The Storm


I had forgotten.  The way grief comes.  A crashing wave, and then I’m on the beach, and I think I’m fine, I’m even wondering if I’m superficial, if it’s even okay to feel fine, and then another wave and fine is a country I’ve heard of.  I’m on the rowing machine at the gym and I start crying.  Which is really kind of funny, only it’s not.

Everything in life goes to stark relief.  Little things either don’t matter at all, or suddenly matter too much.  Perspective changes.  It’s hard not to make dramatic gestures.  As in, do things for emotional reasons.  I am guilty of this, but not too often.

And then suddenly I’m in a room, and there’s one person being kind, and the gratitude I feel is overwhelming.

When you’re living in the storm, the world is lit by lightening, and then suddenly dark.  And mostly, when the lights come on, you’re alone, watching everyone else living in some other world.

I remember what it’s like, now.

There is a Don shaped hole in the world, and I keep reaching out and finding it.

In the grief handbook, it says you must express what you wanted–more, better, or different.  More and more and more.  More years, more time.  More closeness.  The ease of a phone call.  The ready welcome.  The feeling of safety.  I would like more.

Mortality yawns, and I am looking into its mouth, being the very one I am.  Who will one day step in, and the mouth will close.

Metta for all of us in the storm.  May we remember even the storm is temporary.  The nature of all things is change.  We let go only when we can let go.

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