Reflections on Love and Loss
ESSAYS
Click on the titles below for each essay.
Driftwood
By Lisa Rosenberg
How far did you travel to greet me here today?
This very time and place, to hear my thoughts, and I yours.
We soak the sun and hear the waves christen our ears.
Like the first time, like every time.
But what is your story, my dear Drift? May I call you that?
Did you come from afar or so near that I once touched you?
Did I know you in another life? One where we both grew tall and straight, our vigor making us brash and unafraid.
You reached wide and swept skyward, stalwart against wind and rain and sun and storm.
Your branches stayed sturdy for me to climb, climb so high that the ground fell away and our earthly fears disappeared like the morning dew.
You lovingly nestled me, and your leaves tenderly brushed my face.
You were there to capture kindnesses granted to me by those I loved and who loved me back.
You saw so much, bearing witness to my bravado, where anything was possible.
It was just you and me.
As you cradled me in the lap of your muscular branches, we shared the secrets of our youth, unbeknownst lovers that only God and nature understand.
In hushed tones, I confided my callow fourth-grade crush on Tommy, a handsome bad-boy who dared you to look away.
You whispered you were in love with the rain-soaked earth, your roots growing deeper with the longing to hold each other close.
I giggled at your ardor, and you answered with a windswept sigh.
It took me a while to understand your lesson on nurturing love.
But time does not take no for an answer.
We have aged, you and I. We fought to keep our good looks, lush and full of life.
Yet, we became vulnerable.
I see you now from the inside out, your once-mighty trunk now split open, bark flayed and splintered.
And yet, you're still beautiful.
You greet each passerby with the hope they will sit and chat for a bit.
But you are just as happy to listen to the lapping waves and keep company with the rocky shoreline.
We sit together now, like the children we were, and enjoy each other's company again.
We both have changed.
Will anyone remember us as we were?
Perhaps it doesn't matter.
We will evolve-reimagine an existence we cannot yet know.
Oh, you and I shared some joy, didn't we?
One day we will meet again, old friend, and I will know you.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.
The Heat of a Man
By Lisa Rosenberg
I have always gotten along well with men, both as friends and lovers. I like the companionship of men and share interests that frequently align with those of many I know, such as sports and driving fast cars. Conversation often flows easily. And I am not averse to salty language, either coming out of my mouth or theirs. No one would mistake me for a shrinking violet.
As a widow, there are many things I miss about being with a man, and I long for most all of them. When you interact with someone physically, you enter a whole new realm of experience. Yes, we can talk about sex and how great that can be at any age, but there is so much more that is nuanced. No matter which gender or sexual identity you claim or want the other person to have, these small captured moments—the softness of someone’s hair as your fingers brush through it, the smell of their skin that is uniquely theirs, the soothing caress of their hand that makes everything better, even when it changes nothing—are the ones that stay with you. When you live with and love someone for a long time, these small moments happen all the time. It’s not that we forget how marvelous they are when we have them, but we do have them. And then, things happen, and all of a sudden, we don’t.
At first, these moments might not be something you can parse out after a loss—you miss so much of what was, and the pain is so great. Nuances are hard to identify when you’re being overtaken by a tsunami of grief. But time does pass. The grief becomes more contained, and you walk with your loved one in a different way. You allow yourself to think that maybe the company of a man is something you could once again entertain. And that openness allowed me to have a few experiences that reminded me of the many ways I miss men.
I recently went to a play with my friend, Michael. It was an older, vintage-style theater, so the seats were closer together. Michael and I get along well, and I’m comfortable in his presence. Because the seats were tight, Michael and I were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Then, after a while, I felt it—his heat, the closeness, and the specter of intimacy I once knew so well. It was something I had always felt with my husband, Jeff. His heat radiated through me. What I experienced with Michael wasn’t necessarily sexual, but a feeling of comfort. His light touch on my shoulder and arm made me feel secure, protected, and safe. For the first time in a long time, I no longer felt so entirely on my own. I didn’t edge away from Michael; I felt I could offer him the same comfort in return. There is a nearness to that experience that seems wondrous to me.
When I was younger, I had no real sense of what I’m describing now. The rush of hormones, well, leads to a lot of rushing and far less savoring. But good marriages, particularly as they stretch over decades, allow spouses to share physical intimacy in different ways. Enjoying pleasure and comfort, and not necessarily sex, becomes more central. In long-standing, loving relationships, partners develop an unspoken understanding of how to take care of each other. You come to appreciate the sensuality of the person you love more fully—the texture of their skin, the beauty in a small detail of their body, how they move, what you love about the sound of their voice.
Sensuality requires you to be fully present in the moment, using all your senses to savor the other person. Even if you can no longer be sexually active in the way you once were, there is so much that remains exquisite about the person you fell in love with. The wrinkles, the age spots, all the signs of aging the outer world sees are invisible to you. You see your partner as they were, even as they stand before you today. There is an indescribable sensuousness to aging that may be lost on the young.
While it was marvelous to re-experience the heat and nearness of a man, it was so very bittersweet. A thousand flames of longing lit up inside me. While it was happening, I soaked in that warmth. I let it wash over me without thought or judgment. But that was a moment in time, a magical concoction of my mind and senses. Once the day was done and I was driving home, it was clear that the brief sense of comfort and intimacy I felt had come to an abrupt end, vaporized in a car ride.
The nearness of another—the intimacy between two people—is a special kind of high, where time and space seem to fall away. It’s something you want to keep experiencing. There is a song, The Nearness of You, written almost a hundred years ago by Hoagy Carmichael and Ned Washington. Some things are timeless and best captured artistically. Singers still re-record that song today. It always made me wistful. Now I know why.
As life unfolds, people do learn to live without physical intimacy, if that is their fortune. I know that the nearness of another—the quiet intimacy between two people—is an experience I am not willing to close myself off from. I don’t want to forgo living in the realm of the senses.
But doing that asks something of you. It is a big ask—to experience the thrill of closeness with the risk of its loss. That is the only way intimate moments of comfort and connection can materialize. But one also remains open to the ache that follows when a moment passes and cannot be held.
This is not a problem to be solved. I have no pithy answers or deep revelations. I can live a rich life of the mind. But I am not willing to abandon a life of the senses. Not now. Not yet.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.
Jeff
By Lisa Rosenberg
Jeff was my quiet hero,
a steady presence, confident and encouraging.
He saw me clearly.
I danced in his eyes,
and he was all that I desired.
He filled me up
with his wit, intelligence,
and deep desire for me.
I lived in the brilliance of his gaze
until he was no more.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.
The Milestone Birthday Dilemma
By Lisa Rosenberg
It seems that an approaching birthday, particularly as we age, causes as much angst as appreciation. Milestone birthdays in particular—80, 85, 90, 95—create a heightened sense of anxiety as we tentatively peer over the precipice while blowing out the wildfire that has erupted on our cake.
A dear friend, Jill, recently had her 90th birthday. Jill has a loving family and an amazing group of friends who enjoy her easygoing disposition, humor, and generous nature. As Jill’s 90th was approaching, friends and family wanted to celebrate with her. By 90, you’ve had your share of serious life issues. If you come through them still in one piece, family and friends naturally want to rejoice in your presence. I’m sure Jill was pleased to still be standing on the right side of the turf, yet she became increasingly uncomfortable with all the attention being lavished on her. Jill bemoaned to a friend that everyone seemed to be making much too big a deal about this birthday. She was not leaning into the celebratory atmosphere, and it got me thinking.
Why is it that people approach these milestone birthdays differently? What makes some people flinch and others revel? I suppose there might be a lot of reasons. Perhaps some are uncomfortable with the attention being showered upon them. It could be any birthday, 5 or 95, many people prefer not to be the center of attention. And what’s the big deal anyway about having made it another year? Why is that a laudatory event? Others may think that because they are in reasonably good health with a caring cadre of family and friends, they should thank their lucky stars, drop to their knees in gratitude, and party like an animal.
While there are perfectly sensible and sound rationales for the milestone birthday flinch, I don’t think the existential questions of life let you off so easily. No one lives forever we say, but that also means me. I could envision any number of possibilities of what the end might look like, but I’d really rather not. And what about my children and grandchildren, what will become of them? I won’t get to see how all that works out, at least in this mortal life.
But something deeper still begs to be understood. How have I lived my life? Did I live it fully, according to my values? Do I have regrets I cannot reconcile? Can I look death straight in the eye and say I accomplished on this earth what I thought was important? The psychiatrist, Irvin Yalom, said, “It’s always more painful to think of death when you sense you haven’t lived fully.” The definition of living one’s life fully is entirely unique to each individual. Knowing one has loved deeply and unconditionally, raised a family, or been part of a cause greater than oneself are just a few examples of how people might define a life well lived.
But what about regrets? No one is perfect. Almost anyone can look back and say, “I wish I hadn’t done that.” Many regrets fall into the category of hindsight is 20-20—if only we knew then what we know now. But there is no reverse time travel to relive those moments differently; we simply did the best we could in light of our understanding of life at the time. Given that we learn and grow in experience and wisdom as we move through life, we need to give ourselves some grace. A different regret is, “What I did was hurtful, and I can’t take it back.” Once this regretted deed is done, it can’t be undone; it is harder to reconcile. Perhaps you make amends, perhaps not. All you can do is learn from that regret and try to be a better human.
Death anxiety is primordial; it is not something that can be completely ameliorated. Yalom writes of the interdependence of life and death and that “everything fades.” While we fear the fading, we still must live, “nonetheless, in the face of the fading.” But it may be worthwhile to ask oneself the question posed above: Do I have a sense that I lived fully?
A calmness regarding one’s death can arise from engaging in this process of authentically looking at how you lived your life and feeling that what you accomplished was important, given what you valued. The other side, of course, is a sense of bitterness over unrealized dreams, broken relationships, poor judgment, and myriad other regrets that remain unresolved. Do we ever have the chance to save ourselves by doing this review and, with whatever time we have left, do something different? Perhaps. You can’t erase a lifetime of decisions, but you always have the option to think, feel, and act differently.
So, back to birthdays. When Jill approached her celebrations with trepidation, what could I have done? Or, if we recognize this tendency within us, what do we tell ourselves?
In the past, I sometimes procrastinated about making birthday plans. Perhaps I didn’t want the attention simply because I managed to live another year. But if I am being honest, I didn’t want to dwell on being another year older. So then I must ask myself—what is it about being another year older?
If we are comfortable going down this path with a friend or ourselves, then a third party, death, inevitably joins the conversation. Ultimately, what do we have to say to ourselves and death about how we’ve lived our lives? How do we keep living “in the face of the fading?” Here is what I have to say to death.
I think I did some good here on earth. When I was young, I could have been a better person, but I learned. I learned that love for friends and family, making the most of singular moments, the wonder of nature, laughter, and experiencing deep, passionate love saved me. I became keenly aware that every interaction I had with another human being was a chance for both of us to leave that encounter better than we entered it. That became a mindset, a perspective, on how I chose to relate to others. None of what I just mentioned is about accolades or accomplishments; it’s about how people experienced me as a human being.
If I’m going to feel true gratitude about being another year older, then I must earn it by believing I’ve accomplished what I thought was important, tried hard, and did the best I could. Perhaps I wasn’t always successful, brave, calm, or distinguished myself in any way. Maybe I didn’t travel the world or become extraordinarily wealthy or famous. But I did okay, and I loved well.
You're never going to cheat death. But in the end, you can shake hands and say, “There were no losers here.” Now, I see my milestone birthdays differently—as a celebration of the life I've lived. And I am not done yet.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.
By Lisa Rosenberg
I recently had dinner with my cousin, Rose, and her boyfriend. Rose was about to turn 85 years old. I solemnly swear she must have one of those aging Dorian Gray portraits in her closet. Rose is beautiful—the oldest living Barbie Doll known to humankind. She hasn’t had any plastic surgery, yet shows no discernible wrinkles on her porcelain skin. Perhaps it comes from being as beautiful on the inside as she is on the exterior.
Rose, a widow, moved into an independent senior community several months ago. Though she had some trepidation about making the move, driving at night was becoming impossible, and ultimately, she didn’t want to become a burden for her children. So, while she was still active and independent, Rose made the move. Because I am a big fan of my cousin, I predicted she would be wildly popular in her new living situation. I wasn’t wrong. She fit right in and became so busy she hardly had time to keep up with everyone.
After several months, she met James, a widower and resident in the community. I heard about James some time after they began seeing each other. James is a few years younger than Rose, which I commended her for. She also found someone who is the punchline of an old joke: Who is the best catch for an older woman? A man who can still drive at night! James is a truly nice man who cares for my cousin a great deal.
I’ve met James a few times now. We are both healthcare professionals and slide easily into conversation. We also share an interest in understanding grief and loss. After our dinner, I emailed some information he had requested. In his response, he said:
"So many of Rose’s family like you and tons of her true friends are super people that I have literally been overwhelmed (by) in a good way. I feel truly blessed to have Rose by my side and in my heart. Very lucky me!!! I’ll try hard to keep proving that I deserve it."
I was touched by the sentiment and openness of his email, and it made me smile and think. We plan, script, prepare, persevere, and, if all goes well—achieve—as we develop, get educated, engage in a career, and have a family. What we have little to no preparation for is what happens after that. We retire, our spouses pass away, and we are left unscripted. We have experiences we thought only happened to other people and suffer emotions we never knew existed. Though I will vouch that 72 is the new 52, and that in my head I still think I am 20, how could I not know that the events that inevitably unfold as we age would happen to me?
After I got James’s email, I had a dream that night. Dreams are a place where your unconscious mind can work on things that remain unresolved—it is the residue from the day. In my dream, I was to perform in a dance duet on a cruise ship. I didn’t know the name of the cruise ship, nor had I practiced the dance routine with my partner. I thought this was going to be one of my usual anxiety dreams that I had when I was in school: You race to get to a final exam for which you didn’t prepare, and you don’t know where it’s being given. I sure had plenty of those in my life. But that’s not what this dream turned out to be.
Instead, I was able to discover the name of the ship I was supposed to be on—the Oceana 2. I made sure in my dream that it was the Oceana 2, not the Oceana 1! Sometimes I stun myself with my obsession for detail. I then moved on to the fact that I had to perform this dance in a few hours but had never practiced with my partner. In real life, I am very big on practice before performance. Whether doing a public presentation or on the golf course, I am devoted to preparation. I then magically found myself on the dance floor in a practice session just before the performance. I couldn’t fathom how I could learn a ton of complicated moves with only one opportunity to practice.
But the moves weren’t complicated. To my relief, I wasn’t required to take many steps independently from my partner. Soon after the routine began, he effortlessly lifted me in the air, and I moved, weightless and unbound, through space. If I just closed my eyes and went with where he was taking me, it was going to be okay. Being fully engaged and open to the rhythm and movements of my partner and the music was the dance.
When I woke up in the middle of the night after having this dream, I knew it meant something—it was the residue of the day. I suspect James never fully imagined that after the loss of his wife, he would find someone who would capture his heart. Perhaps Rose didn’t expect that someone would be captivated by her and treat her with the kindness she deserves. Both were open to the dance as it unfolded.
As much as I would like to have a script for this third act of my life, where the unplanned and unexpected collide, I don’t. The dance has begun, and I don’t know the steps. This isn’t a dream; I am fully awake, and the music continues to play. Choosing disengagement is a dead end. It is a sleepwalk from which one doesn’t awaken. I must find a way to quiet myself and listen to the music differently. Uncertain of the path forward—but willing to imagine—I must rise each morning and move through the day to the rhythm of life.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.
"Everything Will Be Okay"
By Lisa Rosenberg
After my husband, Jeff, died suddenly, I wrote a memoir about my lived experience of loving someone deeply and grieving his loss. I reflected, analyzed, and wrote for a year and a half, convinced I had plumbed the depths of my journey and said all there was to say about love, loss, grief, and the slow, uneven process of finding one’s footing again. I was wrong.
It’s now three and a half years since Jeff passed, and I recently had an epiphany. It was as if the events that unfolded over just a few days conspired to bring home a realization—one that took hold and resonated in a way I had never felt before.
My moment of clarity came during an unusually busy week. I was presenting to college students about an important service-learning opportunity, getting my annual physical, meeting friends from DC I hadn’t seen in a few years for lunch, having dinner with my neighbors, attending my granddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah, and more. In the midst of all that, I stopped to notice the small things happening around me: a lone bald eagle flying over the Chicago River as I drove into the city; a spectrum of color peeking through a film of clouds; how alive I felt when talking with students, meeting friends, and seeing my extended family. Capturing the enjoyment and wonder in these moments filled me with gratitude.
But in that mix of pleasant events, something else happened. I became unexpectedly distressed when someone I care very much about hastily sent a text. What they wrote stung; it felt as though they were blowing me off, my aloneness once again exposed. I began to flare hot with anger and hurt and soon realized I was heading down an emotional rabbit hole. I stopped and reflected on what I was feeling, as I had when I was writing my memoir.
When you’ve lost someone you loved profoundly, your reserve for emotional pain is not what it once was. I knew my tolerance for inner anguish had lessened, but this moment reminded me of my vulnerability. I was no longer anyone’s “first or last”—the first person someone wanted to see in the morning and the last person they wanted to say goodnight to. I had never internally verbalized this thought. When I finally did, the realization shook me hard.
All these experiences were swirling around me. I wasn’t judging them, just being with them in the present moment. And then Jeff’s familiar voice surfaced, softly imparting something he’d said to me many times over our thirty years together: "Don’t worry. Everything will be okay." Don’t overreact, don’t jump to conclusions—just wait it out until the other person clarifies their response. So that’s exactly what I did. I took a breath and waited it out. After a few days, the situation resolved without angst; my worst expectations didn’t come to pass.
What helped me stay calm was what I added to the “everything will be okay” equation: because I’m okay. I’m not a person who lacks confidence or self-assurance. But somehow, when I said those words out loud, they felt different—more satisfying, more real, like I could finally own them.
In one way or another, we carry our lost loved ones with us. I’ll continue to have experiences that run the emotional gamut—fulfilling, revelatory, painful, sad, exciting, and others I can't yet envision. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life with a loving partner, someone at my side to help guide me over troubled waters and soothe a hurting heart. Now I understand that if I find another person to walk through the world with, so be it. If not, that’s all right too.
Because I am okay.
Lisa Rosenberg is the author of essays exploring grief, resilience, and the meaning we make of our lives.