We are sitting in the living room, she in the oversized chair, and I in the fur-covered couch. There’s a joke about the amount of fur floating in the living room, and then there’s grief. Just grief. It’s heavy in the living room, and in between the conversation, in the silence, there is the sound of children laughing outside.
Life goes on, the laughter reminds me. When we want to sit and stay in the moment, cry, grieve, life simply goes on. What has been stolen from us is not noticed in the laughter and in the cars driving by. We are broken but they keep moving.
I remember the day after I found out my Mom was moving out, and as I walked, empty, through the hallways of school, I wondered, did I look different? Did I look as wounded as I was on the inside? Did people know that the person I was yesterday no longer inhibited this body?
I felt the same way two weeks ago when I received the news of Karin’s passing. I couldn’t be alone, just yet, so I wandered through Winner’s, moving the shirts one by one by one but really I was focussed on the strangers around me. Did they know a hole had been created that wouldn’t be filled – nor, perhaps did I want it to be?
I am not quite sure how to handle change – it’s like the moment I think I have myself figured out, something shakes me and I’m different again. I think that’s really the hard part about change. It’s not the change itself … but it’s leaving behind who you used to be. You have to figure out how to be again.
And the new you is different, and it’s strange. There’s new feelings of sadness, or a wound that is tender, or a heart that feels deeper than it did before. It’s not all bad. It’s just you have to figure out how it’s good, too. And that’s the journey. Finding the hope sprinkled in the pain.
It’s there. It just takes a little while to figure out where.
But it’s there.