I woke up feeling sad and lost last week, needing a good cry, but the truth is I’m not that good at crying. I’m working on it.
I have been working on a big side-project this summer that I have been super excited about, and now it looks like the time for it is not now.
I have swum through the various stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, with perhaps an extra dose of depression and anger.
As I have learned before, the stages are not sequential, nor conclusory: stuff bubbles up here and there, reminding me of one of my favorite Rumi poems, The Guest House, where
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Then I remembered that it was is the anniversary of my mom’s death in 2008.
I remember crying a lot back then.
The tears came easily, in torrents of lung-emptying shoulder-shaking spasms, a visceral expression of the empty feeling inside, which still arises when I think of her.
Yet, though there is still a hole in my heart, I also feel her so present in my life. Cheering me on, checking in with eagerness for any news, loving me without conditions, believing in me so totally and completely. And also driving me crazy sometimes. (good spot for a heart emoji here!)
Whew. And now, the tears are flowing. I had to stop writing there for a bit. In the tears are cleansing, release, and opening.
I am grateful for my sadness.
As Rumi ends the poem:
Be grateful for whatever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Today is a good day for tears. I love you Mom.
King Bee, Fire-Tender