Stop All the Clocks

Living Gets Easier, Grieving Does Not

While on a walk today I was asked, “with your loss, does it ever get easier?”  I’ve thought about that in the three years after Leo’s death.   When he first died, people often suggested that things would get easier with time or repeat the adage, ‘time heals all wounds.’  As a result, I have this habit of gut-checking every so often, asking myself, ‘is this easier now?’  I could compare this to the habit that dieters develop, doing a check at meal times, “am I still hungry?”

 The adage isn’t exactly true.  Time doesn’t heal the loss of a loved one, nullify their absence, or make us forget.  Leo’s absence is as real this minute as it was the moment he died.  I’ve learned to cope.  I have learned to live and allow space for myself to grieve.

People who experience loss develop a skill set and refine those skills over time.  We become accustom to the hole in our lives. Our ears stop seeking the familiar sound of their footsteps or their voice.  Our hands stop reaching out in the night.  We share the stories of our day with friends and adjust to the feeling that we’ve forgotten to tell the one to whom we tell everything.  We come to a place where we just do the work of living, no longer expecting to share the daily tasks like driving or dishes or cooking or parenting.

We learn to distract our thoughts.  When a memory surfaces, we tenderly explore the edges and quickly tuck away the memory until we are alone or in a safe place.  We cluster mementos and pictures and place them where we can interact them on our own terms. We learn to turn conversations in directions that allow us to remain composed, we learn the art of a deep, cleansing breath, and we learn that it is absolutely ok to feel sadness and cry. 

Some find ways to seek joy – first as a commitment to remaining alive and hopeful and then as intentional daily practice, and eventually as a way of being.  Joyful living becomes as much a part of us as the loss and longing. We also come to a point where we realize that finding happiness and joy in our lives is not an affront to those we miss. 

I am happy and I miss Leo. 

I choose joy and I grieve his absence. 

I am in love and I loved. 

I recognize that I live in the land of ‘and’ and that is an honest place to be. 

 

I Appear to Be Leaking Stress

A teaspoon of sunshine would bring a pause just long enough for me to glimpse reason.

One level measuring cup of said sunshine would elicit a deep breath, infusing my lungs with fresh air.  That inhale would fill me with enough strength to form a firm grip on that moment of reason.

A small bathtub of sun rays would certainly halt the b.s. thinking that is circling in my head and wash off the salty residue, leaving me with a far better perspective of where I stand.

Oh, one solid week spent basking in real sunlight, next to a massive body of water or a wide, wondering river would, without a doubt, leave me in a better state to begin the whole process again next fall.  I dare not imagine the giddiness that two or three or four weeks might cause.

Maybe I’m being greedy here.

Give me a spot.  Just a speck of sunshine, no larger than a dime, tap dancing in front of me on the linoleum, carpet or cement that I’m walking.  I promise that I will remember that stress, like a slip of a sunbeam in a Northwest spring, is transient.  And sunshine, like life, is joy.

 

The Nose Bone's connected to the Memory Bone

Raise your hand if the smell of school paste throws you back to your first day of school and the terror and thrill of being away from mom for a whole half of a day.

Stand up if you’ve ever been hit in the gut by a waft of cologne or perfume as someone walks by.

Say ‘heck yeah!’ if a co-worker’s coffee lifts your day even if you don’t slip over and sneak a sip while they are engrossed in email.

When Leo died, a well-meaning person suggested that I get rid of all of his clothes and wash the sheets and pillows.  She knew from experience that in those early days following the loss of a husband, that the lingering smell of their skin would knock you headlong into crying fits.  I kept the shirts and pillows until his scent dissipated or my brain no longer registered it and accepted that the tears were part of the journey.

This week, I’ve found two sources of scent memory to spark a longing for Italy.  One is a container of lotion that David has stored at my house.  The other is a bath towel washed in Tide.  I’ve gotta wonder if there is some hidden meaning in the fact that both are found in my bathroom. 

I don’t normally use lotion.  I’d rather sleep in a few extra minutes than to do frivolous stuff like apply Jergen’s or brush my hair… until now.  For crying out loud, I can’t get enough of the lotion.  Work is winding down and the closest I’m going to come to the basil and lemon scented shores of Cinqe Terra is that bottle of aloe vera fortified cream and the freshly laundered towel.  Even if the escape is temporary and local, I’m happy to close my eyes and imagine the feeling and light of the sunshine on my face and the sound of the waves crashing outside of my window.

I simply cannot help but be glad that I have an olfactory lobe.

Life is good.