 Three years ago, I dreamed of this day. I somehow knew, even in those first few days, that things would be okay. But I didn’t want to live through the beginning. It felt like purgatory.
I was desperate to get to the other side. To have permission to start over. To fall in love. To be happy. To laugh unapologetically. To bury the widow. But grief is not a mountain. There is no summit, and there is no other side. Grief cannot be conquered, or left behind. Nor can the people that you loved. There is no starting over, because you are forever changed. You cannot go back to the person you were. And the person you become through grief is an ever-evolving wonder. It’s challenging for us to accept that there are races we cannot finish. Our minds want to untangle the past from the present, the sadness from the hope, the gratitude from the regret. We want to move past that which did not fulfill our dreams and expectations, or find resolution in death as the inevitable ending that we must embrace. Moving on is the mantra. But as the years change, and we along with them, so too does our relationship to the grief, and to our loved one cemented in time. Moving on deems impossible, for we take all of it with us. Every day, every year, a new experience of the past; a new understanding of the present. Three years ago, I dreamed of this day. And if you’d told me there was no other side, I’d have been crushed. But maybe you could have told me this, too: You are on the other side. Because the minute George crossed over, so did I. There the journey began, and so it continues, evolving and informing my life with infinite teachings. The last three years have not been easy, but they have been important. Like the butterfly’s struggle to emerge from the cocoon (without the struggle, it cannot survive) -- grief sits at the cornerstone of my human experience, challenging me to become a better version of who I thought I wanted to be. With love and peace in my heart, I step into this new year. A new season of evolution and wonder, with my beautiful and precious grief.  A few weeks ago, I thought I had finished the first draft of my memoir, and I was elated.
For about five minutes. That elation quickly turned to pride, turned to fear, turned to doubt, turned to shame. As I began to review the draft, starting from the beginning, the negative personal commentary began its long and relentless rant. I wrote this in my journal on October 29, 2015. Today, reading this while compiling the narrative for my memoir (which is getting there guys, I'm really close!), I want to share it. Because we, as a society, are so afraid to look at, think about, acknowledge, and come to terms with death. Yet there is nothing more certain than the inescapable truth that everything that lives, will die. And often we have little say in how or when this happens.
 Last week I posted about the moment I realized my life is perfect, and since then I’ve begun to experience such a profound shift that I would be remiss not to share the insights which got me here. What if we could all realize that life, in this moment, is exactly as it should be?
I was watching Nova play with a balloon this morning, throwing and batting and catching it while she laughed with delight, that pure expression of joy that children give out so effortlessly. And in that moment, I saw my premonition come to life.
Wow. This is it. My premonition was the moment I decided I wanted to have a child with George, in early 2012. We were sleeping in one morning, and I awoke first. I watched him sleep. He was so beautiful, so peaceful, and my heart was struck by how much I loved him. If anything ever happened to him, I would want his child, a piece of him, to be left with me. |
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