Kudos to me for doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing—grieving—when 1,000 other things seem more suitable. More productive.
This may not be a season of “productivity.” I may never respond to the fury of reactions ignited by my friend posting my query letter on some 50-posts-plus club that I never wanted to belong to in the first place.
I might not open any of those “Blogging for Beginners” lessons sitting in my inbox. Ever. In fact, my email box may grow to the number of website followers I wish I had.
It’s like that old carpet cleaner commercial, where the mom keeps screaming, “That’s ok!”
Jo Dee Messina sings “My Give a Damn’s Busted.” Mine, too. Or so it would seem in today’s society.
Why doesn’t she do something?!
I am. I’m grieving. It’s like studying, like writing, like praying. It’s learning to live with the hardest truth you ever heard.
I take in my grief the way my stepmother took me in at 14. I was a mess.
Grief is messy. I threw tantrums because life was not working the way I wanted it to! I wanted to blame it on my dad, but it was everything. I was on the edge of life and I had no idea of how to live.
I learned new rules, new games, and a new family formed around me. Somehow, I found my way forward.
For a time, I came home from college, hid in my room, and read Seventeen magazine. I loved those days and having a place to hide.
Now, I hide on our back deck and in the woods. I bask in solitude.
I dive into sorrow and sway with memory. I let my pen flow. I pay attention to clouds. Each day, I see hearts and sometimes angels.
I sit with grief and gratitude. The rip-off and the lottery. The loss called death and a whole lot of crazy, sexy, cool in the afterlife.
The only place I’d rather be no longer exists. So, I’m here, with my grief. And with Grace. She’s my new friend.