The hallmark of a human
life is loss, it seems. And the body is a vessel for grief.
That is not an if, but when. When is loss gonna hit?
And then it is how. How do you carry it? All
that grief. And don't even ask why. Why is
not a question that grief ever answers.
I only know this because I have my own grief. I am not looking
for more, but it keeps coming anyway. It makes me feel like
I'm getting nowhere sometimes, and yet closer to something at
the same time.
Maybe that's because loss doesn't just take. It gives,
too. Like a trade.
I'm going to take this from you but give this to you
instead; more space, cleansing tears, better questions,
compassion, pathways to the center, maps to deeper wells, less
distractions, blankets of darkness, little pools of light under
your skin where she touched you but will never touch you again,
and holes in your heart that nothing but pure love can
fill.
And then, go. Go into the world and carry these things the best
you can. Let them move around and make love messes and surprise
you in the mass of bone and blood and skin vessel that you are.
Grocery shop with them, chop vegetables with them, go to parties
and smile at people with them.
Be yourself, only different now, with all that grief.
I saw one day a woman on the beach playing with her dog. I
noticed as she stopped and looked at the ocean and folded her
arms across herself. I saw her grief then. The way she carried it
in her core. Tucked away so people might not notice.
But then it sneaked up on her, like the ocean was pulling it out
of her. And she sat with it for a moment, bowed her head, maybe
feeling like it was going to shatter her into a thousand grains
of sand before she caught herself and tried to shake it
off.
But grief isn't like that. You
can't just shake it off. It doesn't ever really leave. It
just changes. And it changes you. It shapes you. Your stance,
your stride, your ways of loving and being and moving in the
world. The things you do and don't care about
anymore.
And there you are, twenty years later. Sitting in your car
outside the supermarket, and all at once you're paralyzed;
can't go in because a song just came on the radio that
reminds you of the person you loved and lost. The grief that you
thought already felt just rises up like an ocean inside you.
Pummels your heart with waves and pours out your eyes like
stormwater.
You think, "All this f*cking time and I still feel this
grief?" And your body is saying, "Yes. Yes, you
do."
You wonder what the point is, then. Wonder if you could find a
way to drain those grief waters out of you for good. Only if you
could take the air out of the sky and the carbon out of the stars
and the forest out of the trees.
You see, we are made of grief. And
we are meant to be.
It means we are here. It means we're alive, even though it
can make you feel like you wish you weren't sometimes. It
means you've risked. It means we've loved and lost and
risen and fallen. It means we've been unlocked and held open
despite ourselves.
AND I
CAN'T THINK OF MANY BETTER REASONS THAN THAT FOR BEING HUMAN
.
