You know, World, the funny thing...or rather I should say, the ironic thing, about grief is that it doesn't kill you. Unlike like a head on car collision or a bullet to the head, you survive it, although everything within you may want to give up the ghost.
I'm borrowing and paraphrasing from one of my favorite quotes from the movie, Under the Tuscan Sun. The character was actually talking about the horror and grief that comes with going through a divorce. In the past, I've found that it applies to the break up of relationships, and I'm now finding, that it also applies to dealing with the loss of a loved one. Perhaps it applies to loss, universally.
The recent death of my Granny, has given me pause...it has made me think about the importance of the people in our lives. I have said before that, in essence, we are the sum total of our experiences. I am who I am because of what I have been through. I'm going to take this thought a little further and suggest that I am who I am, because of the experiences I've had with people.
From the very beginning of my life, my Granny was always there. She wasn't just some distant relative whom I saw once every couple of months on holidays. She was as much of a constant in my life as my Mom and Dad. Let me tell you, I've had my doubts about a lot of things in my life, but I never once doubted that Granny loved me. Ever.
Imagine that you are a baby in the womb, and that your mother, is a concert violinist or cellist. Through the watery warmness of your nest, her morning practices on her instrument are your daily wake up calls. They lull you to sleep at night. Constantly, wherever she goes (and you go, as a result) she always has some kind of violin or cello music playing. This does not change when you are born. Constantly...always without fail, there is the sweet, haunting notes of a violin or the deep, resonant timbres of the cello. It is always there, though many times in the background only. But it is there, nonetheless. Then one day, this music is no more. Silence rushes in and grows louder than the largest orchestra. How bland life is without the sweet notes. The deep sounds. How empty. The world seems a little less beautiful for it's silence. With every fiber of your being you feel the absence of the beauty of sound that you took for granted. It's gone.
A strange analogy, perhaps, but that, dear World, is how I feel about losing my Granny. She has loved me since the moment she learned of my existence in my mother's womb, and she never stopped. Her love was the constant background music of my life. Sometimes it was loud, sometimes soft...whatever I needed it to be...but always, always there. And yes, for me...the world is a little less beautiful now that she's gone.
Grief is a deep, multi-faceted thing. Sometimes it's as hot as the tears that roll down your face; a firebrand of loss that is imprinted on your heart forever. Sometimes it's like a rogue wave that unexpectedly swells, and threatens to overtake and drown you in its depth. Sometimes it is merely a dull ache that you carry with you wherever you go. Grief is exhausting. So much so that I sometimes unknowingly shut myself down so that I don't have to ride the roller coaster of the raw emotion that slices through me at random times during the day. I actually have to tell myself, "Let yourself grieve".
A few evenings ago, it was surprisingly cool, and I decided to take my dog for a walk. After we had been walking for about 20 minutes, I paused to let Oliver take a bathroom break. As he sniffed around in the grass, a cool breeze blew by and I closed my eyes to relish the coolness on my face. I became totally still. I could hear the sound of the water sprinklers...of children playing at the nearby pool...Oliver's tags clinking together...and I felt, for the first time in almost 2 weeks, peace and contentment. I knew then, that really....I was going to be ok.
Grieving is a necessary passage and a difficult transition to finally letting go of sorrow - it is not a permanent rest stop. ~Dodinsky
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