the fullness of life.

CW: death, loss

In the early morning of January 9, 2021 my Mama died in a traumatic and unexpected manner. I feel that there is now a me before that day and that there will be at some point—in a future I don’t yet see—a me after. But. For now I am somewhere in the “in-between” of it all. Some days are better. Some days not so much. Life. I do my best to welcome them all for the beautiful and complicated gifts they are. And I have some building sense of resoluteness inside, which feels very much like her. I am simply bearing witness to this incredible process. Trusting—as Rilke encouraged—in the “hands that work on us.”

Every day.

Every hour.

Every minute.

Friends ask me what’s helping… Well, in truth nothing, but/and I have taken refuge in eating poetry. Yes, I said eating. Poets know so much about the endless mysteries of the soul and at times like these poetry is soul sustenance to me so eating is the more accurate word. One that I read daily is “On Grief” by John O’Donohue. I’d like to think that had we ever met we would have been great friends.

peace,

sherri

For Grief

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you becomes fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,

You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

—by John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings