Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Six months

Six months ago in the middle of the night, our phone rang and our world forever changed. It doesn't feel like it's been six months. Part of me thinks I'm still not able to feel much of anything because I'm still trying to figure out just how you're supposed to grieve.

I still have moments where I wish I could roll back the clock. I still feel powerless to fix the things that powers greater than I have deemed unfixable. I still question whether the things I choose to do or say are, in fact, the right things. I still find myself being hit by waves of sadness that remind me I'm nowhere near "done" this process. I don't think I ever will be.

Yet in some strange way, life has continued to evolve. I got a new job and threw myself into the opportunities inherent in a challenging new role at a fast-growing, forward-looking company. I started connecting with the real world again, getting out of my self-imposed writer's routine - countless hours spent alone in front of a laptop in a darkened home office - and back into a world of actual people, not ones you instant-message from the back deck.

Yet for all the new normalcy, new achievement and new potential, I still feel more than a little hollow. On the drive into work this morning - another new-to-me adventure - I turned a corner onto a rural road and saw a roadside memorial. As I made a mental note to return on my bike sometime, I connected the moment with my own need to remember. We all need to remember something, after all, and we all hope to similarly be remembered by others. Otherwise, what's the point of this life thing? Why bother if everything ends up back at nothing, as if we had never existed?

As I chewed on that nugget, the office grew larger in the windshield. I couldn't answer my questions any more effectively today than I could on a similarly grey morning in September, but I had an entire day ahead of me to make a difference in the lives of those around me. I parked the car and got started on another day where I hoped to leave a little something behind.

For now, it'll have to do.


Jeremiah Andrews said...

I was there the day you buried your father.

Loosing a parent is something that I am familiar with, allbeit, in a terrible form. What you do today, is a direct reflection of what your father would do. And I imagine that fairly often before you do something, you ponder, "what would he have done?" And I imagine you get an answer. I imagine that even though he is not visible, you know that he is not far away, probably more closer than you could ever imagine, just beyond the veil.

We never get over loss, but the pain, over time, lessens. The loss is replaced by love. A love that is eternal and pure. When energy is trained from negative to positive energy, lives are changed. One day you may find that sorrow you feel on occasion transforms for you into a blossom of love.

I think the lesson of death is this, to make use of every moment, to remember we are blessed, to make sure we know how to love in order that one day we can say goodbye.

He is not dead, as long as he remains in your memory and lives on in the actions you perform daily and also the traditions and lessons you pass on to your children, your family and your friends.

I believe he would tell you that you are not alone. And I believe that you know that now. You will have these moments from time to time, and I think these times are useful to remind us of our humanity. If we did not feel, then we would not learn. If we did not grieve, we would not know how to love.

At least you take time to document these moments. As they collect, they are snapshots of who you are becoming. Pay attention. Keep writing. Know you are in my thoughts.


MorahMommy said...

He's here in our hearts and in our memories. He's here when we tell the kids a zaidy story. He's here when we laugh and something that he would always do or say. He's here when we watch our children play with their cousins.

He'll always be here with us.

Love you! xoxo

srp said...

The "starting" and "doing" each day... it's enough.

fredamans said...

It has been 3 years for me losing my Dad, July 15. I feel your pain.


theMuddledMarketPlace said...

Grieving is entirely appropriate,
It just often hits us at Inappropriate times
Then we're all at sea.

Readjust, re focus, realign

The important lessons in life, I wasn’t taught them in school and yet so needed them even before I’d left it

Pearl said...

Mine died a month before yours Carmi. Still taken by the weepies. But far less than before and this week he appeared alive in my dreams for the first time since then.

congrats on the new job btw.