I used to be called Megan, Meg, or MEM. Megan Elizabeth Morris is a name I honor, value, and keep.
Now I am called Max, which has confused some people and encouraged others. Encouraged me, very much. 🙂
There are many parts of me that are still Megan, but it’s very clear in my experience that Megan died.
The parts of me that are here now experienced the ways she died.
Max is what they called my grandfather when he was a baby.
“Baby Maxie,” in the thick Jewish accents of Brooklyn and Long Island family members, seems to sound like “Megsy” to my aunt’s ears and mine. Granddad’s name as an adult was Mack. My Mom has always called me Meg. Growing up, we talked about Grandpa Mack a lot — shining light, courage, compassion, family strength.
Family nourishment can persist, even when many other things change.
I wanted to be called Max for a long time, since I was a little kid. Maurice Sendak’s original ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ and other essential elements of my childhood contributed.
Parts of us that died can regrow again, if we make sure the world is safe for that regrowing. Max — me, and my grandfather, and our emergent family ancestry — are helping.
People who loved Megan and want to talk with her again seem to be relieved once they come closer and find courage to listen. It is inappropriate, though, to ignore how she has been dead.
I guess that is at the crux of our most important conversation.
Having that conversation means she can grow back again.
Thank you for tuning in.
PS. Here is a note.
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