the refining fire in QUOTIDIEN

The undercurrent of sadness began to pick up momentum recently now that all of the physical stuff such as selling and relocating has been completed. Little did I realize, I was dealing with the gracious reprieve of grief work deferred. Now that the smoke has cleared I can see, not only the horizon before me....but all around me. This entire universe maddeningly continues to turn, and twinkle, and move on while I pull, one step after yet another, out of the suck of death’s maw.

And me - well, I have this M.O.: I know myself better than anyone - and since death is a natural thing, the healing should be a natural thing, so asking for help isn’t really necessary. 

Except - it became noticeably so to the grief counselor, who just happens to be an inner-circle friend of mine who has respected my M.O. for as long as she could stand. Wednesday morning she gave me an assignment. ‘I want you to write a letter to David, and tell him exactly how you feel. Be brutally honest with him and with yourself. You can’t break him.’ I failed to see how this could possibly help anything except maybe allow for roots to set into the fertile soil of emotional muck, but I was asked to trust the process. 

I began to type, ‘Dear David’, but what came to mind next felt shallow and insincere. I stopped, began my breathing meditation as I allowed my mind to sink inward, deeper towards the core of ‘I’, where an inner-river of feelings flows like molten lava. I could feel the heat of it. I closed my eyes, breathed even deeper, and allowed the sadness as well as a surprising reserve of devastating anger to rise up on the thermals. I ignored the shock, and kicked past the fear. That which I thought would anchor me to this place was promising to set me free, and I was in no way desirous of impeding its progress.

My truth is that there existed far more than the grief caused by death. There was prevenient grief as a result of a life-time of little deaths…little murders, that I lowered my eyes and bowed to. I leveled my charges. I named them all, from those things that shamed me, to acknowledging the horror that this man who claimed to love me, knowingly allowed that I bear silent witness as he slowly killed himself before my very eyes. My soul sought his energy as it screamed, ‘j’accuse, j’accuse’

It has been a few days now and the ferocity of my feelings has somewhat abated, and through the haze of negative emotion rises the crystal clear knowledge of my love for the man I vowed my life to those 31 years ago. 

The resentments have been aired, the feelings passed through the refining fires, leaving behind a lasered clarity that is enabling me to move forward.

My grief counselor asked, today, what I thought my next assignment should be. I didn’t need long to think before I told her I’d be writing a love letter to him. ‘It is no accident that I remained with this man for as long as I did. I loved him - in spite of everything, I have always loved him.’

‘And then? What will your next assignment be?’ ‘My farewell letter. It’s time to say ‘goodbye’.’

I know the work is far from done, but this week has taught me that guidance from someone who ‘knows’ is appropriate, and available!

‘What if I get stuck in grief?’

‘Are you kidding me, MJ? You are far too impatient to sit around and let that happen. You’ll do more than survive. You’ll go on to LIVE!’

Last updated September 29, 2014