On November 18th, 2009, I had a miscarriage. Another miscarriage. My third pregnancy, second miscarriage. The statistics are staggering: 1 in 3 pregnancies end in miscarriage, 1 in 2 women have had a miscarriage. Although the commonness of miscarriage should make them easier to deal with, it does not. Grieving for a lost pregnancy is challenging for so many reasons: there are no physical reminders of the loss, hormonal changes due to the pregnancy are unpredictable, friends and family often do not know how to help, others forget easily because they are not missing a part of their body, it is difficult to grieve the absence of something, of someone. This is my journey, this is the process of my grief.
Two friends and I embarked on an art therapy project, working through our different paths of healing. We got together and worked on our sculptures, each with a different style of box to "house" our healing. Two sessions were devoted to art making and the third session was for talking about our art and the process.
The art making led me in so many directions, but during the processing session, i felt like my healing was happening in front of my eyes. Different aspects of my sculpture were revealed to have unexpected meanings.
Two friends and I embarked on an art therapy project, working through our different paths of healing. We got together and worked on our sculptures, each with a different style of box to "house" our healing. Two sessions were devoted to art making and the third session was for talking about our art and the process.
My path started with an inspiration of a box, a box to hold and protect my joy. At times after the miscarriage, it felt like the joy that I keep inside of me was being crushed, squelched and I decided that it needed and deserved protection. So I found a box that matched my inspir
ation, and I started working on it, and praying about it. What did my joy look like? Like gold. Beautiful, valuable gold, filled with life.
ation, and I started working on it, and praying about it. What did my joy look like? Like gold. Beautiful, valuable gold, filled with life.
The art making led me in so many directions, but during the processing session, i felt like my healing was happening in front of my eyes. Different aspects of my sculpture were revealed to have unexpected meanings.
The color stain on the outside of the box dripped and bled into the wood, a both vivid and apt representation of the pain of my miscarriage. 
The lid had a metal screen through which could be seen the symbol of my joy, almost like the miscarriage screened in my joy.
The lid had a metal screen through which could be seen the symbol of my joy, almost like the miscarriage screened in my joy. 
While talking about my sculpture, I realized how difficult it was seeing pregnant women, but until that time I had no idea the true reason behind it. I was not jealous or envious of them, rather, they were a physical reminder of what could have been. The life that could have been. The addition to our family that could have been. The pregnancy that could have been. The relationships that could have been. All of my journey came crashing down on me at the moment that I realized that I needed to come to terms with losing the dream of what could have been. I finally knew what form my healing needed to take.
This session happened to take place on Holy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Jesus Christ died on the cross and then rose on Holy Pascha, Easter Sunday. My friend suggested, that like Jesus, it was time to sacrifice my dream of what could have been and allow myself to heal and be reborn on the other side of this tragedy. That is what I did.
On Good Friday, the day of Jesus' death, I wrapped my box in wax paper to protect it, just as God wrapped Jesus in his protection before He died. And I buried my pain, my dream of what could have been.
I put a small vase on the dirt above my sculpture, and spent the next two days praying and thinking about healing and rebirth.
Easter morning, I used my candle from the Easter Eve service, symbolizing the light of Jesus conquering death, and put it in the vase and lit it, the final step in my healing process, in my rebirth from this time of sorrow.
Since then, I have indeed felt a renewed sense of life, that it is okay for my dream of what could have been to be gone. In its place is a new dream and goal, that I can cherish the relationships I have around me, cherish my husband and cherish my daughter. My joy is no longer at risk of being crushed, it is as strong and bright as ever. And I am reminded of the children's song, This Little Light of Mine. I will end this blog with the words to this song.
This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
Won't let Satan blow it out.
I'm gonna let it shine.
Won't let Satan blow it out.
I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
Let it shine til Jesus comes.
I'm gonna let it shine.
Let it shine til Jesus comes.
I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel - NO!
I'm gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel - NO!
I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
Let it shine over the whole wide world.
I'm gonna let it shine.
Let it shine over the whole wide world,
I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
