The Rollercoaster

What a weekend. It started off kind of great. I woke up in time for my yoga class, barely. There's been a long-standing challenge, or rather, an agreement between my mind and body: if I wake up in time for yoga class on Saturdays, I will go.  And so, I woke up about twenty minutes before class and my mind said Nope, not enough time. Suddenly, there a flair came shooting from my gut upward, and the sparks spelled out: Go, you fool! You can make it!  It is the first time since my father died, that I felt that fire, that motivation to do *anything*.  My body's need for exercise overrode my mind's need for grief.  I did make it to class and I'm glad.  After that, feeling empowered, I grabbed a coffee and headed to another Saturday regular. Seeing old friends after being gone for so long really fed my soul. They were so happy to see me, hugged me, welcomed me back. It reaffirmed my heart's need to get back out in the world. The sun was out,  it was pretty warm, and I felt lighter.

Maybe I was coming out of the fog that has enveloped me and obscured my own life. Maybe I was finding calmer seas.

With this tiny pearl of confidence, I decided to approach my father's journal. I held it in my hands, feeling the pen he had attached to the spiral binding, and smelling the still vibrant odor of the Sharpie. I made this journal for him after my mother died, as a gratitude journal, to help his spirit find some rest. In it, I included quotes from the Buddha, interspersed stamped designs, and an occasional "I love you Dad."  I knew all these things were inside.  I never knew if or how he used it until our first family cruise in 2008. He titled the journal "the Trip of a Lifetime." So from then on, I knew he was writing in it, presumably about the cruise experience, what we did, where we went...he never seemed the poetic sort. When we went on the second family cruise, in 2009, he brought it with him again.

After that, I hadn't seen or heard of it. Until after he died, when my aunt and I were cleaning out his dressers in the bedroom. Seeing the journal in his room, in his dresser, was one of the moments I'll never forget. All I could do was take it out and put it aside with the other small things I hoped to keep.

Back in my own house, in my own bedroom, I approached the journal, because I'd had a good day. And page, by page, I read it. I smelled the ink, I deciphered his handwriting and saw the poet emerging. A man writing about his mortality, his fear of losing his children, his grandchildren. His sadness about dying. His regrets about not being a good enough dad. Lovely comments about my mother still being "his girl."

I lost it. Totally and utterly lost it. I put on his watch, the one he always wore, and wept. Loudly. Viscerally. And I spend the rest of the weekend in our tv room/my alternative bedroom, cocooned in blankets, supported by pillows, comforted by the mindless television on which I did not have to concentrate. (I couldn't watch SyFy, though, even with its ultimate silliness, my usual escape.  My father and I spent hours watching SyFy together, and it's too poignant a reminder.)  So, I sat with my grief all weekend and it felt *awful*.  I wallowed in it, cradled it.

Where was my husband during all this? Hovering, just out of sight, like an angel waiting.  Each time I emerged from the cave, he was there for a hug, a slight touch of our hands as I walked by,  a kiss on my grief-stricken face.  He let me sit with my grief. Let me take the weekend off from life.

This morning, this Monday morning, I am still facing the abyss. Estate business beckons. I've got a gig coming up for which I need to learn the music. But the first thing I did, other than shower, was to send flowers to my beautiful friend Megan and her family for all the kindness, love, lodging and food they have extended to me over the past four months. I think starting each day with gratitude is a powerful tool  for recovery.

I am going to make my own gratitude journal today, as I did for my dad. Three things, each day, for which I am grateful.  A kindness done everyday for someone else.  I hope this will ease my ascent into my new normal life.  Stay tuned.