Since he died, I break my day into pieces. Marking the series of short tunnels of tasks and doings and beings, I usually know the spaces between the agenda items for the day that allow me to cry and release the emotions that are on the surface waiting for me to tend. The dying and newborn parts of myself require constant awareness of their fragility and vulnerability. Sometimes, the tears come through in the midst of the doings of the day, and that is part of my grieving too. However, the spaces I leave open are moments when I allow my full presence of these dying and newborn parts. Undistracted, I can sink deep into the conversation with myself and with Edmond about his absence. These spaces between other daily activities are agenda items too. Purposeful and necessary, like paying a bill, walking a dog, or driving a kid to practices or lessons, the moments of pure grief get a spot on the list also.

Last week, I had a day of respite from the intensity. I had the spaces carved out in my day, and I talked of and to him. I felt and allowed releases, but for the first time since he died, so many tears were not necessary. It was not as exhausting to be here that particular day. I went to lunch with a friend at a local restaurant where E and I have eaten since our friends opened the establishment over fifteen years ago. There were plenty of reminders and familiar faces among the patrons and staff. It was sweet to be there, comforting even. Later, I was pleasantly surprised at how much my children and their friends shifted the energy of an evening without Edmond. The four middle schoolers played flashlight tag and swam until nearly midnight. I watched over them from above in my studio. It was only when the laughter and noise stopped that I realized they had left the pool and gone indoors. It was a good to hold space for them, and to take some quieter time for myself.

The grieving found a resting place for a day or so, and then the next layer pushed upward again, into my throat. I became distracted once more, looking for him everywhere, all the time.

I woke up before the kids and dogs, and came up to my studio to have coffee. Sitting on the couch where my clients often choose to sit, I sat with myself. I want what I cannot have. I am intently focused on the in-between, looking for a sign and connection with him in the light spaces and in the periphery. Surely, walking around with such hyper vigilance, seeking my lost person, I am missing so much of what is right in front of me. What pieces of life might be screaming for my attention and presence? Maybe I am deaf and blind to him because of this painful grieving, this trauma response. Maybe my intense emotions hover and cloud my ability to feel into the spaces just beyond this realm.

At night, before sleep, I call to him, “Please come and be with me. Please rest a hand on my back, bring me some comfort. Come visit me in my dreams.” It is my prayer every night. Sometimes, I feel him, and some nights, he is with me in dreamtime. When I wake, usually between 3:30-4am, I pray the same prayer again, hoping for a little more sleep and some time with him before I must wake up for the day.

Rumi’s poem tangles with my magical thinking.

Don’t Go Back to Sleep

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

“I desperately want to be with you, E.”

That is what I want. I am asking. I am awake.

“Where is the doorsill? I will cross it to be with you.”

I cannot sleep. I am awake, perhaps too awake and focused. It must be the narrow gaze of shock and surprise erasing wider view. At what cost does this part of grief keep me in the darkness? This rigid stance and contracted perspective keep me in fight/flight/fear/fawn response. I am alert, ready to leap on any sign of his presence chasing off all the nuance.

Parker Palmer reflects on the practice of seeing through softer eyes, a gaze that comes from aikido, the Japanese martial art. Seeing with soft eyes allows us to widen our view, and with practice, take in sudden stimuli without triggering our acute stress response. With practice, we can learn to be with sudden stimulus or disturbances with curious soft eyes. This soft gaze allows for other possibilities, seeing deeper into the periphery of the landscape.

Typically, these unexpected disturbances, the thing that is out of place or missing, can cause panic or fear. Yet, it is these very disturbances, that dismantle the comfort of familiarity, that are necessary for our transformation. Allowing for and even instigating change makes room for seeing from a new vantage point, understanding what has been confounding.

My oldest has been coming weekly since Edmond died. He shows up, and lately we have been taking a hike to someplace new each week. It is a chance to disturb our routine, engage nature, and explore together. We can see through each other’s eyes as we point out what is beautiful and intriguing. William and Ellie love it, and so do I. It is helping me see with softer eyes again, allowing my two youngest to take some risks climbing and exploring with their big brother. I have even begun to hang back a bit, giving them more freedom on our hikes. They are ready for bigger territory, looser boundaries. I am letting them go a little more because it is developmentally called for in this moment even though it feels like another loss.

Last week, we hiked along Purgatory Creek. As I walked and invited the larger landscape into my field, I opened my mind to what I might give my friend for her 60th birthday. Noticing the edges of the trail, I saw how the grass and wildflowers had grown tall in all the rain we have had this year. I spied something out of place in the grasses, white and peeking out of the greenery. From the back of our hiking line, I paused and reached down to retrieve a shed antler from a white-tailed deer. Even though deer are everywhere around our home, this was the first shed antler I have found.

In my own kind of purgatory, suffering and waiting in this grief state, with a softer gaze I was able to notice something out of place, a surprise in the grasses. This unexpected treasure came into view. A shed antler answered the question I contemplated. And, in its own poetic way, this antler was part of the deer that no longer served so he it discarded it as he rounded the corner on a new season of life. It was exactly what I was looking for without looking directly or with hyper focus. With soft eyes, I saw a treasure in the periphery of the path where we walked.

I painted the antler gold and created a design on it. It was the perfect 60th birthday gift for my friend who was shedding so many layers of what no longer served her to birth herself into the next season of life.

Looking for Edmond exactly and specifically, with a goal in mind instead of the process, I fall back asleep. Desperation drives me toward a single end, and I miss what is all along the way. It is hard to surrender to the desperation that is like a hunger for my own survival. It is sometimes impossible to believe there is anything more I need than to be with him. My desire to be with him is like needing the next heartbeat.

And, I practice softer eyes.

“Why aren’t you here? I want to understand. I won’t go back to sleep. I will try every day to see with soft eyes so I might find the doorsill between our worlds, perhaps in the periphery or suddenly in front of me. Maybe I will reach down and find a treasure, an unexpected meeting with you in a shed antler, feather, cloud, or current.”

Softer Eyes