Grief teaches me that life continues.
Unfortunately, insistently, and annoyingly.
The first time I was with a stranger after my mom died, I looked into their eyes as they searched me at TSA and I wondered if they could see what had happened.
How my life had been shattered, how the world was different than before.
How I was different. Couldn’t they see it? Did I need to scream? (I didn’t, not then.)
Loss is loss is loss. Capitalized or not. Trauma diagnosis or not.
On a recent afternoon walk, in which I try to avoid the rain and too much direct sun, I found myself along a path of flowers. Not a new experience, but the colors were brighter, bolder, and the flowers seemed to be reaching beyond the sun, outstretched to the breeze or towards the unending space above their heads.
Reaching, always reaching…until they will stop.
always reaching
It all stops, you know.
It all bends forward and into itself. Sometimes from the weight of rain. Sometimes because growth slows into settling, into compost, into changing shape and form.
I see it in my life right now. The way things grow and then bend.
Not everything can grow forever. There is a bend, a break, an ending of one phase. Into another.
But that’s life, that’s change. Evolution, even.
They say your life grows around the losses. And I want to plant a garden around it all. I want to carefully cultivate the ground cover, the kind that is soft under my feet, no matter the season.
I want a garden of colors, the kind that unfurl slowly and then loudly. As though their petals might offer messages, like the paper fortune tellers I can still make out of any scrap of paper.
One, two, three, four.
Open the paper to find the message:
What seeds need to be planted?
Have I chosen a place the sun visits?
Do I remember the best time to begin? (Anytime.)
I tend to the rows of promises and plans. I visit the places that seem to be resistant, and remind them they are doing their best. Maybe they need to wait a few more degrees. Maybe they need different soil, better nutrients. Rest.
Not all of the plants will survive. And some are just for decoration and delight. Not everything needs to nourish your cells.
I plant what will nourish my heart.
The kinds of buds that blossom and bloom wide enough to not be missed.
The kind that make my heart feel lighter, as though I am running away from everything while also running to the arms of something that shouts my name.
The kind that burst forth when it rains.
The kind that bend in the wind and stand up straight again.
The kind that reach out, lightly touching my ankle, my arm.
Life touching life.
Aware of each other, reaching for each other.
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