When did it become unacceptable to mourn or grieve for more than a little while and in more than a quiet way over anything-anyone? Buck-up and go on.

We say, "She's taking it so hard." Why-because she cried? Then we say, "She's holding up so well." Why-because she didn't?

Have you ever seen foreign people on television who've lost a loved one? They scream and cry and get loud and maybe even beat their chest or fall prostrate onto the ground. They don't shed a civilized tear, take a Xanax and go on. They aren't 'holding up'. They aren't quiet and sad and holding it all inside with a brave, noble face. They experience their grief and their pain.

They make a scene.

When my mother died, I did the quiet tears, the 'normal' behaviors, the usual. Until one day I began screaming in my car. I couldn't scream loud enough or long enough. Even though I was alone, I was embarrassed and soon stopped. Never did that again.

It took seven years for the pall death had cast to disappear. I only realized it was a pervasive presence when it was gone. What if I hadn't kept it all in, hadn't 'held up' so well, hadn't masked the sorrow, hidden the grief? Would I have healed more quickly if I hadn't pretended all those years?

Why do we want everyone to get over everything so quickly? We get annoyed and impatient and start withdrawing when someone doesn't just "move on" with their lives after a great loss.

I'm impatient with myself right now because I should just get over that man. I can tell, when I occasionally speak of him, that some others agree. But should our loved ones be that disposable? Should I think that little of a seven year relationship and the one I gave my heart to? Should I disparage my sorrow and my tears because, after all, it's been over five months?

My best friend's son died a little over a year ago. I can't even fathom losing a child! The grief sites she visits say it's worse the second and third years after the loss of a loved one. My first thought was, "People want you to be over it after a year." You feel the withdrawal and lack of response and support. So you don't talk about it. You internalize your grief. You're alone with it.

There's an expression I've heard, "A problem shared is a problem halved." Maybe if it was acceptable to 'share our grief' and keep on sharing, it wouldn't turn inward and grow depression, alienation, introversion and more grief.

I need to listen to my own grief and accept it. I need to listen to others' grief and accept it.

                                                         WE ALL DO.

Years ago Lerner & Loewe wrote a song for My Fair Lady they titled "On the Street Where You Live".
For some reason, this song has been running through my thoughts of late. I realize it has to do with the male
star 'mooning' over the street on which his love lives. But I have been relating this phrase to the many streets 
on which I've lived.

I'm thinking of similarities and differences. Noisy and quiet. Beautiful and not. Maples and palms. Bougain-
villea and buttercups. Creeks and oceans. Lizards and ground hogs. One sound the same.

I grew up on a farm with a country road running between the house and barn. It was a busy road with 
speeding cars and trucks. Many a poor, unsuspecting animal killed there, much to the dismay of the five 
children growing up on that dairy farm. I recall, vividly, crossing that road to get to my dad on the other side; 
glancing up to see a huge truck bearing down on me! A spanking awaited when I reached my destination. I 
lived there over 19 years. One sound the same. Then the journey began.

A back street in a small town after the wedding. A street in Key West, Florida across from the Presidential 
Gate. I could hear the conductors on the Conch Train pointing out the gate to the never-ending stream of 
tourists. Back to the farm for a short while. In the heart of Long Beach, California for 3 weeks; so much street
noise. Then to a complex in San Pedro away from the street noise. National City, back to the country, Chula 
Vista and a street in the suburbs. Nine more moves and nine more streets and I'm finally on a quiet street by 
a park and a vacant lot. The sound of barking dogs and occasional traffic. One sound the same.

After the third or fourth move, I noticed something that was always present; east coast, gulf coast, west coast 
and anywhere in between. Mourning doves. That sad, poignant cooing.  When I was a child, I thought of 
them as 'morning' doves. When I learned the correct spelling, I was even more intrigued by their lonesome 
call. I began listening for the sound everywhere I landed. They've always graced my new home with their 
peaceful voices. Every vacation spot, anyplace I go, they are with me and they make me happy. One sound
the same.