My Last Words on Grief

Recently I ran across an anonymous quote that not only summed up the last four years for me, but also a similar experience for my eldest son. The quote went something like this: "I felt so much, that I started to feel nothing." Take that in for just a minute. It's kind of a mind bender. And it wasn't until I saw this (somewhere on social media) that finally put into words where I had been. Past tense. 

For my son, he had lost his best friend of sixteen years, his soul friend, his Anam Cara—his name was Jeff. For me, this young man was as near of a son as you can get without birthing them. And he died. Unexpectedly at 37, in multifaceted ways of messed-upness and oddly divine at the same time. It is a day I will never forget and one of my worst recorded days on the planet, including being the chosen one to deliver the news to his parents. Twice. "Can you repeat that?" 

Being on the inside of grief, I've come to realize that I began to live some kind of new norm. I lost the vision of my own hopes, dreams, wants and desires. Try as I might, I couldn't see them anymore—let alone feel into them. I spent a good two years feeling very numb, going inward, not wanting to come out and play with the world, and then another two years taking baby steps to dance again with life. Occasionally, I'd feel a pang of joy and rekindling to my past yearnings and yet those moments didn't yield themselves with any kind of sustainability. My synapses were regenerating but they were on their own timeline. 

During what I will call my regenerative time, a romantic relationship presented itself, and I knew I still had a deep longing for one, yet it was just out of my emotional reach and more than anything it kept shining a light on where I was in my process. It was frustrating not being able to be on the same page as he (and equally frustrating for him) and I actually began to feel bad about myself. Which I finally got was not right and I forgave myself for exactly where I was. He wasn't wearing my shoes, and I wasn't wearing his and by no parties fault could places be truly understand, appreciated and without circumstances being taken personally. It's hard to be a human sometimes. And there isn't one library shelf full of 'self-help' books or a room full of good-willing people that can talk you or love you out of grief. In fact, there can be more harm than good when you can't allow someone to be as they need to be, and love them right where they are, unconditionally. I'm not saying it's easy. I'm just sayin'. 

They will be back. I am back. I'm so happy to be back! Sometimes you don't know where you went, until you come back. It's been a long time coming...

So what happened? How'd I find my way back? Who the heck knows! Time. Space. Time. Space. Time. Space. Nature. 

All I know is that the opening, clearing and reconnection to my feeling self started on a beautiful solo hike in Death Valley in March, one month from the four year anniversary of Jeff's death. Reconnecting more and more through every hike out into nature, and I've been on plenty since. Then profound opening experiences were exploding inside me during the road trip I made across four states, and back, in June. The answer(s) to the question I was repeatedly being asked, I could actually answer with all of my heart and authenticity: "What do you want, Lori?" My heart started to pound out of my chest with my own resurging information! I was dreaming again about love, marriage, kissing, travel, moving, dancing, playing...the list goes on and on. Life. Feeling. Joy. 

My last words on grief. Don't judge someone who is going through this process, don't take it personally, those are all positions from the ego. That is neither love nor loving. Don't give them books to read, or your own unsolicited advice or opinions. Instead, open your heart a little bit bigger and spread it wide into a holding place until we can hold ourselves fully open again. That is love.