Sweat

Healing your body after the death of a beloved

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Tears

Living with an unbearable loss

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Sea

Moving forward into the life you create in the wake of loss

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There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief … And unspeakable love …
Washington Irving

After the death of a beloved, there is no avoiding the overwhelming grief or the tears. In the immediate aftermath, we may be in shock, feel numb or even be in denial about the loss. Although everyone’s timetable is different, eventually we have to acknowledge the loss and how devastated we are. No matter how painful, we must sit with our grief and all that we’ve lost in order to start healing.

a close up image of a piece of paper with handwriting all over it

At Salt Water, we can help you learn to live with an unbearable loss. We offer ideas, strategies, tools and most importantly, hope that you can survive the death of someone you didn’t think you could live without.

We invite you to become part of our community. Share your story, ask a question, make a comment. We’d love to hear from you.

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The Silence Of Attention

Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn? Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven’t the answer to a question you’ve been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause of a room full of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you’re alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful if you listen carefully. The Phantom Tollbooth

Pretending

Child, you cannot escape your grief. You can try to drown it in distractions, numb it with your vices or even pretend it isn’t there at all. Sooner or later, it will spring back out of its hiding place and demand you stand and face it. Beau Taplin, Poet & Author

For The Mothers

This one is for the mothers. The mothers of ghosts who leave footprints between our rib cages. The mothers of the smallest whispers of babies that barely filled our hands, whispers that took the promise of a whole lifetime when they left. The mothers of fifty-year-old adult children who left behind children of their own and a legacy of sadness.

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