Grief Resides

When I slow my breath

and sit,

I feel her like a

cloak, a soft fog

protecting and blurring

the view,

keeping me safe

from the harshness

of the world.

When I drop to the floor,

find a piece of music

both melodic and haunting,

when I close my eyes

and allow movement to

emerge from my womb,

hands rising, carving the space,

caressing the emptiness,

stroking what is no longer there,

my eyes fill and spillover

my fluid gestures turn to

holding on

for dear

life

and the sobbing takes my

breath away.

To honor the place

where grief resides,

I must allow my body to move.

To move without eyes.

To move from the inside,

from the place that has

no language, no mental

constructs.

Grief resides in

the quiet corners

of my animal self.

It is shy and leery

and bares its teeth

if I approach

to quickly or from behind.

I must be patient,

like a diver befriending

an octopus,

I must go down into the

murky depths

again and again,

in the cold blackness,

waiting with only my

heart shining,

until, at last

one inch at a time

the octopus begins to trust

my motives.

Until one day

she shimmies up my arm

and looks me in the eye

with love.

Grief resides.

Grief shyly awaits your

presence, your wonder,

your willingness to

not know

what it is,

or what it knows,

or how it will change you.

Grief resides.

Grief

Resides.

(image by Stacey Chomiak)