My living grief

(This article was originally published on my Facebook page, November 22, 2017.)

I was challenged today to draw or find a picture that represented my grief, and then write about it. I couldn't find the right picture (and I certainly can't draw it!), so I tried to paint the picture in words:

My grief is like a living purple heart tucked safely inside a treasure chest. The heart itself is made of the beautiful love I have for my son; my own broken heart, shattered by self-doubt and sorrow; and the pulsating power that is grief.

I keep it in a special hand-crafted treasure chest, custom-made to honour my grief, lined with the softest cream velvet. I don’t leave it unattended, but take it out frequently. Sometimes, we sit together peacefully without words, sometimes we reminisce about happier times, and occassionally we attempt philosophical conversations in a futile effort to find meaning. Other times, my grief is angry and it storms and screams and tears me to pieces but I trust it and I love it, so I don’t resist. I know it needs to rage.

I take my grief with me as I go about my day, holding onto it like a worry stone in my pocket where nobody can see. It’s not that I’m selfish with my grief, I share it. But only with who I want, when I want, and how I want. Only when I feel safe that this precious treasure will be understood and honoured.

Our time together is never easy, but I cherish it. When I’ve spent enough time with my grief, I gently tuck it away for later.

Mostly, my grief listens and is content to rest in its velvet lining until I come back for it, knowing it won’t be long. Sometimes, though, it needs to stay close to me. Then, Grief starts by asking nicely if it can stay up just a bit longer, tempting me with an irresistible memory or feeling. If I don’t listen, it gets grumbly and struggles and resists as I shove it back in its box, but it rarely fights for long because it doesn’t want to hurt me. Every so often I forget to turn the key in the lock, and my grief gets lonely and jumps out to surprise me. I think it means well, but the shock is a like a horse-kick to my stomach. Still, I’ll visit with it for a while before thanking it and sending it on its way, unless it came at a very inopportune time, in which case I slam it carelessly in its box and secure the lid tightly with a promise to come for it as soon as I can. Sometimes it sneaks out and is stealthy. I may not even notice it until hours later, when I’m wondering why I’ve accomplished nothing, done nothing, thought nothing. Then, I’ll see Grief peeking out at me from around the corner, and I can only invite it over to snuggle up with me and share a cup of tea while I let the world turn without me for a while.