It’s a brittle glittery fall day here in Seattle. The leaves are turning and the wind has a sharp bite. I love the transition seasons, spring and autumn. They remind me that change is afoot.
But of course change is always upon us, the only constant, regardless of the season.
Each day is different for me. Grief still lurks, waiting to pounce, but I’m following the advice of my counselor. Instead of dreading and fearing the onset of grief, I’m trying to recognize that episodes will wash over me from time to time with terrible pain, but then, they will recede. So when grief shoulders its way in, I tell it, okay, bring it on, knowing that it will sink its teeth into me, but then I’ll get through it and past it. And that’s what happens.
And though it seems counterintuitive, it’s strangely comforting to remember that I am, in terms of the universe, merely a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a… My whole being is tinier and more insubstantial than a dust mote in the entirety of existence. Even though I feel my loss intensely, it’s personal to me, not universe-shattering. When I listen to the news every day, it’s clear so many others have suffered exponentially greater losses and tragedies. No life will be untouched by grief and loss.
What helps most right now is a recognition that life still offers joy. A dear friend lost his life to pancreatic cancer a couple of years ago, long before Mark received the same terrible diagnosis. Just this last month, his youngest daughter gave birth to her first child, and the pictures of that new family clustering close and rejoicing in their very tiny baby made my heart swell. We all wish her father was still here to celebrate with them, but the world just didn’t unfold that way. He was fortunate enough to walk both his daughters down the wedding aisle in his final year before succumbing to that dreadful disease. None of us will get all of what we want.
And as goofy as it may sound (especially to those who aren’t “animal people”), having the enormous ungainly puppy here is incredibly life-affirming. Rusty is one year old now, but as is common in large breeds, he won’t lose his “puppiness” for at least another year. He’s rambunctious and awkward and a lot of work, and he’s quite a bit bigger than the breeder told me he would be. If Rusty and I had conversations, they would sound like this:
Me: Oh, it’s such a gloomy day.
Rusty: Let’s go for a walk!
Me: Makes me want to sit on the couch and brood…
Rusty: Let’s go for a walk!
Me: —sigh--
Rusty: It’s a great day for a walk! Hey! Let’s go!
And so, we go for a walk, and the world suddenly is a more cheerful place.
But of course change is always upon us, the only constant, regardless of the season.
Each day is different for me. Grief still lurks, waiting to pounce, but I’m following the advice of my counselor. Instead of dreading and fearing the onset of grief, I’m trying to recognize that episodes will wash over me from time to time with terrible pain, but then, they will recede. So when grief shoulders its way in, I tell it, okay, bring it on, knowing that it will sink its teeth into me, but then I’ll get through it and past it. And that’s what happens.
And though it seems counterintuitive, it’s strangely comforting to remember that I am, in terms of the universe, merely a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a… My whole being is tinier and more insubstantial than a dust mote in the entirety of existence. Even though I feel my loss intensely, it’s personal to me, not universe-shattering. When I listen to the news every day, it’s clear so many others have suffered exponentially greater losses and tragedies. No life will be untouched by grief and loss.
What helps most right now is a recognition that life still offers joy. A dear friend lost his life to pancreatic cancer a couple of years ago, long before Mark received the same terrible diagnosis. Just this last month, his youngest daughter gave birth to her first child, and the pictures of that new family clustering close and rejoicing in their very tiny baby made my heart swell. We all wish her father was still here to celebrate with them, but the world just didn’t unfold that way. He was fortunate enough to walk both his daughters down the wedding aisle in his final year before succumbing to that dreadful disease. None of us will get all of what we want.
And as goofy as it may sound (especially to those who aren’t “animal people”), having the enormous ungainly puppy here is incredibly life-affirming. Rusty is one year old now, but as is common in large breeds, he won’t lose his “puppiness” for at least another year. He’s rambunctious and awkward and a lot of work, and he’s quite a bit bigger than the breeder told me he would be. If Rusty and I had conversations, they would sound like this:
Me: Oh, it’s such a gloomy day.
Rusty: Let’s go for a walk!
Me: Makes me want to sit on the couch and brood…
Rusty: Let’s go for a walk!
Me: —sigh--
Rusty: It’s a great day for a walk! Hey! Let’s go!
And so, we go for a walk, and the world suddenly is a more cheerful place.
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