 One hour ago, my entire life changed. I took my girl to school, and came home alone. From this day forward we will live by the school year, and the school bell, and for the first time since her birth we will begin leading separate lives. I will not know what happens in her day. She will not know what happens in mine.
This feels monumental. I am shaking with exhilaration, a heart full of gratitude and pride, a mind in disbelief that this day has finally come. I no longer have a baby. I have a heart-strong, tough-minded, independent child who barely looked up from her artwork when I left her at school today, a girl whose joyful spirit would never lead you to believe that her first years were steeped in heartbreak. Somehow, we made it through. We made something beautiful out of something tragic. As I take in my surroundings at the kitchen table this morning, gazing through our living room to the park outside, the sun streaming through the windows, soon to disappear beneath the shadow of the moon, I am struck by the multitude of turns my life has taken since George left our earth. Little by little, the decisions I’ve made for my family have culminated in this moment, in this home, in this new beginning that is no longer filled with hope, but with certainty. I am where I want to be. We win.  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.  Shortly after George died, I came to the following conclusions:
My life no longer belongs to me. It is all about Nova now. I surrender. At the time, and thereon after, I found solace in this. I let go of any illusion of control and surrendered to a higher power. I accepted that which I could not change. I called resistance futile and carried forth, day by day, waiting for the universe to show me the way. It felt noble. It felt humble. It felt wise. And, perhaps, in those first days turning into years, I needed to surrender my life. The dream I’d been creating around my true love and inspired career choices and precious family unit had vanished. George had been taken away, and with him my innocence, my ability to dream, my felt freedom. My survival depended on a change of thinking. Continuing to believe I was entitled to my dreams would have felt defeating at best and crushing at worst. I didn’t know how to create a future for myself out of the ruins, and I didn’t feel I deserved to. I’d had it all, and I’d lost it. Surely there was a hidden message in all of this. You lost it because you didn’t deserve it. 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. |
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