Signs of Life: Messages from Beyond

Therapists and hairstylists serve a similar purpose. At least, that seems to be the case for me. I hadn't visited my therapist in five years. Then my dad died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. And there I was, back on the couch. My therapist encouraged me to journal my feelings. "You're a writer," she said. "You should write. It may help you process all of this." Sounds like good advice. Trouble was, I couldn't even begin to imagine dragging pen across paper when most days I struggled to even drag myself out of bed. My inspiration had vanished. My drive had dried up. I started to wonder if I would ever write again.

If I couldn't summon my own creativity, at least I could enjoy others' efforts. With each turn of the page, a flicker of creativity started to spark.

A few months passed. Slowly, tentatively, I returned to my notebook. My writing output was sporadic at best. At first, I just tried to read. Reading is part of writing. And, if I couldn't summon my own creativity, at least I could enjoy others' efforts. It helped that my co-workers had gifted me a six-month membership to a Book of the Month club over the holidays. I had a stack of books just waiting to be explored. With each turn of the page, a flicker of creativity started to spark. I moved on to writing. I have a short story and a novel in progress, both untouched for months. The output wasn't much. The quality wasn't great. But it was a start.

One Saturday in April, when I miraculously had nothing on the calendar, I organized my own Writer's Con. I scheduled my day, a glorious seven hours, where I read the latest issue of Writer's Digest, submitted my entry for that month's prompt challenge, watched two on-demand webinars, and revisited my works in progress. It felt great!

The next day, I had a hair appointment. I'd been seeing the same hairstylist since 2008, had followed her from salon to one home studio after another. Nearly 20 years later, Teri is a friend. And maybe she's a little bit of a therapist, too. We fill the space between shampoo and blow dry with stories about our families, our work challenges, and our personal triumphs. This was the first time I'd seen her since my dad passed away and all the emotions came flooding out as I filled her in on my year so far. I'm telling her stories about my dad and we're both crying in front of her giant wall mirror. "I got goosebumps just now," Teri said. "You should write about this."

I need to share the stories that give goosebumps and the ways my dad's spirit continues to show signs of life.

I normally write fiction, but right now I need to write about my dad. One licensed therapist and one compassionate hairstylist can't be wrong. I need to share the stories that give goosebumps and the ways his spirit continues to show signs of life. Maybe it will help me process. Maybe I need to get it out. Maybe I've just been waiting for the dam to break. Even now, it's almost midnight as I write this, at least two hours past my normal bedtime and less than six until I have to wake up. But I can't stop. The gates have opened.

I'm not sure exactly what kind of content I'm going to share on this site yet, but I'm going to start with the Signs of Life blog series. These will be stories about my dad and how he continues to make his presence known. That may expand to include other spirits who visit me. That may expand to include other themes. That may expand to include finishing my short story or advancing my novel past chapter one. I invite you to join me for all of it. Suddenly, I'm seeing signs of life in myself again.