 “Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks. “It’s the day that George became spirit.” “Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers. “July 22. That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.” A fact she will never forget. “It really is a special day,” she declares. “What are we going to do for him?” We begin to list off the possibilities.
 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. This blog has taken a backseat to the book I've begun to write (again). I've decided to start sharing pieces of it here to let you see what I'm working on. Many people have assumed that the book would be some form of the blog, but it's actually an entirely separate project. I plan on posting more excerpts to the blog site, as well as releasing chapters to my mailing list.   I just had a strong cry, the kind of cry that shakes you. The silent kind, the one that takes hold of your body and surrenders it to the unbelievable truth: Your love is dead. I had been writing about George.* Our first months together, in particular the afternoon I went to him to “end things” and ended up under his covers instead. That afternoon I needed not so much to break up with him, but to tell him: I know I’m going to break your heart, and I’m sorry. But that never happened. Who broke whose heart? George, my sweet George, it has been almost 3 years and I still ask myself this question: Where have you gone? How could you have left this world so suddenly, so easily, so spotlessly? Poof. And you were gone. Poof. And my life was to go on without you. Poof. Life would never be the same again. When I think of you like this -- these memories, recreating their image, placing my body back in time with yours, allowing myself to feel you, to recall the details; what we wore, how you smelled, the sound of your voice; the way you spoke to me, softly and with certainty; the way your eyes lit up, the way you closed them when I touched your hair; it is all so familiar to me still, and that surprises me, and I am grateful. I fear the day when I will no longer remember. When the words on these pages will be my only way in. The interesting thing about a cry like this is that, while gripping and painful and seemingly unbearable, it brings a notable sense of relief: I have not forgotten you, I have not moved on from you, I still feel for you, I still love you. You mean something to me. It was not all a dream. *I am writing again. It is the same book, and it is a different book. Stay tuned for updates.  Image: Creative Commons – picture by Abhi Ryan Three days post-election, and I find myself making the familiar rounds through stages of grief.
This is how it went for me, and the cycle will continue, though not in any discernible order, for the next four years. Just like it did, and does, with George (how I wish that to be a four year sentence). Though the circumstances and consequences are entirely different, the human experience is the same: This crazy awful thing happened that I never could have imagined, my world is torn apart, and I’m scared to death of what happens next. |
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