The Whole World is Grieving Right Now

I sit back daily and watch the numbers grow as this virus spreads without stopping and I know the whole world is grieving right now.

For those of us who have experienced the death of a loved one and have been grieving for months, even years, we have had practice.  We have had a dress rehearsal except that grief hits every single one of us in a different way yet the depth of the pain is the same.

I have been living in a place of stillness for over a year.  I have had occasional breaks from it when friends and family have come to help me, but the majority of my time is spent in stillness.  It is lonely.  I suppose I am accustomed to it, but that doesn’t ease the loneliness. 

You see now there is fear.  The very person who could always talk me off the ledge is no longer here with me, and I fail at being able to do this.

What as I see as my goodness in all of this is the fact that I started writing when Larry died, and I haven’t stopped.

Writing is therapeutic.  Writing helps us heal.  My writing helps others.  I have fans.  I can say that because they tell me they are fans.  I have a following and that makes me feel exceptionally blessed.

I never would have guessed that at the age I am now would be when I actually found what I am in awe of and be blessed with an epiphany of spirit.

I believe Larry always knew this about me.  He probably would have preferred staying around to see me realize my potential.  Unfortunately, God had other plans, however when I wake in the morning with a song playing in my head, I know it came from Larry.

It has been a while since that happened and I was overjoyed this morning to wake to “I Love the Way You Love Me” by John Michael Montgomery.

Just a sign of encouragement from the love of my life.

Therapy – It’s What’s for Dinner

I know what you are thinking how could therapy, it’s what’s for dinner, be a thing?

In my wilderness it is a thing because dinner resides in the trauma area in my brain, and I need help.

There, I said it.

I need help.

When Larry first died, I posted on Facebook that I needed food.  I got gift cards.  I appreciated the fact that people did this for me, but I needed food.  I wasn’t cooking.

Larry had dismantled my kitchen the weekend before he had his stroke.  I had no real appetite, and I had no desire to cook.

I thought my love of cooking would come back.  It has not.  I am fine for breakfast and lunch; dinner ends up in the trash.

It doesn’t hit the trash every night, but there are many nights where it does, and I want to be able to sit down to dinner and eat as I used to eat because I like my cooking.

I can’t.

It’s time to take it to my therapist.  When I left therapy on Monday, we were pretty sure I would only need one more A.R.T. session and that was the one dealing with holidays. 

Then I realized I need therapy for dinner.

Larry stroked right after dinner.  In fact, dinner was still on the table.

Larry was also my prep chef.  Almost every meal I created had him at my side slicing, chopping, mixing, and we would drink wine, laugh, and every meal was a date night.

I will work through this in therapy and trust that it will work because it has worked on my other trauma issues.

I miss cooking. I miss cooking with Larry.

Blocked by Boulders of Grief

Where is the dynamite when it is needed?

This morning when I wrote my usual morning thoughts my mind went down into my memory bank and rummaged around. It came back with all the wonderful springs Larry and I celebrated when we lived in the snowy and frozen Midwest.

I wrote about how much joy we got when we saw signs of rebirth happening all over our yard. We loved to garden. We had so many beautiful plants, flowering shrubs and bulbs and seeing them bud and struggle to push through the ground was something we treated with respect.

There is so much energy in plant growth that we take for granted.

It was within my memories that I realized I am not moving forward, I am pushing forward, like those plants.

It takes a lot of energy to push forward. Some days I cannot summon that energy and that is when I am in the depths of my grief wilderness and boulders block my pathway.

Where is the dynamite when it is needed?

No dynamite, then where is a pickaxe and shovel?

When I am thrown down to the ground in my wilderness, I have no tools. I only have my bare hands and my bare heart.

I can use my shoulder to move through the rubble, but it rarely works. I meet resistance with every attempt.

I look around for the pickaxe and the shovel. I know why I cannot find them. Finding them would make the destruction I am left with too easy to navigate, and there is nothing easy in being suddenly left behind in the dark world of grief.

If we did not love, we would not grieve. If we did not love, we wouldn’t have wounds that do not heal, reminding us that healing will never be complete.

Color me claustrophobic.

When I am above ground and freed temporarily from my wilderness, I have anxiety any time I am in a tight space, or a crowded elevator, or even a crowd of people.

Below ground I see all these boulders surrounding me, and my chest grows so heavy that breathing is difficult.

Then I ask myself what it would feel like if I had no grief, and I realize that if I had no grief, I would never have experienced a burning, passionate love and wouldn’t that be the real tragedy?


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