Something Is Changing

For the first time since Gwen died I sense a change in the way I feel about living without her.  Heaven knows, I hesitate to even write about it, because, as I've written before, grief is sneaky; it is like a lion lying  in a cage in the basement: every now and then it finds a way to escape its cage and comes roaring up the stairs.  What I hope 15 months of grief has taught me is that I can crack the whip and make that lion behave a little better.

It has been a long, dark week for me.  In my last entry on Monday I talked about life being fundamentally an experience of going from light into darkness--from the moment we leave the total darkness of our mother's womb into the glaring light of day, and life, until the final moment when we leave life and go back into utter  darkness and then a beautiful light of love and peace that none of us is able to imagine. (If we were able to imagine it, that would make it imaginary, and I refuse to believe that.)  Eye has not seen, Ear has not heard.

So, what does this all mean in the cold light of reality?   It means that I seem to be in some  kind of transition.  The darkness I experienced this week has ended, and I am seeing the world in a new light.  Maybe only those who have experienced the deep grief that accompanies the loss of a great love are able to fully appreciate what it means to be in this state, and, as before,  I am reluctant to even write about it.  But write about it I will, because of my faith in what the past months of writing has done for me.  By plumbing the depths of my heart and soul and then bringing what I discover there into the light of day I have discovered that I can now look at  pictures of Gwen that I have all over the house and no longer sink into a pit where I wallow in anger, self-pity, and yes, abiding memories of that deep, deep love we shared.  (I am remiss if I leave the impression that I've gotten to this point all on my own, it is only because of the love and support of our children, my close family and relatives, my friend Dave K,  my many friends, and the prayers of countless others that I have managed to stay afloat all these months and gotten to this point.)

Today I look at  pictures of Gwen that formerly caused a now familiar bittersweet feeling of anguish mixed with delight and say to myself "that was then; this is now."   Am I ready to have a party and celebrate my release from grief?  Of course not, I know too well that I'm still on an emotional roller coaster, and that lion in the basement is not gone, only resting.  But, there is no denying that the release I feel from the darkness I've been in all week is real.  This is a fitting time to once again read the poem by David Whyte that Fr. Dillon sent me:

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 ~


Since I first read this poem to you, Dear, I have been beneath the still waters daily, sometimes hourly, every minute, every second.  I know I will return there again, but I have a good feeling that it will no longer be as scary, or as dark, and when I reach the surface my pockets will be filled with small gold coins.