New Thread

Choosing to stay to be here fully each day does not make grieving easier. It is still painful and life altering and seeps into my day from start to finish. It occurred to me that as I sink almost purely into this loneliness and sadness that I have grabbed ahold of a new thread within this tangle ball of grief, or at least a notably singular one. 

Surely, I have not traveled the length of any thread to its end. I expect or at least allow for more anger and anxiety to arise. Probably, there will be more shock to release. The jealousy thread has hardly been investigated. For a moment a few weeks ago, I allowed my hand to rest upon those green fibers of envy. I held on just long enough to know the strange surging sick feeling I get both because of Edmond’s new found freedom beyond the body and of those who still have their person on the planet with them while I am here in human capacities without him. Jealousy will be an adventure of unfamiliar territory. It is not something I have experienced too often in my life, and I feel it calling me a little louder lately. I am putting it off, saving it for when there is anger energy available. Those two, jealousy and anger, seem like an appropriate pairing, perhaps with a bold red wine and some endless supply of dark chocolate. Besides, if I am going there, into the depths of such dark, powerful, and potentially hazardous to self and others feelings, I will need to make a plan. I will need to be intentional so I do not harm others or myself. I will need a safe container that includes compassionate and nonjudgmental support. 

I remind myself I am not going in circles, and hope I am moving in spirals along various cords of this knotted ball of string, perhaps advancing like in a video game to the next level or layer. I am not sure that I am advancing, but it is the nesting petals of my white rose of hope that I imagine I stand upon. It is unclear if I will ever be fully released from this tangle ball that paradoxically holds me and traps me. Maybe one day I will weave these threads into some kind of patterned fabric I can wear or stand upon. For now, I am getting to know each strand intimately in no particular order and never to completion. 

In my solitude

I have seen things very clearly 

that were not true.

—Antonio Machado, translated by Robert Bly

Isolation distorts my world view. This confinement generates, at times, moments of abandonment and second guessing myself. Sometimes, there is a feeling and shift in my middle that leave me wondering what I might have done wrong, as I get caught in the sticky threads of self-doubt. My inner compass is tilted, and I want Edmond’s help righting it. Even if there is some truth to the stirrings of having made a mistake or offense, the exaggerated culpability for some unknown infraction would have been a moment to check in with Edmond. I would have asked the questions of my conscience out loud and had some validation or wider view. Without him here as a sounding board and a view master, I have to find my own way around these insecurities. I am missing large swaths of the picture before me, I’m sure. Not able to see my own reflection in another, my Other, is blinding. 

Grief puts us in a vulnerable place, in new skin that is not acquainted with the ways of this world. Protection during these times of deep pain and transformation are as critical as our practices to find grounding. Protection and grounding, these are the ways of choosing to stay. We must create protection from the forces of the world that are toxic, without compassion, or even predatory. I remember that I am a newborn in this new world where my Love no longer lives with me. Taking time to honor this newness, rawness, and sensitivity helps me check in with my center so that I protect what is most precious. Feeling into new roots, allowing my feet to walk firmly upon the ground recalibrates my compass for knowing. Boundaries and rootedness.

Trusting myself to hold myself, well, there is that lifelong lesson again. Spiraling upward or downward on the topic of trust is part of this soul’s journey. So, when it happened, when all the self-doubt rolled in like an unexpected thunderstorm of accusation, that I had done something unintentional and unknown to me, something wrong or hurtful that required repair, I sat with it. In my experience, when these eruptions of intangible guilt occur, I know it will not go away if I ignore it. My belly will not let me forget. So, I literally sat down on the ground in my studio and allowed it. It hurt too much at first, made me want to run and fix whatever or whoever I had upset or broken. I knew if I ran, I would run in circles, spinning and expending energy trying to figure it out. Then, because I stayed there a little longer sitting on the floor, this feeling spoke wisdom from the deep and old wound. My stomach found stillness again, and I knew my way through trusting my compass of intuition inside to guide me. Whatever blame-vibe I caught, if not made explicit and if not brought to me directly by the potentially offended, was none of my business. I found my way, using myself as a sounding board. Even a few days later, even now, the feeling of steadiness in response to the previous self-doubt remains. Letting this one go felt monumentally progressive and my newborn skin feels a little thicker as I put one hand in front of the other on this thread of doubt and trust.  

And then, I reach across the web of threads to again find the loneliness of hours upon hours we would have spent together. When I got divorced, it was hard and a different flavor of lonely. Lonely happened before the divorce, actually. Fading and fraying are the hospice state of a marriage dying. When it was finally dissolved, the marriage part at least, the death of the relationship was tremendously painful not because of what it was, but because of what it was not able to be. I wanted to fill the space left around me. Instead of staying on my side, I began sleeping in the middle of my bed when there wasn’t a child snuggled up along side of me. 

Not now. This actual death of my partner, best friend, lover, and soulmate is quite different. I do not want to fill in the space he has left behind. I stay on my side of the bed and only occasionally stretch my arm or leg over to where he should be, hoping to find him and hold on to him in the middle of the night. Sometimes, when I watch a movie I lay my open palm out hoping to feel him reaching for my hand. Taking calendar items down that no longer matter because he isn’t here to do them leaves more space to not fill. 

There is more and less of everything since Edmond died. There is more room in the refrigerator because we eat less food these days, and more room in the dishwasher, but less laundry to wash. There is more time to spend with my sisters or friends, and more silence and solitude in the evenings at my house. There are more tears and less sleep. There are more decisions that are mine alone to make. 

The depth of this loss continues to astound me. I am not surprised, but I am amazed at the intensity and force with which it insists upon being part of every moment. My friend shared with me the practice of talking to his grief, like it is a person or being. There is a lot of truth and reality to considering our grief as a companion. Perhaps my conversations with Edmond should include Grief-being, some strange triangulated relationship because of the absence of Edmond and presence of Grief, both of which feel like dark empty space at times. 

Leaving home to spend time in other places is another vantage point of grieving, a new perspective. Particularly on weekends, when my old pattern to spend our time at home, I am finding ways to adventure beyond the edges of my comfort. Grabbing the next length of the loneliness thread, I leave the space at home, where we happily spent so much of our time together. I experience his absence in a new landscape, another town. The change of scenery and getting out of the house or out of town, even for a few hours, is a new experience with Grief. Finding new spaces and places in the world opens up more possible connections keeping me from sinking into the emptiness and backsliding into the isolation that sometimes dominates home. Eventually, my left hand reaches in front of my right along this thick corse cord of loneliness leading me back home. The round trip, the return to the spaciousness and emptiness I face as I open the front door is when I hope I have not gone in circles but somehow untangled myself a little more, leveled up, and found some new roots.