Into grief we go.

I’ve been in Denver for the past 10 days, visiting family and working on my memoir.  It’s interesting to note the challenge that arises when writing about the past, immersing myself in thoughts and emotions from this time last year.  

This time last year, I was swept up by soul George, swirling about our past lives and our infinite love story, before choosing to dive back into grief and allow myself that human experience.  Here is an excerpt:
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"It was exciting, and overwhelming, and confusing.  I felt George weaving himself into the core of my being, a oneness that I’d never experienced before.  My anger and sadness were gone, replaced by the giddiness of having discovered a long lost secret, a treasure map.  This journey into the metaphysical was something I’d dreamt of for years, for the ability to experience that which I knew in my heart existed, though I hadn’t found ways of seeing it or proving it.  The opportunity seemed to be unfolding in front of me now, beckoning me to knock.  An open invitation to transcendence." 

Ultimately I decided that I wasn’t ready to embark on this journey, and I asked for some space.  

"I knew that I was in over my head with our soul story and with what I was being asked to investigate.  I felt my grief being dissuaded by these magical possibilities, this path of spiritual wonderment; and while the fascination of our never-ending love story was a welcome distraction, it felt like just that -- a distraction.  I knew that I had so much more of George's death to face.  And I wanted to face it.  

I wanted to touch the pain, the suffering, to invite it out into the open, to give it its due respect, and to set it free.  Despite knowing that it would be hard, even excruciating at times, I saw this grief as a rite of passage, something that should not be avoided or denied.  The love that George and I shared was still alive, but our human relationship was over, and the loss of that life deserved a proper mourning.

I believed that George would understand, that he would give me my space and return to me when the time was right.  I didn't consider that it might not happen, or that I would be powerless to summon him back when I needed him."

And so I grieved.  What comes next is a good solid month of weeping, and grasping, and wishing for a different life, which I find myself hesitant to tackle in writing.  In doing so I unleash a fury of emotion all over again; there is no other way to write authentically about the past.  

I am not afraid of this pain, but I am all too familiar with the landscape that accompanies grief:  isolation, self-pity, sorrow.  Not to mention the general fog that descends on the brain, the mind taking a vacation from its seat of productivity, the goal being simply to get through the day, to feed the child, to remember to shower.

And in the wake of everything that’s been happening in the world around us -- the horrific massacre in Orlando, the murder-suicide at UCLA, a British lawmaker slain just days ago, countless other heartbreaking events that never reach our inboxes on top of the 2016 political landscape -- I’m not sure we need to add more grief to the world.  

But I tell myself that I have to keep moving.  Grief can be consuming, but I know that each time I pass through its doors I emerge a little lighter and a little wiser.  My heart goes out to all who are grieving around the world in situations far darker and more traumatic than mine, and my wish for them is to know in their hearts that the light within them is bright.  Martin Luther King said it well:  “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

In the end, my wish is to create a work that lends hope and love to those who are, or have ever known, suffering.  Embracing my own suffering is therefore a necessary step, an offering, and an opportunity for growth and continued understanding.  May this continue to propel me forward.  I’ll see you on the other side.