be distracted. And fine to cry too.
Grief is good. It reminds me to value the here and now. To enjoy the neon orange colors of the footballers I see in the field across from my office window, and how their shirts stand out in the darkening grey of dusk.