Above the clouds
This morning I left home and flew over it. I didn’t want to go but I didn’t want to stay either.
Yesterday morning I lay in the dark of our bed, awake, for a few hours wishing the sky to stay dark.
It didn’t. Spoiler alert. It never does.
The day got under way and so did I, if you can call my participation in my days, at the moment, that.
Way worse things happen, and they really do. I’ve seen it and watched my loves live through it or perhaps with it.
At times, in fact most times, I live in many compartments of my heart. Many emotions at the same time. Many experiences all at once. All equally engaging. All happening simultaneously.
Last week my dog died. It was his time. I am glad and relieved, for him, that his physical and tiring journey came to a peaceful end with us all around him.
I never doubted the decision for a minute. He’s still with us and always will be.
And there are people out there reading these words thinking it’s just a dog. And I know you think that and I’m not comparing my / our loss to that of a son, daughter, mother, father, insert any other previous being but it’s loss just the same.
He’s at peace, please God, I, on the other hand, feel like a walking shell of a person. I’m saying the words and I’m doing the things. All of the things. And yet I’m not.
The other day I heard the words ‘swimming in the ocean of grief’ and I think that’s it. Here I am. Swimming in my own ocean of grief.
The other day I was listening a podcast and, again @danlevy said that grief can be so isolating because, this morning, I’m walking through the airport thinking a big speech bubble must surely be trailing behind me saying ‘steer clear maudlin person here!’ then I thought if we’re all alone then we’re all together in that too. My step lightened. A little.
To avoid grief is to avoid love and that’s no life so on we swim in this ocean of grief until we get to the other side.
I love you, bye.
