I’m shy 16 days of 3 months since I wrote my last post. Lots happens (& has happened) and yet time stands still within my mind. I liked my last writing, the mostly dead crew, which is why I sit on it easily and let it run its course within me. There is another reason in which I find solace within the moratorium of writing, at this particular juncture. Perhaps it will resonate with some who have walked this same road upon which I trod, or who are presently walking alongside me. It is the intentional act of stepping away from the loss, my loss. You see much like loosing a spouse, loosing a child impairs the minute by minute interaction within each day. And as such, grief is faced in every nook, hallway, tabletop, room, street, store, movie, etc.–the loss is constantly present, because the person who has left was at one time, completely enmeshed in all aspects of your (my) living. That said and knowing that life does not pause for the brokenhearted we scramble to find our way while facing the loss at every turn.
So, this past June I did something different…I put my heart in a box and stored it.
What the hell? Well metaphorically speaking, of course. I consciously decided to step aside from my grief and work on being in the moment of whatever the moment provided. I consciously decided to disallow the lens of grief to magnify the circumstance. And I gave a try at putting my heart in a box, closing the lid and storing upon a shelf for a while. I must say, it has been working.
I went to Manhattan, NY this past June. While there I focused on wonder and joy. I took time off to be at home and reorganize closets. In doing so I began to find new homes for some of my son’s clothing, joyful homes, compassionate homes. I took time to be with family and friends, not all, but some. I took time to do things while tired and not let the fear of exhaustion rule the day. I took time with my daughter and husband. I actually went to the beach with him once…it’s been a while since I’ve done that.
Bottom line, I took time to view living and its interactions through another lens. A lens of life, not my lens of grief.
I am moving into this next year (academic year) with intention of keeping my heart in a box for a while longer. I’m not sure how I’ll do. I’m not sure for how long I can keep the lid secured. There have definitely been moments, this summer, when the lid seems to be popping off, but I’ve managed to catch it in motion and refasten before the full extent of my heartache is exposed. Why? Why go to all this trouble? Because I’d like to see what Rivka looks like without the veil of grief over her face. I’m just wondering, can I be whole when I’ve been cut in half? And what does that look like? Can you relate to this type of musing? If not, no worries. I’m quite comfortable being a lone wolf within introspective ideations.
There is also the possibility I might just change my mind on the subject and continue to swim upstream the rest of my days. In any case I’ll keep you posted, especially since I’ve just paid for another year of domain usage. And who knows, perhaps the next post I write here on Bentrivka will be filled with wisdom and encouragement for the reader. I still believe in miracles, though I’m clearly not a miracle worker myself. But I think it safe for us to stay tuned and see what possibilities await.
living in loss and gratitude 
I love you…….
I miss you and Robert!
Life changes a person, sometimes leaving scars or taking a big chunk out of them. A flaw of mine is to associate life with rebuilding Hot Rods, so please forgive me if my analogy just isn’t relatable.
For instance, everyone loved Brian’s roadster pickup Hot Rod. It represented a lot of effort and gave years of great times, putting smiles on friends faces. Then the Hot Rod got hit by a semi, back half ripped off, spun around, and pushed into a ditch on the side of the road. The hot rod was eventually rebuilt, but it was never going to be the same. The event had changed the vehicles basic nature, changing from a pickup truck into a boat-tailed car. the hot rod was stronger in some places, weaker in others, and fundamentally changed. But the Hot Rod got back on the road and kept moving, giving joy to its owner and all who knew him again. Different experiences came. There will never be a time where the fun in the past, and the interaction with the semi will be forgotten. How can it be forgotten, the change is so fundamental and evident? But the Hot Rod keeps moving on down the road.
This is a perfect analogy, thank you Brad.
I can’t find a box big enough yet. Did you give away my/Cole’s plaid shirt?
The shirt is safely awaiting your return.
well of course, in a marathon like yours you have to take a mental break
but don’t feel like you have to pick up where you left off and make up for “lost time” when you do get back to it
life is always peaks and valleys, you struggle uphill for awhile and (hopefully) coast for awhile
Yes!