Dancing With Grief

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I feel you, Grief, trying to take hold of every cell in my body, whispering obscenities into my very being. I’d say how dare you, but I know you dare—boldly, like a bulldozer. Grief, you can be a bully!

I remember when you and I were on the playground before. You beat my ass! I was alone, or at least I felt alone. I used my phone-a-friend to call out to God and by grace, I got back up.

Hey, Grief—God’s still here. Funny thing, He loves even you, in all your troublesome, not to mention embarrassing, ways. God loves you like he loves bratty children and snotty old ladies—or snotty children and bratty old ladies.

Anyhow, in my 50s, I have more confidence in life and my ability to live it, knowing my passed-on loved ones live on. I have faith in God, which now involves more daily conversations and fewer emergency calls. My calls are answered in divine ways I don’t understand, but have come to recognize.

I also believe in the woo-woo stuff of angels and find evidence that works for me. Can’t you see God, love, and angels have my back when it comes to you, Grief? I’m not afraid of you anymore. In fact, I’d like to get to know you and see what you have to offer.

Grief, why don’t you join me for yoga class, walk with me in the woods, whisper to me in the wind? Let’s dance! Let’s talk with music and memory.

The truth is, Grief, you move me into my better self if I allow. I resist you, but you cause me to look deeper at myself, others, and situations. At the same time, you teach me to lighten up. Yes, you!

Life is short for many. I believe mine will be long. It’ll be dreadfully longer if I spend it resisting, judging and fearing you. Apparently, you’re in my family. You’ll stay. Fine, you’re invited, but don’t think we’re friends.

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