Being. Here. Now.
When the object of my love is no longer in physical form what I feel is pure, unadulterated grief. Like a river that's been dammed, at first there is so much pressure, energy wanting to follow a familiar path that is no longer. I spill over my edges, I tremble and quake. I sink to the cool mud and allow myself to be changed. Eventually the river of love creates a new course, a different expression and flows freely once again, perhaps wider and more capable than its prior version.
....
There's another flavor to grief... it's colored by thoughts that take me out of the natural flow-- this is the realm of wily rumination, spectacular self-flagellation and dancing with the devil of deception. The river becomes polluted, like the great Pacific garbage patch, a vortex of mental debris. I easily get swept into the center of this putrified plastic, unable to swim, gasping for breath, toxins seeping into my skin. I see regrets written on bottles, judgments embossed on plastic bags, a litany of could've/should've's woven into indestructible crap tossed into the sea. There's an illusion of ground--this swirling mass of muck appears solid-- yet nothing holds it together except a mysterious gravitational force and any effort to pull myself up above it is met with a sputtering submersion in dangerous slime. This is suffering in its finest form.
....
The work in this moment is to look squarely in the eye of each plastic trinket, each disabling thought, each story that attempts to harness more negativity and declare, "this is not me... you are not mine... I let you go." Oddly, as I do this I realize the river is shallow and my feet touch the bottom. As I look upstream at the borage of debris floating my way, I speak out loud-- Hunter's addiction? Not me. Thinking I could have saved him? Not me. Worry that I'm being judged? Not me. Regret I didn't parent him differently? Not me. The mess, the unanswered questions, the anger, the loss? Not mine. Slowly the river clears. When garbage appears I name it, I face it squarely, I proclaim it Not Me.
...
Eventually, I will swim again. For now, I'm standing my ground in the river of life, mostly submerged, not at risk of drowning, learning a new way to widen my shores.
