gratitude and grief
Grief is so heavy. Dressed now, showered and appropriately groomed. Completed various errands, including bringing home boxes from the liquor store. A woman in the parking lot smiled at me- “moving?”, she said. I nodded dumbly, after staring in silence. Actually, divorcing, I thought. My hands shake sometimes, cut with cardboard.
“You seem ready to deal with things,” my therapist said to me, in our hasty post-nuthouse visit. Here I am dealing, heavy, riding emotions and energy in constant flux. The only way out is through. This too shall pass. And all that other shit that is simultaneously true and still of little comfort as you pack your marriage into boxes.
That’s grief. There is gratitude, too, almost too many kindnesses to count. I fell and found a strong net of love, friendship, and creativity beneath me. My home is full of gifts and silly surprises, a fuschia towel, googly eyes in the shower. A friend brought a half dead plant to me in the hospital to nurture, and it has flourished against all odds. I am loved, resilient, capable, and wise. An abundance of complex and intimate memories carries me through this grief. I have risked, and lost, but not failed. Nor have I given up.
“What matters most is how well you walk through the fire,” that sick fuck Bukowski said. I am walking well. The heat has built around me to the point of vitrification, and I am becoming firmer, stronger, more resilient to contact and pressure. I feel more centered and sure in myself than I have ever prior, even as everything breaks and shifts around me.
Love did not break, and love did not break me. Still love has pushed me to radically transform to the best of myself, even if it hasn’t looked like I hoped. I regret nothing.