Where I Seek Refuge

Art museums, public libraries, and parks are my preferred sanctuaries on days of heavy grief

Art museums, public libraries, and parks have been my preferred sanctuaries throughout life. These sacred places hold such beauty and emanate such calm—a sharp contrast to all of my childhood homes. It’s no wonder that these are the places that I run to to grieve, to reflect, to seek knowledge and understanding, and to be inspired. I frequent these spaces often, particularly on the most challenging of days.

Preston will have been gone for nine years tomorrow, and I am still dumbfounded by his absence, which makes sense since he was only 14 when he chose to leave this dark world. He had always been written as a key character in my life story. He wasn’t supposed to die before me, the eldest of our family. But, the reality is: he is gone. And so, since becoming a mother to two littles over the past four years, I approach heavy days with even more care and deftness than ever before; my heart and soul require it. 

During our time in New York City, I would often visit the Met, the Whitney, the MoMa, the Morgan, or the Cooper-Hewitt on my brother’s birthday, his death anniversary, or any other days that felt too challenging, like after a hard day of teaching eighth graders. 

As

Tina Hedin

commented on a recent Substack note of mine, “Grief is a powerful teacher. Not the one we ever wanted, but it’s the one we were given.” She’s right. One of the first lessons that I learned from grief was to give myself space and grace to process and heal. And so, every year since my brother’s suicide, I take off May 9—from work, from responsibilities, from duties—and I just be as I need to be, without any guilt or shame.

***

On March 6, 2019, a little over a year before I gave birth to my first child, I visited the Met and donated $18 for what would have been my brother’s eighteenth birthday. I asked him to visit me—to send a sign to let me know he was still there with me, albeit not physically. I told him how much I missed him and how much I wished he was still here.

“I loved you so much, Preston. I still do. And, I’m so sorry that our love wasn’t enough to save you,” I whispered, breathlessly, as I started to sob, silently.

I came across a Matisse painting that I had never noticed before. My body stopped in front of it, and I waited and waited and waited. I gazed at the simple yet complex painting, and, like the sun breaking through the clouds, I began to feel Preston’s company—his warmth—in that frigid hall. I even remember peering behind me to check and see if he was standing there because I could feel his presence so intensely. I remember thinking: Maybe it was all a terrible dream? Maybe he wasn’t really gone? My heart tightened at the possibility and then ached at the fact that he was no longer here, and he would never be. 

According to the placard next to Matisse’s “Laurette in a Green Robe,” painted in 1916, Matisse used “black as a color of light and not as a color of darkness.” And then, I realized what Preston wanted me to see: that death is not always about the darkness. Death was also about the celebration of the light that once was, and that it was possible to pick up and carry that discarded light.

***

Not long ago, I learned about "glimmers," as defined by the Polyvagal Theory. Erena DiGonis, a complex trauma therapist and advocate, explains the concept:

“[Glimmers] refer to micro-moments of connection, safety, and positive engagement that can shift our nervous system’s response from defense to calm. These experiences activate the social engagement system, fostering feelings of safety, trust, and well-being. Glimmers can be both subtle and profound, and they play a pivotal role in our overall emotional and physical wellness.”

“Glimmers” are basically the opposite of “triggers.” And so, today, May 8, I made it a priority to practice vigilance and scoop up the inevitable “glimmers” that would likely come that day—during just another day of mothering my kids—before tomorrow’s sure-to-be challenging day: my brother’s death anniversary. 

Instinctually, I ran to one of my preferred sanctuaries: the art museum downtown. The visit was my two- and four-year-old daughters’ first trip ever to an art gallery, and, miraculously, it was a near-perfect experience. 

Side note: It’s important to bear in mind that if this trip had happened a year ago or perhaps even six months ago, I’m not so sure we would have had as pleasant of an experience as we had. I recognize that I am in a new stage of motherhood, one where my children are becoming more independent human beings, better communicators, and (dare I say it?) my buddies.

As we joined the scheduled tour for “Tot Time,” I marveled at the impressive works of art in our small-town artspace and then watched in awe of my daughters’ respectful wandering of the rooms, full of wonder and glee. 

I (and everyone else in the museum) enjoyed hearing their reactions to paintings and sculptures as well as seeing which pieces of art spoke to them. And I couldn’t help but think what a privilege it was to be their mother and to also bear witness to the purest form of appreciation and exploration of what I believe to be humanity’s greatest gift: art. 

As we sauntered through the gallery, I asked Preston to also pay attention to the “glimmers” with me and to see the beauty that I saw in these two tiny rays of light and also in these splendent creations that colored these white walls, that brought life to my life and to my daughters’ lives.

I began to picture his amusement of his nieces’ excitement. I began to picture his participation in the silliness of my daughter’s impersonations of absurd sculptures. I began to picture his joy of just being with his big sister and oh-my-gosh his big sister’s kids (!!!) at an art museum, even though an art museum may not have been his first-choice of places to visit in Asheville. (I think it would have been the Pinball Museum.)

I smiled as I felt his presence and savored the sweet gift of his presence for the remainder of our visit, and I wondered if my daughters felt his presence, too. I hoped so.

***

Tomorrow, I will take it easy. I will likely rest a lot. I will likely not have an appetite. I will likely not be the best mom. But, nonetheless, I will take the “glimmers” that I carefully collected today and hold them close to my bleeding heart. I will cry. I will grieve.

And then, at some point, I would go outside and breathe in the fresh mountain air and admire the new blooms of spring, and I would ask my brother if he preferred daffodils to tulips because I couldn’t remember which. And right on cue, I would pass by a patch of daffodils and feel the gentlest, softest cool breeze slide across my cheek, and I will smile and remember—Ah, yes!—he preferred daffodils, just like my youngest.