willing
Life moves on. One day the worst day in the world feels like yesterday and you can still feel the physical ache from the surgery and the next day you've started a new job and are worried about normal people things like taking your dog to the vet and being annoyed about people who drive too slow and wondering how you can get in another workout.
And its not that in the days that have passed I haven't thought about Paris, its just that grief has taken on a new flavor.
I've started a new job and am teaching yoga at a few new studios and everything is transforming. My mind has been full of things like class attendance and these new pants i want to buy and how money is still so tight between paychecks as we try to catch up from all the months i spent not working.
this morning was the first morning i woke up in over a week with no where to be. And from the minute i blinked open my eyes i could feel anxiety gripping my chest. I could feel the frantic energy of grief begin to emerge once again.
Sometimes its so much easier to skim the surface than to sit with the reality of what happened. My baby died. That really happened. People ask me in casual conversation if I have kids and I never know how to answer that question because if I say no I'm lying but during a get to know you conversation at a new job doesn't seem like the right place to bring up my child who died. Its easier to stay busy, to channel this frantic grief energy into productivity rather than sit with the truth.
I'm in the process of integrating my grief with my daily living. It is a necessary, vital part of healing. I know people who have tried to protect me from it. They tell me to sit and wait until I am healed, until I am stronger and my grief is less raw and fresh. They are the people, i think, who are uncomfortable with my grief. It is easier for them to try to take it from me and control it than to accept it, and me, as the force of nature it has become.
This morning on her facebook page Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about grief and the loss of her wife. She says, "I have learned that grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. it comes and goes on its own schedule. grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. grief will do whatever it wants to you. whenever it wants to. in that regard, grief has a lot in common with love. the only way that i can 'handle' grief then, is the same way that i 'handle' love - by not 'handing' it. by bowing down before its power, in complete humility. when grief comes to visit me, its like being visited by a tsunami. i am given just enough warning t say "Oh my god this is happening RIGHT NOW" and then i drop to the floor on my knees and let it rock me. its a full body experience. to resist it is to be brutalized by it. you just bow down - that's all you can do - and you let this thing roll through your heart and body and ind, in all its vehemence. How do you survive the tsunami of grief? by being willing to experience it, without resistance. by being willing to feel everything. by being willing to accept the unacceptable."
Her quote continues, and she writes a conversation with grief. I read it and began to cry. I pray this is true.
Grief says to me "You will never love anyone the way you loved Paris"
And I reply "I am willing for that to be true."
Grief says "He's gone and he's never coming back."
I reply "I am willing for that to be true."
Grief says "You will never see him smile, or learn to walk"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never hold the weight of his body in your arms"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never hear him laugh"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never smell his skin"
I get down on the floor on my fucking knees and - through the sheets of tears - I say "I AM WILLING"
Grief says "You may never recover from this"
And I say "I am willing"
Liz writes I will live on because i am willing. i am willing to take this life on God's terms, not mine. I am willing to surrender to the reality that i will never understand any of this. i am willing to accept that i may not ever fully heal from this loss. this is the job of the living - to be willing to bow down before everything that is bigger than you. and nearly everything in this world is bigger than you. let your willingness be the only big thing about you
She closes with a quote that Martha Beck said on the day of her commitment ceremony. It says "true love always liberates the beloved."
And reading that felt like the biggest exhale.
Yes, i have been rocked by a kind of storm i know i will not walk out of unchanged. But, god, i feel the liberation.
that is how i know i have experienced true love. something magical and holy and beautiful and sacred that not everyone gets to experience.
At its core, living and grieving is about being willing, and i am willing. i will do hard things and keep showing up.
I thought i knew what today was going to be about. and then i woke up to this tsunami of grief and i felt the manic craziness of it and i knew that the only option was to drop to my knees and feel the feelings and be willing. and its ok.
Some days are good and manageable, and i feel all of that liberation and gratitude for Paris' short life. Some days are heavy and filled with sadness and anxiety, and on those days I can only breathe and live moment to moment and give myself as much grace as possible.
I know this: I will love him forever. i am forever changed by his life and death and the immense privilege i had to get to be his mom. and for everything that was and is and will be because i got the joy of knowing him - i am willing.
And its not that in the days that have passed I haven't thought about Paris, its just that grief has taken on a new flavor.
I've started a new job and am teaching yoga at a few new studios and everything is transforming. My mind has been full of things like class attendance and these new pants i want to buy and how money is still so tight between paychecks as we try to catch up from all the months i spent not working.
this morning was the first morning i woke up in over a week with no where to be. And from the minute i blinked open my eyes i could feel anxiety gripping my chest. I could feel the frantic energy of grief begin to emerge once again.
Sometimes its so much easier to skim the surface than to sit with the reality of what happened. My baby died. That really happened. People ask me in casual conversation if I have kids and I never know how to answer that question because if I say no I'm lying but during a get to know you conversation at a new job doesn't seem like the right place to bring up my child who died. Its easier to stay busy, to channel this frantic grief energy into productivity rather than sit with the truth.
I'm in the process of integrating my grief with my daily living. It is a necessary, vital part of healing. I know people who have tried to protect me from it. They tell me to sit and wait until I am healed, until I am stronger and my grief is less raw and fresh. They are the people, i think, who are uncomfortable with my grief. It is easier for them to try to take it from me and control it than to accept it, and me, as the force of nature it has become.
This morning on her facebook page Elizabeth Gilbert wrote about grief and the loss of her wife. She says, "I have learned that grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. it comes and goes on its own schedule. grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. grief will do whatever it wants to you. whenever it wants to. in that regard, grief has a lot in common with love. the only way that i can 'handle' grief then, is the same way that i 'handle' love - by not 'handing' it. by bowing down before its power, in complete humility. when grief comes to visit me, its like being visited by a tsunami. i am given just enough warning t say "Oh my god this is happening RIGHT NOW" and then i drop to the floor on my knees and let it rock me. its a full body experience. to resist it is to be brutalized by it. you just bow down - that's all you can do - and you let this thing roll through your heart and body and ind, in all its vehemence. How do you survive the tsunami of grief? by being willing to experience it, without resistance. by being willing to feel everything. by being willing to accept the unacceptable."
Her quote continues, and she writes a conversation with grief. I read it and began to cry. I pray this is true.
Grief says to me "You will never love anyone the way you loved Paris"
And I reply "I am willing for that to be true."
Grief says "He's gone and he's never coming back."
I reply "I am willing for that to be true."
Grief says "You will never see him smile, or learn to walk"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never hold the weight of his body in your arms"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never hear him laugh"
I say "I am willing"
Grief says "You will never smell his skin"
I get down on the floor on my fucking knees and - through the sheets of tears - I say "I AM WILLING"
Grief says "You may never recover from this"
And I say "I am willing"
Liz writes I will live on because i am willing. i am willing to take this life on God's terms, not mine. I am willing to surrender to the reality that i will never understand any of this. i am willing to accept that i may not ever fully heal from this loss. this is the job of the living - to be willing to bow down before everything that is bigger than you. and nearly everything in this world is bigger than you. let your willingness be the only big thing about you
She closes with a quote that Martha Beck said on the day of her commitment ceremony. It says "true love always liberates the beloved."
And reading that felt like the biggest exhale.
Yes, i have been rocked by a kind of storm i know i will not walk out of unchanged. But, god, i feel the liberation.
that is how i know i have experienced true love. something magical and holy and beautiful and sacred that not everyone gets to experience.
At its core, living and grieving is about being willing, and i am willing. i will do hard things and keep showing up.
I thought i knew what today was going to be about. and then i woke up to this tsunami of grief and i felt the manic craziness of it and i knew that the only option was to drop to my knees and feel the feelings and be willing. and its ok.
Some days are good and manageable, and i feel all of that liberation and gratitude for Paris' short life. Some days are heavy and filled with sadness and anxiety, and on those days I can only breathe and live moment to moment and give myself as much grace as possible.
I know this: I will love him forever. i am forever changed by his life and death and the immense privilege i had to get to be his mom. and for everything that was and is and will be because i got the joy of knowing him - i am willing.
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