Rebuilding a foundation, the birdhouse way.

Rarely have workshops affected me as much as a workshop Doug and I attended at  The Compassionate Friends National Conference. It was entitled “The Birdhouse Project with Kris Munsch.” I wasn’t sure what we would be doing, but I was glad to see colored Sharpie markers on the table. I was hoping for something very tactile, it had been a very long and intense day, even in the most loving environment, exploring your grief is exhausting.  Kris introduced himself and I was immediately drawn into his story, the story of his son Blake. Our workshop was right next to another workshop that was very loud, with much laughter – not that I begrudged them their joy – it was just incredibly distracting, almost impossible to focus, especially when you are tired. I slipped a pair of ear plugs in, they filtered out the extraneous sounds, but I could still hear Kris. He spoke from his heart and I didn’t just want to hear his story, I needed to hear his story.

We had each received our own birdhouse kit, heavy cardboard pieces that would fit together. I felt really at home with the building puzzle part, it reminded me so much of my mother’s love for building gingerbread houses and 3D puzzles. Kris guided us through each piece of our building, starting with our foundation. I have written about how the death of a child smashes through your life, leaving it unrecognizable, the struggle to rebuild, picking up bits and pieces of our old life, and how it never looks the same. Kris’ concept of building a birdhouse brought that reality all together in such a brilliant clear way.  It was a lot to take in and process in one night, and I came home with some of my birdhouse walls blank, I simply could not define in words, or even pictures, what I wanted to express on those walls. But I did have quite a lot to say about my foundation.

We didn’t put our birdhouses together that night, we both had work to do on our houses, and they would not have fit in our suitcases assembled. I have spread my birdhouse out on the dining room table several times, have read through Kris’ book with highlighter in hand. I stared at my foundation and what I had written, and just about fell off my chair when I realized what I had not written. I counted four brand new items that made up my new foundation, they were not there before Justin’s death. Those things that I thought would always define who I was, were absent. I realized that I didn’t even miss them. I revisited those walls that I left blank and was able to express some thoughts, I surprised myself again with what ended up on those side walls.

I began to realize the impact of that single evening spent building a birdhouse only days after our return from Chicago. I was faced with an unanticipated situation that left me so confused. The most curious thing happened though, my mind automatically went to the foundation of my birdhouse. Mentally, my mind literally threw it down and told me to stand on it, to remember who I was and what I believed in, that my foundation was sound and strong again. So I stood on it, I pictured my feet standing on on those words I had written and I had such clarity. I realized that things, philosophies, and yes, even people had received eviction notices from my foundation, from my fledgling new house. Not in anger or ill will, but in recognition of the fight it has been to rebuild. This new foundation has been fought for, suffered over, been built with tears and pain, it has been built through nausea, despair, and isolation, hammered away at through my own internal screaming of not wanting to rebuild, but wanting to to die in the rubble. It has been built to honor a boy with dark eyes and winsome smile, it has been built to honor a surviving son whose strength and calm reminds me of an oak tree, it has been built to honor the father of my sons.

I am still sitting with other parts of my birdhouse, I am almost ready to put it together. I am learning to listen for and accept affirmations and add them to my affirmation wall. I am working on my shelter piece, and I like it, I find the lioness is still alive and well.  My perch keeps sliding out of my bundle of parts, that probably speaks to my reluctance to let others view my new structure, but I will. I shall never look at a birdhouse again the same way, they will always remind me to check on my own birdhouse, to check for soundness, to form new goals, to make sure my perch is out for guests, to keep my birdhouse a place of peace and shelter. Peaceful, but not sterile, I want it to be an organic place where life can grow and be nurtured.

I am profoundly grateful to Kris for sharing his birdhouse project and for sharing Blake with us, humbled by how he has transformed pain into a beautiful gift for those who are suffering a tragedy in their lives, be it the death of a child, or another life-altering event. I know that given the opportunity, I would gratefully attend another Birdhouse Project Workshop, eager to build on what I have learned, knowing I have only scratched the surface of what can be built out of the raw materials of pain and love.