grief as water

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Grief is ever-changing like the moving water in a river or ocean, never stagnant or completely still. There is always something happening, something stirring under the surface or above, or both. Sometimes grief is a like a river in how it winds and twists and turns. Sometimes grief is like an ocean with its strong currents, undertows, and merciless waves coming again and again and again. Sometimes grief is like a ferocious hurricane over the waters, gathering force and spinning out of control, bent on destruction of some sort or another, affecting whatever is in its path. Sometimes grief is like the constant drip drip drip of a leaky faucet, always there and annoying in an innocent dutiful naive manner. Sometimes grief is like a rainstorm on a tin roof that sings a comforting song with its melody.

I hate grief. And yet. It is cleansing and clarifying, and altogether terrible and sweet and relentess, all rolled up into a world of its own. Like water can be, at times it is comforting and warm; but it can also be jarring and dangerous, even life-threatening. It is a world I never feel I belong in, yet when I visit I no longer feel a stranger there, I feel like it is a place I have been before and know well, yet wish I never had to visit again. And yet. I often feel connected in ways in the throes of grief that somehow feel solid, that allow me to feel close to what and who I have lost. That closeness seems at times to fade or go in and out of focus, like a tether to that long lost loved one, or a camera that just cannot seem to find its sweet focus spot anymore, the connection changes as the grief changes. Some days it is undeniably strong and unavoidable like the pain of a fresh burn; others it is a faded other-world-ness dream of a life lived in an alternate space, a space that often seems just out of reach if I try to touch it. Grief crashes, drowns, tricks, surprises, contorts, burns and cracks, and yet it also envelopes, hugs, clears, strengthens, and straightens. Grief is ever-changing.

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No man ever steps in the same river twice. For it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.

{Heraclitus}

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It is Good Friday, my third one since I knew there was no real personal Jesus or God in the sky watching over me or in my heart as close as my own breath. I wonder if some people think I am no longer a Christian because life just didn’t work out how I wanted, because my baby died, because people were so cruel to me, but no, it isn’t those things at all. It is because noone showed up. It is because of the silence and the lack, the nothingness, the non-existent. The empty space unfilled by a God who was begged to sit down and pull up a chair. I was met by noone but myself in that most deepest of places, then I knew.

I am angry today. I am crushed. I am gutted. None of it is true. Why am I fighting this dead horse that has been beaten to death with no life left in it? This is the strange odd way of grief. It has swooped in and stolen my breath away again. I am choking on my own silence, I find words hard to speak, hard to write, hard to find. The grief is burning today, it is flooding, and I am screaming silent screams as I thrash to find a limb to grab ahold of in this terrible awful place. Will I ever get over this loss of God? How long will I grieve Him? How does one let go of something that let go of you, of someone such as He? I wonder if I am slowly losing my mind sometimes, the grief is a bit maddening at times. I don’t want to be here, I want to be over this, over him, beyond all of it, in the peace and freedom that I have only tasted drops of. I don’t know where to turn, who to say anything to, isn’t everyone tired of hearing this? I will survive these tortourous waves, I will not be pulled under, I will keep fighting for myself and my life, there is much to live for, I know this, I deeply know this. But today is not a good day, this good friday, and yet, I am still here, and that in and of itself is a very good, a beautiful thing. I am where I am. I feel what I feel. Even now I fight internally to allow myself to just be where I am. To know what I know. To have lost what I have lost. Grief is allowed. It is necessary.

{zt}

**If you read this will you find a way in the big crazy world we live in to let me know? Just a very small hello across the cyber-lands? I need to know someone out there hears me and is just simply there, in my corner, cheering me on. Anyone there?

 

 

6 thoughts on “grief as water

  1. I read and commented on your post on Facebook a few days ago. Your lines about why and when you stopped believing: “because noone showed up,” and the lines that followed. It was so perfectly true of my experience, and so I started following you. It seems you lost a baby as well. I lost my newborn daughter in February of 1983. It was the darkest time of my life, but there have been many dark times since. I’ve had a lot of loss in my life, but none touched me in the way the loss of my daughter did…or maybe her death just set me up with some kind of strange, unwanted roadmap to use in navigating the periods of grief that came after. In any case…I’m reading, and “hearing” you. Please know that it does get better. One doesn’t need to believe in a deity to live a spiritual life.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you Barbara, I appreciate your words so much. I’m so sorry for all you have faced and lost on your own journey. Yes, I had a daughter who died by stillbirth and another by miscarriage. Deconversion triggered all the old grief and added new grief as well. Thank you again for sending encouragement 😊

      Like

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