Grief resides in multiple parts of my heart, mind and body. It doesn’t take much for something to come along and touch a part of it — and when it does, I may go on a little trip of crying and longing or I may nearly be buried by the waves of emotion that are churned up.
I did not think that sending Nathanael James to NYC to spend spring break with his brothers would set anything off. Then, last night as I prepared for bed, I could hear a distant cry far off in my spirit, like a little girl sobbing somewhere in a corner of my mind, softly mourning,
“I always will lose something — they always will leave. I will always be alone in the end.”
I pushed off the voice because I couldn’t go there right before bed. I needed rest during this hysterectomy recovery.
I’ve become fairly skilled at pushing away the grief until I can fully express it — it comes from years of needing to take care of my other sons, care for my home, teach the yoga class, study the material for school, or be present for the client in front of me. Even from caring for the person in front of me who I know cannot handle the grief.
Placing the grief behind me or a little far off for now is actually something I can do well. So, if you see me cry, you know that I want to cry and feel that it is necessary for that moment. Some people think I don’t have that skill and worry that they “make” me cry. Oh no. No one has that power.
I choose to cry. As I tell my clients, I want to make a t-shirt or sticker for them that says, “Crying is BadAss.”
It is.
So, today, I cried. I cried because I worry that when NJ is really gone away from home, I will not find joy because, like the song “Landslide” says, I built my life around them. All of them.
My mom lived for us kids too. The only thing is, when we all left, she lived for the past and always seemed unsettled and even angry that the past was getting further away every day and there was nothing she could do to reach it and bring it back. She loved us and her grandchildren — but she did not connect within, maybe because she was afraid of what she would find.
And because of that, she grew more and more distant from herself and from us — so that now that she is older, she has forgotten. But she cries because she grieves for my dad.
So, today, I cried, somewhat out of loss and somewhat out of fear of losing more — and out of frustration for not being able to live in the way I’d like to right now, moving and dancing and connecting to others and to grass and water and trees.
This recovery is hard.
It is.
Mainly because it causes me to be reflective about what really matters in life while being mostly unable to engage with what really matters to me, not only because of the recovery but also because I’m not near family, friends and places I miss.
It’s tough, truly.
It is.
During this time of grieving today, I decided to open up a link to a video for one of my clients who lost a loved one. The video lovingly depicted my client’s deep love for the person they missed. It was so beautiful.
I mourned for my client, their family and the life of this loved one of theirs who was gone way too soon.
So, I know that this grief I can connect with is useful for holding up others in this life — others who also are nearly drowned by the waves of grief.
It is.
That helps me to know that I have a reason to be here for now.
