I had a strange few days last week. I felt grief very strongly, which is not so typical anymore. I wanted to attribute a cause to it. I wanted to say it was menopausal, or poor sleep. I wanted to blame it on some vulnerability I feel related to writing the book. I imagined that perhaps it was a series of rogue grief waves. None of those things seemed entirely true. What I was experiencing over the course of three days could have been part of one or all of those things, or none of them at all. And it doesn't matter, does it? When we feel self-blame or blame others, it's a sign that grief is underneath. When I feel grief in my body now, I am actually a little bit grateful. In the few years before my husband died, while he was struggling with his addiction, I was disconnected from my awareness of my pain. When there was chaos, I looked for solutions "out there."
I didn't spend a lot of time checking in with my body for clues to my own feelings or needs.
So now, when I have a week where my body talks to me, I don’t argue with it.
I allow the grief to pulse in my wrists and my shoulder bones, which is were I ache when grief comes. I welcome the sting of rising tears. I ask for support where I need it and I slow way down.
I don’t question why I am feeling this way, or try to figure it out or stop it.
I just say to myself, “I don’t have the answers.”
And just like that I surrender my mind to my heart so it can attend to the part of me that is mourning. A part of me that was hurting once, is hurting now.
She came for a visit, I guess. And I invited her in.