It has been more than two months since we last went up to the cabin.
It was intentional though neither of us will admit it.
Instead we talked about the snow, going hiking, de-cluttering, choir rehearsals and every other thing, even though we’ve already out it with each other- the cabin brings back sad memories. It hurts, even though it had given us such pleasure and joy, and we will never ever forget the creek that runs by it, the apple-picking, the snow on the branches and the surrounding forests.
But to put the cabin on the market we would need to have a realtor look it over, and so yesterday, after much procrastination, R drove up by himself after lunch, met the realtor, took a look around and then drove back down home, in time for dinner. I felt guilty. Going up was as hard for me as it was for him. I ought to have stood in solidarity with him, be there- even if there was nothing I could do. But I did not. I just looked away and let him go. By himself.
The good news is, the realtor thought the cabin was pretty unique. He confessed not being keen to drive half an hour to look at a built-in-1969 cabin but he said it truly is unique, and has the advantage of being next to the river and the setting is beautiful. The interior of knotty pine panels is also seldom seen these days.
The other good news is, he did not suggest a major overhaul to sell it, as he said anyone buying an old cabin should expect some work and upkeep. Just a fresh coat af paint, a new toilet, and cleaning up the yard.
The yard, that’s the bad news.
It was an old tree, really old, and practically dead. We knew it had to come down one day. And the recent storms took care of it, and several other. The yard was strewn with fallen branches and tree parts, R said.
He shrugged. At least no one was injured, and the top part broke off and went with the river and did not damage our neighbor’s property across the creek.
Uprooted. Chaos. Mess. Neglect.
I looked at the pictures R brought home and it felt like a portrait of the aftermath of our hearts after Ferdinand died. It still feels like that on some days.
I studied the photos and tried to find parallels between our devastation and the yard’s. How did it all come to this?
Nature. Randomness. Life.
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The past weekend was an intense one as my friend M and I together figured out if the remedy she recommended would work for me. She also needed me to provide feedback on my sensations, feelings and how I physically felt. When one has ceased to be mindful for so long, to be aware and notice can take a huge amount of effort.
And the sharing of emotions. M assured me that it is ok, sometimes it feels strange to look at our feelings and talk about it, but all things need to come to surface, even if painful, she said, in order to let things heal.
All weekend we exchanged emails and she kept probing me, a part of the homeopathic curative process, she said, to delve deeper, peeling away layers, facing, being aware.
Tell me about this missing, this pain.
Tell me about the love for your son.
Tell me about the impatience, the anger.
Talk to me about this heavy weight on your chest, how big? What material is it?
This is the center of your healing process. Don’t worry too much about your family. It is your turn, now. The mother is the heart of a family. If you are healed, strong and happy, this will spread into your family.
you can’t get rationally over your grief. It is impossible. Try to forget about all kind of stories that helped other people, this is not you.
It was cathartic. Talking about everything, paying attention to all the sensations, feelings, and giving voice to them. I realized I had neglected for quite a while to connect with that grief. It startled me a little, that I could separate that grief from my mundane daily life for some time.
But after that weekend, it seemed something lifted. I felt light, and calm. I felt grief was like a cloud that passed over me and it was bright again. I also knew that the cloud will come again, and I will need to do all that again, and then again, and again. Grief almost felt like a gift then, something to demand that I pause, take care, notice, and be aware, to take care of myself and place my hand to the heart, the pulse, the pain, and listen to it carefully. And treat it, and myself, with care and tenderness.
The interesting thing is Grief seems so much a part of me, but now it seems like a separate entity. It is foreign feeling. It still feels like that sediment of my life. Sometimes settling to the bottom, sometimes getting all stirred up into a frenzy, but always there, never dissolved.
How about you? How do you view your relationship to Grief? Has it changed? Do you conduct regular house-keeping, or do you let the weeds take over?
Ferdinand's Gifts 