Walking in Grief

First of all:  this is MY experience with grief.  It is not your experience, or your family member's, or your neighbor's, although it may share some of the same paths. 

Grief is not a competition.  My grief is not harder, or stronger, or deeper, or more enduring, than yours is.  There are times that I will be a big ol' blubbering mess and will need you to be the strong one.  There are times that I will be the strong one for you to be the b.o.b.mess.  And there are times we may both collapse on the floor together, and someone else will need to bring the mop.  Here's the thing: there are no gold medals at the end.  There's no "being better" at this.  And it's a participation trophy none of us want.    

It's not a sprint, where we rush to get through all the steps that someone, somewhere, decided that grieving people go through.  It's not like grocery shopping, where we race through the aisles, checking off denial, anger, and the rest as we throw them in our cart, hoping that our keytag will get us a discount. 

Nor is it a marathon, where we plod along at a steady pace, not paying attention to anything but the track below our feet.  Oh, yes, there are some days that we will plod.  And some days it's hard to even put the sneakers on our feet...heck, sometimes it's hard to swing our feet off the bed and put them on the floor.  But the process itself cannot be merely putting one foot in front of the other for an extended period of time with the goal of "getting to the end" (considering that there is no true end).

Grief - my grief, that is - is more like a walk on a trail. 

Regardless of the calendar, it starts in the fall - everything is changing, and not for the better.  The days grow colder, grayer.  The time change throws off our schedule, and it grows dark too early for an evening stroll.  Morning frost chills us through and we find it difficult to catch our breath.  Leaves may burst into color on the side of a hill some days, but the rains come and wash them away.

Then comes winter, too cold to walk.  The snow covers the trail, the winds or rains rip through even the best coats and boots and longjohns.  So we stay inside, bundled in the warmth of familiarity, sheltering ourselves in comfort and insulating ourselves from the stings that are inevitable.

Spring comes, and with it our first tentative steps.  The sun peeks out, but the chill is still sometimes too much for us.  We may get down the path, away from our shelter, and get caught in a cloudburst - of emotion, of memories, brought by a sight, a scent, a sound - and we take shelter under the nearest tree for protection.  Slowly, little by little, we venture further on the trail, and begin to take joy in the little things presented to us - the flowers, the songs of the birds, the berries growing on the side of the trail.  But our grief is still there, like a wild animal.  On a still day we notice a tree shake; down the hill, a bear scratches its back against the slim trunk.  We may yell to scare it away; we may throw the berries we picked onto the trail between it and us as a peace offering; but we are still aware that it may come at us and destroy us, so we slowly retreat, being mindful of its presence and its power. Other days, we may be strolling along, enjoying the day, only to suddenly see several snakes sunning themselves right where we want to walk.  We hesitate - it would be so easy to retreat - and then we find a way around the snakes, leaving them in their coils, unsprung and thus causing us no pain.  And on days when we have gone further than our strength will allow us to continue, we collapse onto the ground and remain as long as we need.

I don't yet know what the trail in summer is like.  I'm still dodging bears and snakes.  And sometimes just collapsing.