Being In Between

Today I talked with my psychologist friend about this feeling of being "in-between" that I've been experiencing lately.  It's hard to describe and harder yet to define this feeling.  It's as though I'm waiting for the next thing to happen, and I have no idea what it will be.  It's part of the process of grieving, and I intend to stay with it and work it through.  It's just that it's hard to feel the "normal" emotions of life like joy and happiness when all I feel is sad that Gwen is no longer with me, and I must now continue the bewildering task of creating a life without her.

That being said, I am excited and happy that tomorrow morning I will drive up to visit with Milt and Mary. The plan is to golf with Milt tomorrow afternoon or evening , and then on Saturday night Mary and I will attend a bluegrass concert at Aten Place, a unique venue for a show.  John, Amy and Brooke will also be there.  On Sunday I'll drive home, and then on Thursday of next week  I'm off on my big trip out west.  Maybe part of what I'm feeling is anxiety about leaving the sanctuary that Gwen and I created for such a long time.  Yet, I know that I must do it.

All of this reflection on my process of grieving reminded me of a poem I posted when I first began this blog.  It seems appropriate once again:

TUESDAY, JANUARY 11, 2011

 I intend to share some of my poems in this blog, but today I offer a poem sent to me by a friend, Fr. Dennis Dillon.

THE WELL OF GRIEF

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief

turning down to its black water
to the place that we cannot breathe

will never know
the source from which we drink
the secret water cold and clear

nor find in the darkness
the small gold coins
thrown by those who wished for something else

~ David Whyte ~

On the 12th of this month it will be nine months since you left me, Dear. The symbolism that it takes nine months for a  baby to be born isn't lost on me.  I'll need some helping giving birth to this new me.  It also isn't lost on me that the four beautiful children we raised together are always there seeing to it that I don't drown in the well of grief.