By now grief was deep-seeded within and it was consuming me. My husband was painfully aware of how much I missed my mother. I knew there wasn’t anything he could do to help. Nor was there anything he could say to make me feel better. I needed to walk this journey alone, and alone I did. It was enlightening. At the time of our marriage, we lived a half a block away from a walking trail. I took my dog, Schnookies, with me through these trails. The solitude did me good. I allowed my feelings to flow through my eyes. Those tears were cleansing. I allowed the hurt to fill my lungs. The moments I couldn’t breath brought me to my knees. I didn’t realize how much my body needed a release. My dog was my support during this time. She sat with me. She gave me kisses. She would look back while walking to make sure I was ok. To look into her eyes, was to look into her soul and I know she saw mine. We walked every day, I walked farther each day. I talked with God (sometimes out loud and sometimes yelling). Out in these trails, the freedom I felt was emancipating. I felt lighter each day. I understood that my body had been crying out for help too. I was so caught up in my emotions for two years that I neglected the toll grief takes on the body.
I recalled a counselor I saw roughly twenty years ago and before we got started with each session, we would meditate and I would focus on what part of my body was bothering me the most. Amazingly, when we began focusing on the body part first, and then the issue, it all came together and that part felt better.
So, on our walks, I started to do that. I paid attention to my body. Once I focused on stomach pain. Stomach…where food goes…food is nutrient…nutrients sustain me…mom sustained me…without mom I don’t get the nutrient only she can give…need to find new nutrient; not comparable or substitute for there isn’t any. While this is just a synopsis to what was a rather long revelation, it was, in fact, a revelation. Schnookies sat with me while I cried and hugged her.
I made note every time my body hurt or pained in an unusual spot or for longer than normal.
A sharp pain in my foot led to the discovery of a memory with Jerry that I had forgotten since his passing but always cherished. He was in town one year for an event, there was dancing and he asked me to dance. He taught me the waltz. I adored it. People stepped aside as no one was dancing like that. It was painful to recall because it was one of the best memories I shared with Jerry. As I allowed the memory to overtake me, the pain subsided and now, I can think of that moment with a smile, not a tear.
I was at a crucial moment in my journey. I was learning how to grieve. In a way that was working for me. I learned that even though memories were all I had, they didn’t have to be the enemy. They were becoming joyous again. Bringing smiles where there were only tears. I wasn’t avoiding them. They weren’t hurting as much. A delicate balance was building between pain and joy and I was still on the teeter-totter of grief.
Next Week: Abandoned by my church
Until next time…
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