He is so often in the past because that's where he left his boy and where he can still find him. Not the actual past exactly but his memory of the past, a past distilled and refined, a past that makes sense, a story not a circumstance. The past, then, is malleable, not fixed.~John Dufresne (From My Darling Boy)

I hadn't expected that grief would feel so like an ambush. That's not my word. It's the phrase used in the Grief Share group I'm in. A "Grief Ambush," states the workbook. That's when something comes out of the blue--a smell, a song, a location, or a memory that surfaces suddenly when you least expect it. Then you're crying in the grocery store or numbed out scrolling on your phone or your body so exhausted it seems a tire is encircling your neck. Pulling you down. Or you wake up at 1:30 a.m. and can't go back to sleep, your brain sprinting around an endless track of thoughts and feelings and what ifs and shoulds. And the culture doesn't adapt to these ambushes. "Time to move on. There are a million things to take care of." "It'll be okay." "You know you'll see your loved one again." The Grief Share workbook calls these pithy phrases "motivational soundbites." Ugh. Not helpful. (Surely though said with good intentions.)

I didn't foresee that I'd feel as sad as I do when my brother-in-law died. I've even felt guilty that I'm taking his death as hard as I am. I mean, I've lost people before. My sister, a good friend, a colleague I worked with most everyday for fifteen years. Aren't I more resilient than this by now? The Grief Share facilitator reminds the group, "Don't compare your grief process with other peoples' experience." I guess that means not comparing my own past losses as well. "Everyone grieves differently and that's okay. Go at your own pace," he consoles.  I notice in the group there are people attending with "fresh" losses, in the last months, even in the last weeks. Others two years ago or eight years ago, but say they've never talked about the death, never felt permission to mourn aloud. 

Really, life is all about walking in love.~Mary Lou Dayton

She has bright, quilted banners hanging on her walls that proclaim "peace" and "hope." Framed photos of loved ones artfully line her shelves. The screened-in porch is appointed with red cushions tied to wrought iron chairs. A pot of flowers sits on the table. Sunlight pours into her lovely apartment as we sit and talk. She is one of those people who makes direct eye contact when she listens. She hears and sees you. She remembers what you say. 

Dr. Gerry Ken Crete, author of Litanies of the Heart, describes a humble person like this: Humility consists in being precisely the person you actually are before God. We become down-to-earth and comfortable in our own skins. We no longer try to compete with everyone else, and we no longer need to be affirmed by everyone else. We realize we have many gifts and talents as well as limitations and weakneses. We don't try to be more or less than who we are. There is a tremendous amount of relief that comes with being humble. And there is a tremendous amount of relief in being with my friend who imbues this definition of humility.

My friend is bearing a difficult burden, a challenging diagnosis. She is suffering. She struggles to speak as we sit across from one another. Now in the midst of all her lovely art is medical equipment and numerous bottles of medication. I ask, "Perhaps I can read to you?"

Moments

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.

Like telling someone you love them.

Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn't it?

You're not in chains, are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution

when headlong might save a life,

even possibly, your own.~Mary Oliver

There are decisions to make every day. And the choices add up, good or not as good, over time. Then there are what I define as the big decisions. Who to marry, whether to get the degree, the career path, another child. Every season of life contains the "big ones." I thought at almost seventy years old, I had surpassed most of the major decisions. Surely I have to some degree, yet a choice I needed to consider emerged. 

I had the opportunity to move forward with publishing my books in an expanded format. I felt excitement about having my books in other locations besides Amazon or ThriftBooks. I would be responsible for promotion and getting the word out, creating a TikTok platform and having to "face" Facebook again. There was monetary investment as well. The publisher exhibited enthusiasm about my work and encouraged me to think about "getting out there." 

...but we know how the minutes fly out into the dark trees and vanish...and we know how the weeks walk into the shadows at midday...at the thought of the months I reach for your hand...~W.S. Merwin (From The Solstice)

Sometimes I dislike time. Want things to stay the same. No change. Yet that is not reality. So I think about what is true. God doesn't change. Oh, God, I ask you to be the comfort I need in this shifting world, in all the fluctuations. The unexpected. The uncertain. I thirst for your endurance, your backbone. Someone stopped me on my walk and said, "I want to be like you one day." I wondered what they saw, there in the evening light, sweat running down my back, wearing a baseball cap, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. If they only knew how weary my emotions are--moth eaten, shaky, vulnerable. I am weak, Lord, my fear of the future attempting to blot out the incense of your Spirit. Oh, God, how do you see me?

I was once taught that in Eastern writing it is common for stories to move in spirals while Western academics like straight, narrow lines.~Rebecca Spiegel (From Without Her)

I'll admit that I'm a fan of straight, narrow lines. Point me in the right direction. Please, give me a formula. I crave black and white. No gray, I beg of you. No ambivalence. No uncertainty. 

My brother-in-law, Mario, is dying. Cancer. I loathe this disease. This pestilence. And he's toppled so fast. Bound to a wheelchair. His robust health a relic of the past. 

And I'm here on the sidelines, an ocean away from him. I wish he could hear me urging him on, my pom poms held high, rustling in the wind. I wish I could speak his language fluently so that I could tell him how much he means to me. How I understand, in part, some of his suffering. I had cancer too. I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself, the body trying so hard to carry on, yet almost out of breath. And you know the people who love you are hurting too. Don't know what to do. Sometimes ask too many questions. Say the wrong things. And also you know that you couldn't go on without them. Family and friends are God's hands, God's heart for you. Oh, Mario. This life.