BEGINNINGS

There is an instant between awakening and awareness that I float free of remembrance and reality. For only a moment, things are as they were, and this present pain is not at all. I wish not to move on, but to stay safe in that nothingness, to linger, while I can, just ahead of the dreaded truth.
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The center of my grief is like the dead of winter, the white, frozen stillness surrounds me, a deep, interior chill pervades my body. I am terrified that I will always be this cold.
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The slight warming wind that will unsettle the ice is not yet perceptible.

NAVIGATION

I lie awake at night, tortured by a barrage of questions that pick at my flesh like tiny birds with sharp beaks. Why me? Why now? What have I done to deserve this? What could I have done to prevent this cruel parting?
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Unanswerable questions. All I can do is let them flow through me, rather than pick raw my tender skin. Oh yes, here they are again, my night visitors.
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But when I am tempted to believe that what we lose is powerful enough to negate the ultimacy of love, every fiber of my being revolts. What ever is left of my spirit will hold fast to love, until the invading forces of despair are finally turned away.
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Even though I am encircled by friends, I wonder when my loneliness will cease. Even though I am surrounded by the familiar, I wonder if I will ever feel at home again. I am alone and lost, and I am enraged that I could have been so cruelly sent far away from what used to comfort me.

SURRENDER

I begin to wonder if it is I who died. Perhaps I'm even wishing for it, so as not to have these feelings.
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One marvels at the courage of the grieving, that they can eat a meal or enjoy a joke without stopping mid-bite or mid-laugh to weep instead.
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Grief enters our lives and brings along unforeseen guides. Old friends and lost relations, listeners and interpreters, and once in a while, someone whose understanding is so surprising and so complete as to take one's breath away. What do we know of the origin of this unexpected encounter? Is it a messenger from the heavens. And what do we know of its destiny? It is a lasting presence.
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"Is there anything I can do?" Yes, you can turn back time, take away the hurt, and bring my loved one back. And if that isn't possible, just be on my side while I face the demons.
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The rational mind is not capable of truly understanding this loss, only the heart has a chance to accept and transform this suffering. For it is not the mind that has been dealt this blow, it is the heart, and it is only there that healing is possible.
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The heart, where the entirety of my experience resides in memory and imagination, in the deepest recesses of my soul. It is there I will look for a way out of this hell.
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The ritual of grieving contains a mysterious and strange song of liberation: Do not forget, do not forget. I would have thought to banish all memories, yet healing demands we include them in the final celebration.

TRANSFORMATION

Grief is like a leaky faucet. Just when you think it's fixed, it comes back again, more bothersome than ever. Perhaps we should not expect an end to the dripping of the faucet or of our tears; there will always be more where they came from. Instead, we can accept the comfort of a rhythmic letting go, knowing each droplet of grief has the potential to cleanse, to soothe, indeed, to nourish new life.
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Life will not go on in the same way without him. If it were the same, we could only conclude his life meant nothing, made no contribution. The fact that he left behind a place that cannot be filled is a high tribute to the uniqueness of his soul.

CONTINUANCE

I look to the stars and I see you there. It may seem that all that can be known of your life is a quick flash, just a small part of the excitement and the confusion, the certainty and the doubt that once was you. but I know more. I know the bravest part of you, the part that risked loving. So when I look up to see you, I have no doubt that at least your courage will shine forever.
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I have sensed your presence so often I no longer need to search for you. I can relax and go about my life, leaving that sorry task for those who still worry about forgetting, or being forgotten.
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Allow your woundedness to send you into the world rather than withdraw from it. Allow the wisdom of your solemn experience to inform your heart and send you racing to the side of the suffering.