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THE WORN PATH OF MAY 7TH

Closure is a Myth

The Path of Grief is as individual as our fingerprints.

I wake up feeling the hurricane of unbearable loss and grief. I want to push it away because tears should not fall eighteen years later, but they do. As I toss in my bed, hoping this day will not come again, I see the clock hit 7:43 am. I turn over as I hear the hollow sounds of my German Shepherd walking toward my bed. I turn to see her sweet face encouraging me to rise. The clock now reads 9:10 am. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that I’m still dreaming, but I am not. One thing I know for sure: I can’t think my way out of this heaviness… I have to act my way out. So, I sit up, place my feet on the old hardwood floors and lean forward.

As I slowly grab the leash, Haven starts to stretch knowing that her walk is close at hand. I’m afraid to open the door to the outside world, to expose my raw wounded soul to a world that is abandoned, and which does not seem to have any place for old grief. As I walk toward the park, it is overcast and strangely quiet this Monday morning. My motivation is weak as I feel the slight pull from the leash. When I approach the park, I see the grass is being mowed. The smell is fresh and renewed. It is here in nature that I find the bravery to accept that grief is a journey that will never end. I look up at the tall, two-hundred-year-old trees swaying in the wind. Closing my eyes, I feel the wind on my face. I chuckle, knowing the fact that you can feel something without seeing it. It somehow opens my heart to the mysteries of life. This place, in this nature, is where I find peace. It is where I find him. I try to put my arms around this deep misunderstanding of life and death because it is somehow self-evident that all things in nature live and die. It is the cycle of life that we humans tend to avoid or acknowledge only after it is too late, and the moment has passed.

I toss the ball to a happy dog walking through the yet un-mowed area, eating tall grass, and smelling all types of natural happenings. My dog does not know it, but she is awakening me, teaching me to walk and act my way through this day. I suddenly look up and the wind blows through my hair. I raise my arms to the cloudy sky and ask for what I want. I don’t ask for my grief to leave me, I ask for the guidance and the resources to learn to live and carry my grief well. I ask for forgiveness. I ask for courage. I ask for strength.

I want to push away the unimaginable, but instead, I lean into it, knowing that all rebirths come with a little labor and pain. I turn my heart toward the center of the hurricane, knowing this grief will ease but never leave me. The center of this hurricane, of this grief, calms my soul once again. The next steps toward the unknown, I feel fear, not knowing what the future holds. As I walk home, passing neighbors, I hide my grief and converse. Finally, home, I settle into my meditation spot in front of the fireplace, cross my legs and pray. As my eyes open, I take note of all these material items that make my home a home. I realize I don’t need them anymore to feel complete.

The morning clouds are lifting, making way to the beautiful blue skies peeking through to remind me once again that the heaviness will lift again too. It is at this moment that a tear falls, a goodbye is whispered and the only words that come are, “I’ll see you soon. It is only a matter of time.” I hate to see May 7 come and I hate to see it leave –all the while knowing that the worn path will be walked again in an effort to prove that life is short, fragile and has an expiration date for all of us. So, we all must live with bold intentions.

Yet, this year seems different. This year, I know what I have to do. I hear the distant call of change. I pray for the resources I need to go on in my life while carrying my grief with me every step of the way, but now celebrating the legacy, and memories that are now forming the person I’ve longed to be.

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