When I say that my grief is waist deep, don’t feel bad.
It means that I’m no longer drowning.
When I think I might write about something else,
My mind keeps circling back.
And that’s okay.
Writing is my therapy.
It allows me to focus.
To steady my grip.
Writing allows me to give a quiet voice to the thoughts that make me feel stuck.
It helps me to feel like I’m not on my own.
Not defeated and sad.
Even if just for a moment.
The focus moves from my heart to my head to the words that flow
And I become lost in a different way.
Lost, but fuelled by connection.
Lost, but leading to somewhere.
Lost, but filling in the blanks.
Grief is a beast.
And writing holds a mirror to that beast.
To the relative unknown.
I may not always recognize the beast that I see.
It may change its appearance from one day to the next.
But, by closing in and dissecting how it looks – through words and ellipses, different angles and lights – I can at least try to understand it just a wee bit more than I did the day before...
So I keep wading through it.
Through the wind and the waves and the worry.
Through the wreckage and the rise and fall.
And I let myself feel it.
I tip my head up.
I turn my back to the wind.
I ride the waves.
And I write.