Not Today

Especially in early grief, we replay events and memories in our minds, desperate to hold onto them. We have lost so much. We are terrified to lose what little we have left: the things we remember, the inner pictures of our life before.
 
“Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever," he said. 
                             "You might want to think about that."
"You forget some things, don't you?"
"Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

----------------------
I already have lists of the things I want to remember. I keep one on my computer and one on my phone. I added a memory to my phone list yesterday. I went to brunch with an old friend and one time significant other. The conversation stalled, so I listened to the couple next to us talking about the new park up the street and the sound of our silverware on the plate. Wondering how Sean and I always had so much to say to each other. Then, I noticed. My companion was looking at my right hand, and I checked to see if there was food on it. And it flashed. Sean was sweetly astonished at how I consistently got food on my right ring finger, always in the same exact spot. I honestly couldn't explain it either. And that flooded into all the times he would catch me before I'd put my sleeve in the food I'd spilled on the table. Or shake his head at the egg yolk in my hair. I'm a famously messy eater. It would probably annoy most people. But Sean found it endearing. 

So. I added it to the list. 

It is a list to hold tight to. The things I want in my head forever. 

But. There is another list I wish I could make. A list I would make and burn with black magic. Turn it to ash and blow it into the wind so that those things that got put into my head could disappear with him. 

This list would include the naked picture of his ex-wife that I found after he died. It would also include the. 

I can't. I've been working on this prompt for hours. I already have lists of the things I want to remember. I can't make a list of the things I want to forget. I was excited about this prompt. The Road was Sean's favorite book. A story of boundless love in desperate times. But I can't do this. I already know all the things I want put out of my head, a laundry list of could have, should have, would have. I could pretend that this is a list of what came after, but the truth is it's a list of so many moments. before. There is so much of this that I want gone. I want it out of me. That list runs like the credits at the end of a movie in my mind, on fucking repeat. I can't talk about that list like I can't talk about the thing that happened that night in college or when my sister's dog died. When someone you love kills them self, you have a very scary list of the things that you can't get out of your head. 

My therapist tells me to think of it like this: When I met Sean, he was sick. He was terminal. And his disease took him. And I want to believe her. I do. But. I don't. So there. I wish he'd never met me. I wish he'd met a nice girl who had never had a threesome or dated a guy who went to jail. Who'd never been thrown down a stair case or done drugs in the woods. 

It's too much to think about. All the things I can't forget. I know they're there. I just can't talk about it. At least not today. 

For Example: Wednesday's Grief

Especially in early grief, every object, every landscape, it connected to grief - whether it is something they loved or touched, or it's something that only exists now because they're gone. Grief is everywhere. It comes attached to everything.

It's the lens it's all seen through, the connective glue between disparate parts. Begin your writing today with this not-so-simple sentence: grief is everywhere

-----

Grief is everywhere. Every moment. My constant companion.

She was there each of the 28 times I woke up on the loveseat. I sleep there now since spiders and nightmares find me in our bed. My new bed is too small for even my 5’1 ¾ height and so causes dangled feet to fall asleep and my neck to cramp.

Grief escorted me off the couch at 6 AM to lay my head on the floor. She tucked the sheet around me as I stroked the carpet where he use to lay his head. He would fall asleep on the couch every night, and I would transfer him to bed on a three count. But sometimes, I’d get him upright, and his sleepy self would give me this shitty little grin and then crumple to the floor to sleep there instead. He was so stubborn. I’d both laugh and swallow my temper at the same time. Say, “fine, sleep there if you want.” Cover him with a sheet and put a pillow under his head. Grief does this for me now, and she lets me sleep for another hour.

When I woke, grief let out an exasperated sigh when I spilled my water. She looked at me disapprovingly as I did nothing. I said fuck it. Grief is here and she’s taking up too much room. I shot her a dirty look and went to brush my teeth.

Grief followed. She told me to use his toothbrush, so I did.

Grief said, it’s okay. Try to curl your hair. You’re allowed. I didn’t do a very good job.

Grief started to exhaust herself. She started talking to me about how ridiculous Sean was that one time he got that small zit on the side of his nose. She anticipates the two new zits that stress has brought in for me. So by the time I got to putting on some makeup, I just dotted on some concealer and skipped the mascara.

Grief watched me put no my biking clothes and made me pause. She said wait. I need to imagine him seeing you. So, I walk to the bathroom and survey myself. I run my hands over my ribs, and cup the undersides of my breasts. I purse my lips to the side and tilt my head as well, surveying myself, and then catch myself, but Grief beats me to it, “goat face.” She yells and laughs. That is what Sean called that face. My check out myself face. He’d say, “you just goated so hard.” Grief and I both swallow laughing tears.

Then I pack my lunch and Grief hands me things from the fridge—the pre-boiled eggs I have to buy now because he used to cook my breakfast, the yogurt because I have no cooked food, the banana because he always told me it helped with muscle recovery, the trail mix he bought that’s about to run out, and the water bottle that I stole from him but that he didn’t even mind me stealing. Grief gives me each of these little leftover pieces of him to eat for the day.

Grief hands me my keys to the garage. The keys with the keychain of him riding his dirtbike.

Hi again grief.

Grief saddles up over the bike with me. She wraps her arms around me as I begin to peddle the bike he so carefully researched and bought for me. She sighs with each revolution of the wheel, because the bike fits my small frame perfectly. She cries a bit in my ear as I ride up the big hill that he used to have to ride up every time he left my old apartment. She shakes her head at the way he used to fly through stop signs, while I pause. She feels the wind in her hair as we push hard on the last block and gets frustrated when I struggle to put his U-lock between the wheel and the frame. He made it look so easy.

Grief scampers after me into the bathroom, eyeing me as I put on the black skirt and shirt I wore on our last date. I put the shrug over it that I wore to his funeral. I’m wearing all black again, she notices. I protest that it’s a classic look. She raises and eyebrow that says, “the high today is 98.” Whatever. I’m wearing my cowboy boots. But she reminds me of that fight I had where I said something cruel about previous lovers and these boots that he’d loved before that comment. She reminds me that I’m a fucking terrible person.

She climbs into my backpack for the trek into the office. She wishes me luck on the cubicle gauntlet I have to walk to get to the kitchen. Gives me a thumbs up that I can smile at people and say good morning to the person making their coffee that I’ll inevitably run into so I can put my yogurt in the fridge.

She waits for me to return and sinks into my desk chair with me. Unlocking my computer. And seeing the day unfold. I’ve been up for an hour and 15 minutes. And grief hasn’t left me once.

She sits in my lap and twirls my hair during my webinar. She plays with the stapler until I shoot her a look while I respond to emails. She rolls her eyes when I quote a bad Adam Sandler movie. She taps her foot impatiently for lunch to come and then looks bewildered by its boring monotony. She wants to text him too to tell him that her banana was too mushy and that we forgot to get half and half at the store.

Grief follows me to my meeting and doodles his name while I get an update on our current project and glares at anyone who considers taking a seat next to me. She hurries me out so that I don’t have to hear my coworker talk about her engagement party.

She plods with me out to my bike. Exhilarated to be off but with a seemingly unending succession of minutes until a reasonable person could try to go to sleep. So we head to the gym and wish he was waiting for us there. Already doing his bicep curls and smiling at me in the mirror as I come up behind him to give him a quick kiss before heading into the locker room. She looks for him as I walk out of my abs class and sighs with me as I remember. She sneers at the couple who are on bikes next to each other and catching up on their day.

She comes home with me to our empty apartment and looks in the fridge. Grief tells me I can’t try to cook yet. You can try again tomorrow she says and pulls out the brie and crackers, tells me to hurry to turn on the TV. The silence is crushing her too. We sit next to each other on the couch, saying nothing, doing nothing, trying so hard to be nothing. It doesn’t work.

We shower. And she rubs his soap lovingly over each lonely corner of my body. She wraps me in our towel and helps me take the pillows from the bed. She suggests I sleep on the couch again tonight. Reminds me of the dreams she’ll send me if I curl up next to his ghost. I turn out the lights and Grief kisses my forehead. It burns but at least I’m not alone. 

A Benediction

On the day when 
The weight deadens 
On your shoulders 
And you stumble, 
May the clay dance 
To balance you.
 
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss 
Gets in to you,
May a flock of colours, 
Indigo, red, green,
And azure blue
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight.
 
When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought 
And a stain of ocean 
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
 
May the nourishment of the earth be yours, 
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
 
And so may a slow 
Wind work these words 
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.
 
~ John O’Donohue, Bennacht

As you are ready, write your own blessing for your companions in this broken-heart space. What do you wish for, knowing that the pain itself cannot be fixed?
-------
Benediction: the utterance or bestowing of a blessing

To my dear hurting hearts,

I pray. And, I do not pray. I give offering. I believe in love. I hope for light. I bow to the things that are greater than me. Generally. But if I could pray. I would give you this prayer. 

I would pray that you can see the light you bring to my darkness, and how that light can infect your own darkness. 

I would pray that you have a ladybug land on your leg during a soft sunset. 

I would pray that you can smile at a dog scratching his back on the grass at the park. 

I would pray that you trip on the sidewalk and laugh when no one else does. 

I would pray that the wind whips your hair on a day when you feel most alone. 

I would pray that you can let yourself cry before sleep tonight. Because you remembered that time you wore these pajamas when you played that silly game and he made you laugh so hard. 

I would pray that someone brings you stuffed acorn squash and asks you what your grief feels like today. 

I would pray that you get to throw a 14 lb medicine ball at a wall and scream with tears and sweat rolling down your face. 

I would pray that a child can tell you a knock knock joke that makes no sense except the sense it makes to listen to them giggle over his own nonsense. 

I would pray that you know. When you are up at 3 AM. Someone else is up somewhere too. They are bereft and broken. Just like you. You aren't Facebook friends and you can't pronounce the city of the name they were born in. But they woke up like you. And are so sad they can't breathe. But they are there too. Sharing this deep, collective grief. 

I pray that you, like I, can one day carry this grief into someone else's grief. Hold them there. Let them just be. 

I pray that you know that your grief is BFFs with my grief. That they braid each other's hair and mine sings Aladdin to your Jasmine. They make friendship bracelets and whisper in their sleeping bags. 

I pray that you know how precious you are to me. I wish you weren't because it means you know this deep grief. I am thankful and devastated that you know this beast. But, still. You are precious to me. 

This is the most important prompt of all for me, and there is so much I want to say about you. About this space that you've created for me. You are the salve on this open wound. You are the place where I am not so lonely. You are the place where I can be seen. You are a place where I am not the frightening witch in the haunted house. You are these things and more. I am so grateful for your bravery that is infectious. 

I pray, most importantly, that you feel this gratitude. I can't give you anything else. I can't give you hope or platitudes or a dream of a life less lonely. But I can say thank you. And that I mean. I can't say much I don't mean these days. Perhaps to a fault. But. I am happy in little else than knowing that you are here with me. 

If I could pray. I would pray for you. And little moments of reprieve for us both. 

Down the Dark Stairwell

What is the condition of my heart?

As you begin to feel or find an image, write. Describe what you see. Spend some real time with it. If it's an image, describe it. If it's a sense, tell us how it feels. Don't rush. Really show us.

-----------------

Oh my. How it hurts.

It is a wound. At the end of a deep staircase. I can take you there.

Don’t take my hand. It won’t help. I am alone here but you can take a look around.

We come to a door. It is made of black walnut, his favorite wood to work with, but it is damp here so despite being such a hard wood, it is swollen in places and the hinges are sagging. It looks almost too heavy to open, but I do it every morning. I pull out the keyring and the sound of the keys hitting each other is enough to make you jump. It’s okay. I do too. It’s spooky here.

I turn the key and press my shoulder against the wood, hoping for a splinter, and push us inside. It is shadows and the sound of dripping water on lonely stone steps. There are no torches but enough light from your world sneaks in. Your eyes will adjust. Follow me as we descend.

It gets colder and colder as we step lower and lower into the bellows of my heart. It is a wet cold that makes your joints ache and teeth hurt. I’m sorry that your coat can’t stave off this bitter cold heart. I know you’re getting scared. I am too. The closer we get to the bottom, the deeper the dread begins to feel. I find it strangely comforting. I am coming home to my most deep self. I’m sure that’s frightening for you.

You can probably hear the rodents scattering. That is a good thing. They sometimes get bold and will climb right onto your feet. They are heavy but don’t bite. I know they’re repulsive though. They are my closest companions these days. I don’t feed or pet them but they still come around. They smell their own.

And, I apologize for the smell. The decay of love is a pungent odor. I can’t bring myself to clean these walls, they are wet with our tears and the sweat of our lovemaking. And the odor that smells like decomp is just that. His flesh I hold to me like a blanket against this cold.

You can tell we’re getting closer, and it’s best we don’t speak anymore. It disturbs her. So. I’ll tell you now. When you see her, the large gaping wound, I wouldn’t touch her, though I doubt you’ll want to. She has a tendency to hold onto anything living with a death grip that belies her weak heart. It’s okay to cry too. She doesn’t mind that. But don’t make too much of a scene of it. She may start too and the noise will be deafening. You can sit with her if you dare, but please try not to run. She does still have feelings and she knows she’s a terror to behold. She is awfully lonely but there’s nothing you can do about that. There is still time to turn around. If you are sure, we can continue.

…

…

…

Shhhhh. She is sleeping. But see how she oozes. See how she pulsates. She is horrific and I can’t stop staring. I know you can’t either. I’m going to just lay my head here. That’s it, tear your gaze away or you may never be able to. I understand you have to go. You can find your way out. I cannot. I will be here when she wakes. She needs me here. But you can go. 

Finding Wishes Instead of Stars

"I wish there were an easier, softer way, a shortcut, but this is the nature of most good writing: you find out things as you go along."
-Anne Lamott

The halfway point in a journey - or an adventure, or a long slog through crap - however you're feeling about it today - is a good time to stop and look around...Have you learned anything about yourself, or your grief, or the ways things live in you? Has anything surprised you? Disappointed you?
-----------------

I wished I was smarter

Wished I was stronger

I wished I loved Jesus

The way the my wife does

I wished it'd been easier

Instead of any longer

I wished I could've stood

Where you would've been proud

That won't happen now

That won't happen now

 -Patty Griffin

Here’s the shit of it.

Those first thunderstruck days were brutal. I didn’t know you could get stabbed in the gut repeatedly and still live. The grief consumed me and that was allowed. Then, it shifted over the weeks to months—alternating between paralyzing panic and zombie’d gaze. Fragile and labile. It was like the pain was too intense. I couldn’t stay in my body. Stay with the loss. I’d loosen the tether and float outside myself only to inevitably have the tether snap me back into the searing vat of grief that lived inside me. The tetany would seize my hands, and I didn’t know how I’d ever breathe again. Blurred vision and gumby knees. Till I could escape again, self-eject into the ambient ether around my body. This was bad. So very bad. I had never experienced trauma like this that bounced me in and out of myself—violently and unpredictably. But. It was so immediate. It was demanding and overwhelming. I didn’t have time for much else.

But this. This grief that moved in several weeks ago. It isn’t getting easier. It’s getting longer. This is a different grief. I still have some panic and some dissociation but mostly. I’m just here in my body, and it’s fucking terrible. This is the shit of it. It’s getting worse. I know. A therapist or well-intentioned, obnoxious friend might call this progress. But. I don’t care. It hurts. It is settling into my bones. It’s an aching, lonely grief. A persistent grief. It is childbirth in transition, one contraction on top of another, except no one can promise me a bundle of joy on the other side. I imagine instead I will walk out of the gates of this dark horror of an amusement park to find a wry smile on the face of a man in a cheap suit as he hands me a certificate that simple reads, “you’re alive.” Woo-fucking-hoo.

I expected that this would come in waves. I had other griefs. Deep griefs. And no. They weren’t linear. But this is very different. I’m not swimming to the surface only to lose a little progress to a strong tide here and there. This time, I was tossed violently into the ocean, I fought the riptide for a bit, and now I’m just floating out on the rolling waves, watching the shoreline recede. I don’t think anyone’s even noticed yet. How I speak to them at such a distance. How hard it is for me to hear them from out here. It’s quiet here, and I feel close to him when it’s this quiet. But. Fuck. It hurts. This lonely persistent grief.

That’s a bunch of metaphors for three small paragraphs to carry, but it seems I can only talk grief in metaphors.

And this writing. I came to this writing as I began this embodied drifting. As I began to feel so hopeless and overwhelmed out here. I once read something about putting things into perspective. It asked you to interrupt a moment where you feel devastated, or angry or generally terrible. Ask yourself right then. How will I feel about this in five minutes? Still bad. Try five days. Then weeks, months, years…

It has worked for me. Imagining five minutes works for the car that cut me off. Five weeks for the fight with my friend. Five months for the bad break up. Five years for my sister’s unexpected death. But this one. I look at five years and can’t imagine. For this to be a thing. Simply, “a thing that happened.” Do I need to imagine myself in five decades? I smoked a lot of cigarettes in my younger years, don’t think I’ll make it to 81 years old when this could be “a thing that happened.”

So. I walked into this writing with this. This grief settling into my bones and my hope slipping between my fingers. The writing lets me observe where it pools and where it slides, where it eddies and where it rushes. I want to be clear. This does not feel good. It’s not moving it, but I can find this grief and all its different shades with these words. In particular, I find how this grief makes me wish. Makes me wish it’d get easier. Instead of any longer. I didn’t know how many wishes one could wish in 986 words. I didn’t know how badly I wished for him still. How many things I had left to say, songs to sing, smiles to kiss. Or how about the wish that this wasn’t me? Wish that I wouldn’t have to find someone new between these lines, write my way to a new me. I know. “There are more wishes than stars.” We used to sing that line to each other in lieu of saying, “get over it.” It could be gentle or scathing depending on its delivery. I’m not sure which one it is here in my head. But I do know how true it is. I’ve tried not to wish because it only brings disappointment, but disappointment seems to be the softest of this new dark palette of emotions.  Without these words, I wouldn’t let myself find these wishes. I find these wishes and more.

Because. I also walked in to this writing feeling very isolated. While it is still lonely out here, I feel like I’m writing my grief on paper airplanes that I can toss like illicit middle school notes to my fellow lonely grievers. In turn I catch theirs. We can’t touch. We can barely talk. But. We are touching each other, and that is an incredible gift. I want to be clear. This does feel good. It feels good to know that others know what it’s like when you wished it would get better and it only got worse. 

My first letter to you, and it's hard to know what to say.

It's not the same place it was before death entered your life and your home. Not only do seasons change the landscape, but familiar landmarks come and go. How you connect with the place around you has changed, which also changes the place itself. Both literally and figuratively, the one who has died would not recognize this place where you live now. If you've actually picked up and moved, there's a whole new world to introduce.
 
Imagine writing this letter to the one you've lost [based on this blog post]: what would you show them in this new "home" town?

-----------------------

Hi love.

You should come visit. 

Come stay with me in our not big apartment. In our kinda big city.

             

Some things are the same. Do you remember how the morning sun announces herself by covering the bed in a white, bright blanket?  It makes my eyes glow green and stripes my skin. It still wakes me too early, but I won’t hang those dark curtains without you. Sadly, you still can’t see the sunset, but I was thinking we could go to that park across the street, lace our fingers between us, and swing our way into the warm evening. I don’t know why we never did that.

The front left burner still lists the morning eggs to the south side of the pan, and your new Vans are by the door. The sheets are still pretty dirty, and I’ve left your jackets on the rack. Oh, and you dropped a penny on the bathroom floor. You should come get it, and we could put it someplace safe. My curling iron still hangs from the towel rack where you so cleverly hung it, and I adore hanging my necklaces from the elk shed you framed. You also never hung that mirror, so I think it’s time you did.

The Srirachi is still in the fridge, and I never thawed those scallops. You should come visit. I can cook them right up with some mushrooms and lemon and love. We can eat them on the still stained, still too-small-to-share-with-anyone-but-you couch. I’d like to hear you make that noise in the back of your throat when you take your first bite.

But seriously. Come visit. You’ll find some things changed. I tried not to baby, to leave it like you left us, but I couldn’t help it.

You’ll find your ashes in your stead, keeping me company in bed. We can remove the rock from Rainbow Lakes that sits atop the box and place it on the shelf with that sexy picture you love from your brother’s wedding. I wouldn’t need it to hold you there with me anymore. That aggressive tree weed is threatening the foundation of the porch and reaching for the door. It brings some leafy shade and some privacy for sexy porch kisses. It’s changed. But we can make it the same. You should still come visit. 

I’m sorry to have to warn you. The carpet and shower have gotten pretty dirty. They were your weekly chore. If you promise to come visit though, I’ll try to clean them before you arrive.

We can drive to the foothills. You’ll find the inside of the car is actually in order now. I’ve been riding my bike more. My nerves make driving dangerous, so there aren’t as many receipts, coffee cups and gym towels. Or we can ride bikes to Jazz in the Park. I won’t dare go without you, but I am beginning to miss it. Maybe you are too.

You’ll find the wedding dress you never saw hanging from the outside of the closet, but it’s become large as my grief has wasted me. I tried to stay mostly the same, but I can show you my hip bones with your hands and the flutter pulse now visible by my collarbone. I worry you’ll think my breasts too small now. But. Still. Come visit. If you don’t like it, we can order pizza, and I can show you the altar I arranged on the black walnut coffee table you lovingly built. I’ll let you feed and water and love me till I’m plump for picking. Oh and I cut my hair. Maybe. More accurately, Fireball cut my hair. I know you hate that stuff. And my hair short. But it wasn’t too much, and it’ll grow back.

Oh! And Netlfix. I have Orange is the New Black, Peaky Blinders, and Bloodline queued up for you. Some change is good.

I have your wallet all ready, but your glasses are broken. That was your fault not mine. I guess you wanted to see the trees until your last breath. It doesn’t mean you can’t come back though. We still have your old ones that you used to sharpie. I’ll take a fresh sharpie to them. Scout’s honor kiddo. Just come visit.

Your Jimmy Eat World shirt isn’t here anymore. I gave it to your cousin. I didn’t think you’d mind. I remember that story you loved to tell about when you took her to that concert and how moved you both were during Goodbye Sky Harbor. But really. I’ll make you take me to a show, and I’ll buy you a new one. Oh. And your little dirt bike model is with your brother. I tried to soften him with it. But, he still wouldn’t speak to me. Would you come visit and call him? I really liked him and am sad that he can’t stand me now.

You’ll be disappointed in the state of the garage. I know. You did such a good job of keeping it organized, but your dad and I only had an afternoon to sort out what goes where. But, don’t be mad. I haven’t been able to send anything else away. The camping bags are still packed though, so we can go at a moment’s notice. The marshmallows are still here too, and those will never go bad. Even if you can’t come right now, we can still roast them on sticks. I’ll still light mine on fire while you give yours a slow turn.

The change you will be most disappointed in is me. For that I’m the most sorry. I lost a lot of sweetness, and my tongue is pretty sharp. But hey. I won’t drag you to social events. They make me shake and shrink now. We can just stay in. I cry a lot now and can’t think as fast as before. I know you loved me clever, but you’ll have to settle for alive.

Just please come visit love. I promise I’ll be kind. Some things may be quite different, but the important ones are the same. The way I’ll hold your head in my lap. The taste of my tongue. The scrape of my nails and the way my ears unnaturally bend. I still startle before I fall asleep and wake up slow and hard. I'll still race home to see you and sing June to your Johnny. 

The point is come visit. I’ll show you around. I know it's not quite the same. But. You'll be so glad you did.  

The Witch Who Lives Here

But the old witch shows up, doesn't she. She arrives, with a short, respectful bow, eyeing her wary hosts. She knows better than to wait for an invitation that will never come.
 
She arrives, the 13th guest, bringing an uncomfortable blessing. She brings an unsettling gift. As the old wise woman, she brings the awareness of death to the baptism: she whispers in the young child's ears messages full of power and uncomfortable grace.
 
She doesn't cause death, she is simply comfortable with it. Because she is no longer afraid of death - or life, she delivers the clear message of destiny.
 
The 13th guest is a gift, but not everyone sees it that way.

--------------------------

(an homage to Shel Silverstein)

Aye.

A witch does live here.

Her house lives in whispers and her heart in the dark.

Be wary children.

Her dog does more than bark.

A witch does live here.

Her eyes burn hard and her fires harder.

Be wary young innocents.

Her gaze does harden.

A witch does rightly live here.

And it’s a deep darkness that she brings.

To those who believe in magic

Moonlight and other lovers' things

Aye.

A witch does live here

But I don’t think it’s fair.

Just to be a women who cried her last tear

And didn’t want to wash her hair.

That witch who now lives here

She once made someone’s heart beat.

She was a fool for his love.

He fell at her feet.

Aye the witch may now live here

But, please recall, it wasn’t always so.

He once kissed her in a rainstorm.

She once kissed each of his toes.

Children, a witch does live here

But don’t throw rocks at her home

He already broke each dusty window

Left a pile of broken bones

Yes. A witchedly wretched witch does live here

But she never wanted to

Still he built her this haunted home

So she’ll live here till she’s through

It’s just a witch that lives here

So while children shall beware

It’s not her you should be scared of

Just her fate that you could share. 

Wrecked

"Try it.  If you’ve tried it before, try it again.  Find the smoldering ache of loss inside of you and soften into it.  Allow yourself to gently and lovingly explore exactly what it feels like to hurt in this way.  With compassion for yourself, disarm your wounded heart and breathe quietly inside the wreckage.  No need for fancy formulas or prescribed affirmations.  No goal.  Just be.  Right here.  Inside the fire of grief.  One breath in front of the other."
 -Mirabai Starr

What would need to happen in order for you to feel safe or strong enough to soften into your pain?
----------------------------
Disarm your wounded heart and breathe quietly inside the wreckage. For certainly it is wreckage strewn across a desolate shore. Each piece of debris a memory, a moment, a mark against my heart. What do I need to walk along that beach and not brace against each precious, broken piece?

Laughs with friends, dinner with family, a nephew’s bear hug? A temporary salve instead of an armor. 

Sunshine? Tears? Whiskey? Perhaps but not enough.

Courage, strength? Even trust? Yes. But I do not have these. Not these days.

At the very least, I need some rest first. A respite from the hamster wheel of thoughts, the shoulder tension, the sleepless nights. I am just so exhausted.

I try to find the grief in my body, and it runs from me. I find it gripping my chest and go there to ask it ease up, please and thank you. Sometimes it may but only to dart off to the tips of fingers and toes to pulse and throb there. I chase after it and ask it to take a deep breath, to melt out. But, it just races up my nerves to bounce about inside my head. Boing, boing, boing around the circuits, making me feel dizzy. I whisper “shhhhhhh.” And it slides down my spine and sits heavy in my stomach, roiling my intestines until rock it, curled in a ball, into my bones. Where it leadens them. And, I give up. My grief has run me ragged.

Move it through they say. But it’s slippery and quick. And I just don’t have the energy to catch it. Even for a sweet hug and kiss on the tip of the nose. Like kissing a frog, but even a frog needs compassion. This grief is wily and outwits me every time.

I don’t have much to say these days. This is helping. This exercise of writing my grief. But, I’ve lost my grip on it. I can’t hold it still long enough to see it these days. I don’t know what it’s becoming or where it is going or how to hold to it. It is a wicked vapor that moves and changes, hardens into a different beast. And then, when I think, ah yes. I see you beast, and I can tame the beast I know. It is off again to smoke, to move to change to work some different dark magic on my soul. And it’s getting so tiring. The searching, the capturing, the attempt to love it, fight it, move it, only to have it dissipate within my hands. This cat and mouse game takes so much energy, but I’m afraid if I give it compassionate yet free reign against my bones, it will destroy me.

At best, all I have left is to observe it. Try not to judge it. I don’t have the energy to put the humidifier in storage for the summer let alone go chasing this grief that courses through my body. So. I’ll try to just walk through the wreckage and give hope to a day when I may be able to cradle each piece with loving reverence.

HR Emailed

I was determined to make space, inner space for a poem. Loss made everything sharp.
 
I suffer from these brief weekends, the tearing up of the roots of love, and from my own inability to behave better under the stress. The poem is about silence, that it is really only there that lovers can know what they know, and there what they know is deep, nourishing, nourishing to the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet.
 
For a little while, it is as if my nakedness were clothed in love.
But then, when I come back, I shiver in my isolation, and must face again, and try to tame the loneliness.

-Mary Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

Do you have something to say about how you are unable to "behave better"?
-----------------------------------------
As I write this, your tax payer dollars are paying for me to weep over this too long lunch. I didn’t mean to. I was going to behave today. I rode my bike into work and even dared to use the nonwaterproof mascara. It doesn’t clump as much, and I was going to behave. I was going to call that public health agency, draw up the strategic plan for the executive director and prepare that document for the feds. But then. Then. The HR Director emailed. She is revising our emergency preparedness plan, which, of course, involves updating our emergency contact. 

My desk chair was snatched from beneath me, and I was falling, falling, falling back into the deep, black well of grief. 

Landing at the bottom, I found myself there, nine months ago on orientation day, wearing my lucky purple scarf and gray blazer. I had my great love, my great job, and what was turning into a pretty great fucking life. There was a ring tucked in an underwear drawer and a future down the street at the capitol. I turned the taste of my title over in my mouth and held his beaming proud kiss against my lips. Sean used to call me “Little Ms. All The Things,” because I wanted all the things. And that day, I got them. I had all the things. The little things like the warmth filling my stomach as I lovingly wrote Sean’s name on each beneficiary form and in each emergency contact section. It was the feeling that I would write his name on every form forever thereafter, the only change would be my last name. It was the catalog I was building for him in my head of the day’s details—the view of the capitol’s golden cupola against the mountains, the colors of the 12th floor carpet, the jeans my supervisor wore. And it was the big things. Like the joy I knew he shared with me over this job. The gratitude and astonishment I had that he’d believed in me for all those long, jobless months—long after I stopped believing in me. God, he was so proud of me, and I understood that all future joys would be exponentially expanded as a shared joy. 

I would not ruin that day for her or even me. I would not take it away with any dark foreshadow. I am glad I had that day, but I would also weep at that girl’s feet. She is so tragic, and she has no idea. She doesn’t know that on a hot Thursday, she will sit at the deli and let tears slip conspicuously beneath her sunglasses because she realized she has to change every fucking HR document, deleting that great love with the ring in his underwear drawer from her personnel file. She does not know how she will master the art of walking with her head down to hide the tears or how to dig her fingernails into her palms when she can’t cry in a meeting. She doesn’t know these tricks or know that she needs to know these tricks. She is hundreds of kisses and caresses away from this moment, and I love her for that. I love her as I cannot love me in this moment. Because I am unable to behave. I am unable to walk back into that office and sit at my desk like my heart is intact. Pretend that I don’t have a gaping wound where my heart was. That the fragile scab didn’t just get ripped off 68 minutes ago. 

I will instead have to walk into my supervisor’s office. Negotiating whether I do the sunglasses inside or the hurried walk and avoided eye contact trick. I like to mix them up. And, I will have to do my best to not cry as I explain to her that I’m going to have to work from home for the rest of the day. Because HR emailed, and I am not the girl who wore her lucky purple scarf and a gray blazer. I am not the girl who had all the things.

The Things I Love And Cannot Hold

Evening falling -
a soft lamenting
sounds in the bird calls I have summoned. Greyish walls
tumble down.
My own hands
find themselves again. What I have loved
I cannot hold.
What lies around me I cannot leave Everything declines while darkness rises.
Nothing overcomes me -
this must be life’s way.

-"Weariness" by Hannah Arendt

Melancholy suits us.
See where her words take you

---------------------------

I cannot hold your hand. I cannot hold your heart's flutter. I cannot hang my arms around your shoulders and laugh in your ear. I cannot hang on to these things I've loved. I cannot hold on to our dream destroyed. Because I'm not sure it was ever more than that. A dream. We dreamed it desperately.

I mourn so dearly our dream. The house you would rebuild for us and the tree houses you promised--one for us and one for the kids. A series of homes on a small plot of love. I mourn the dogs we'd name after deadwood characters. I mourn our daughter Willa and our son Cecil. I dreamed her your handyman and him our writer. Both musical. I mourn the nights we would embarrass them slow dancing in the kitchen and the fights we'd have about how young they could be for their first dirt bike. I mourn your face when you held your child for the first time. I mourn your hair a grey, curly mess. I mourn you holding me as I cried when our youngest left for school. I mourn the way you'd caress my stretch marks and smile at me at our daughters wedding. And whisper in my ear, "we did good kiddo." I mourn the way you'd cry when we buried the dog by the oak tree and the way you'd argue with our son about his mortgage. I mourn the front porch spring that would hurt our aging hips and the doctors appointments that would punctuate our senescent lives. I mourn your belief in this dream of a life lived in tandem. These are the things I loved. And I will never hold them.

I can hold your picture. I can hold your pain. I can hold your love. I can hold the memory of you gagging on a hot banana and the time you wrote me that tragic song. I can hold the time you kissed me against red rocks and the time you decided tofu wasn't terrible. I can hold your toes laced with mine and your hands in my hair. I can hold each hair on your body and each regrettable tattoo. I hold your gaze against my skin and your heart beating against my chest.

I don't know what your love means anymore that you could not stay. But I try to hold it nonetheless. It lies around me and I cannot leave. I cannot leave your love behind and it holds me here. I suffer. It cinches me like a vise grip, and every time I try to loosen it with some sweet self love, I cannot. I feel like I'm lessening your love's hold on me. I cannot leave your love. Though it comes with bitter grief. So I am caught here in your love's grip. It is too tight to breathe but too important to leave.

The Color of Whiskey

“Blue, blue, blue. Blue is the color of my eyes, not yours.  It’s not the color of water. The water was gray and green and fast and without light, without sou.d. The sky was blue, but what does it matter now, with the gray all around and the light falling fast. What does blue even matter anymore”

-Megan Devine

Choose any color. Let your mind follow that color to a memory, or a scene, or a story of any kind.

------------------------------------------------

Whiskey. He is the color of whiskey, liquid amber, drawing you in to watch it catch the light. Warming and numbing. Dangerous and dynamic. 

Whiskey colored snow. On an early date. A bitter, shoulder hunching night with cigarettes on a patio. Our beverages warming us almost as much as the heat growing between us. Our small glasses a stark contrast against the snow. The ice clinking in mine, a chorus to our laughter. His neat like his newly cut fade. The liquid refracting the headlights that pass in our urban neighborhood, casting its warm brown hue against the snow. Cold hands escaping gloves to find each other and smiles kissing lips and then lips kissing smiles. The color of whiskey in breath and body. The amber moves through and moans against our skin. The color of whiskey grows hotter. We build a fire with it.

Whiskey colored eyes. They were always that color, but there was the night I couldn’t stop drinking them. There were card games and silly hats, sitting cross legged on his bed. There was the story about his little brother and the water moccasin and the time I danced on stage with a funk band. But these are the details, and the devil ain’t in them. It doesn’t matter which sheets were on the bed or what we had for dinner. What matters is his eyes. Dancing over the absently played cards between us. His eyes squinting with his open mouthed belly laugh. His eyes smiling on my face across a shortening distance, apart and yet, feeling my cheeks warm to the whiskey fire in his eyes. Tipsying into love, or something close to it.

Whiskey colored fire. Late summer weekend in the mountains. We forgot plates and eat eggs on old magazines that were hiding behind the driver’s seat. He forgot his axe so cracks firewood by hurling logs at rocks. I forgot his guitar, so we sing acapella by the fire. The whiskey colored fire he built. It relaxes my usually tightly wound knot so that I do nothing but laugh at these oversights.  We keep the beer cold in the stream behind our tent and listen to the roaring wind in the trees. I make a list in my journal of the things to remember next time. He loves my lists. The only other thing I write is, “I am in the woods with the man I love.” We are too busy holding hands and talking to the amber flames and each other for me to write any more.

Whiskey eyes. They are no longer just whiskey colored. They are whiskey infused. When I get home from my board meeting, his left eye lists more than his right, and I know it’s going to be that kind of night. The whiskey eyes ignore me, then plead with me, then accuse me. I probe, I listen, I defend. I try to be calm. It is escalating. He is escalating, and there is nothing I can say. I am scared to stay and scared to leave. Those whiskey soaked eyes look into mine, blurry from his big, hot tears. He holds my chin, looks deep into my eyes and says, “I’m just so sad.” I take his head in my lap and rock him, thinking the wave has crashed with the tears that wet my thighs. He takes a deep breath. My chest opens with relief until he turns those whiskey eyes on me and they flash. I am scared. It takes him seconds to cross our 400 square foot apartment to where the handgun I never liked sits above the washing machine. It’s in his mouth and it takes me less seconds to get to him and wrestle it from him. The only time I had ever needed to scream for my life was in those paralysis dreams where you can’t move your legs or open your mouth. Turns out I can do it. I can scream to save a life. His whiskey eyes accused me of ruining his life as they took him away to the hospital.

Whiskey colored snow again. But, I am not there this time. No one is laughing and no fire is burning. I don’t know if the light lit through the bottle of Maker’s Mark that sat next to him in the snow. They told me it was really coming down up there that day. But, I can imagine what it looked like next to the blue tarp he brought with him. Iridescent against the deep and pure snow pack. I can only hope it kept him a little warm as I could not. I wonder how much he had before he wrote to me about the burning skyscraper he was in. I wonder if he listened to music or had second thoughts. I wonder if he could imagine his father and I returning to that spot two days later, hiking through snow that scraped our thighs, to see the whiskey colored stain in the snow where he completed his wish. How his dad would let me lie in the snow, repeating “I’m sorry,” as I numbed my cheeks the way I could not numb the searing pain coursing through my veins. Did he imagine how his mother and aunts would not come any closer and were almost too bereft to hike back out? How his father, who no one had ever seen cry before, would melt the snow with his falling tears? How we would sit there and hiccup sob, while I told him how we wanted to name our first son after his father? No. I don’t think he wondered about that. He couldn’t. All he saw were whiskey flames. He didn’t want to die, but he was already on fire.

Whiskey colored stone. With a life captured in the frozen amber, like a prehistoric fly. I cannot see this color of whiskey, but the stone sits in my chest. A weight that makes it hard to breath. A life lived and done and left for us to carry.