Grief

Grief is definitely grey.  A sometimes beautiful, silvery, grey; clouds when the sun is gone or ashes when the fire has died.  It is what remains when light and heat, life and love, are gone.  It is somewhat transparent too, a veil that exposes me to the world whilst tinging all I see.  

It is amorphous, slippery, ubiquitous.  Sometimes a deadening heaviness in my heart, sometimes a pulsating force that makes it race without hope of relief, sometimes a weight on my shoulders, sometimes a wrenching in my gut, sometimes a constricting wrap around my legs, sometimes a prickling in every hair follicle on the back of my head, sometimes a feverish energy in every cell.

Sometimes it impels me to run, desperately, in an attempt to escape, with arms and hands grasping at the empty air, legs and feet tearing at the concrete, lungs gasping for breath, and heart pleading to burst.

Sometimes it renders such movement impossible.  It is almost as though I have forgotten how to walk, taking halting steps, shuffling rather than striding.  Newton's laws of physics have intensified and I resist changing my direction or state.  Both going to sleep and getting out of bed are herculean endeavors.

Oftentimes, laugher and smiles are foreign; sometimes talking with anyone at all feels like torture.  Processing thoughts in my brain, formulating a response, trying to connect the appropriate response to the situation exhausts me.  Sometimes I am disengaged, disembodied, a ghost.  But alas!  Not a ghost, for I am still here and feeling and facing what is before me.

Tears are welcome and ever present.  Grief mimics the slick streams that fall from my eyes.  Yet, unlike tears, it does not dry to a crust nor can it be wiped away.  It settles like a film on my skin and my heart and my senses, and I take it with me everywhere I go.  Smooth and heavy, it is difficult to carry.  I am constantly, clumsily adjusting to accommodate this burden, ever breaking, but never dropping.

A subtle bitterness or blandness accompanies all that I smell and taste.  It is not overpowering, but ever present.  Grief tends to like that way. 

The sound of grief transforms, just as its placement and influence on my body do.  It wanders from silence and whimpers to wails and outcries and back again.  Mostly it is sighing, the relinquishing of life giving breath.

And so, grief is now my companion. With grief, I break bread, though with no appetite. By grief, I am tucked in bed, though I become sleepless. Grief listens to my every thought, touches my every surface, and witnesses all my tears. She does not wipe them away, but encourages them to flow, and how I need that acceptance.  The impression grief leaves on my heart is deeper than the ocean, endless as space, and wider than the sky. It is so heavy and yet permeates all of me, an emptiness and a weight all at once.   

One friend says this pain is the breaking the shell of my understanding.  Another advises me to take care of grief, and if that means pay attention to her, I will certainly agree.  Ignoring does no good and neglect only intensifies my dislike of her.  Yet acceptance of her helps her to become beautiful to me, to teach me in ways that I did not understand before.  Difficult as she may be, I am grateful for my grief.