The nature of grief, or at least mine, presents itself as cyclical. Seasonal. Marked by the harvest moons of pregnancy and breaking up, followed by would-be anniversaries that bookend OWL’s birthday, which is also the day of my haunted delivery into mamahood, a day of immense joy & gratitude joined by the rattle & hiss of an unshakeable failed start. And from this place, the world moves forward. I am motionless.
Is there a slogan for that?
Yup, Sarah replies. Transform all mishaps into the path of bodhi*.
Mishaps. I say.
Love of all kinds is kind of a giant glorious mishap, eh?
And she lists the last 9 years of my life, my loves and disappointments, vows and friends lost to miles, and sends me a picture of grey skies and apple blossoms. I cry for the 7th time in 2 hours.
This morning nausea spread from behind my eyes and into my throat, hunger pangs, chills and fever. After an extra hour of sleep and pills, I put on a dress with a fancy sweater and scarf, leggings and boots to meet the dreary June rain, earrings and makeup, bravely applied mascara that is now long gone.
My words are hollow, circular. I cannot believe there is still so much letting go. Always there is letting go.
(* bodhi = wakefulness)
your writing i starting to give me chills girlfriend. i’m so glad you’re finding the courage to do this. thank you thank you thank you for being you. xoxo
xo
you’re so kind. damn i miss you! bremerton is not all that far away.