Wednesday, June 14, 2017

the heavens have been crying prolifically


Which is nice because I can't.  Crying is a migraine trigger.  Go fuck yourself, Universe.

It's been raining for days here.  It stopped for a day or two to let us catch our breath, but it started again.

Kitten is feeling flummoxed.  She goes out every morning for her yard time.  When it was pouring, she checked the front door, the back door, and again to the front door to weigh her options.  She would come back inside very damp but feeling better.  On the really stormy nights when tornadoes were a risk, she crawled into bed with me.

On drizzling days, she barely hesitated.  This cat needs her outdoor time.

Focusing on Nature helps me to grieve and put things into perspective.  I'm just one tiny story out of 7+ billion on one rock among countless others.



pictorial graph for non-scientists

pictorial graph for scientists

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

grief is an ocean


I'm borrowing an anonymous quote from the internet:

"I wish I could say you get used to people dying.  But I never did.  I don't want to.  It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances.  But I don't want it to "not matter".  I don't want it to be something that just passes.  My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person.  And if the scar is deep, so was the love.  So be it.

Scars are a testament to life.  Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love.  And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was.  Scars are a testament to life.  Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves.  When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you.  Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more.  And all you can do is float.  You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while.  Maybe it's some physical thing.  Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph.  Maybe it's a person who is also floating.  For a while, all you can do is float.  Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy.  They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath.  All you can do is hang on and float.  After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart.  When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out.  But in between, you can breathe, you can function.  You never know what's going to trigger the grief.  It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee.  It can be just about anything ... and the wave comes crashing.  But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall.  Or 50 feet tall.  And while they still come, they come further apart.  You can see them coming.  An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare.  You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.  And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side.  Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy.  The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to.  But you learn that you'll survive them.  And other waves will come.  And you'll survive them too. 
If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves.  And lots of shipwrecks."

 and one more anonymous quote:

"Losing someone is not about 'recovering' or 'healing' or being okay with the fact that they're gone; it's about learning how to exist in a new reality without them."