Take Take the time it takes | The art of moving through #100sharesproject 45/100

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The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
~ Khalil Gibran
Thursday 2 June 2016
45/100
The last 3 weeks of my life have been filled with tragedy and grief.  I didn’t think I could take one more thing and then one more thing came along.
More death.  More loss.
And then I woke up the next morning and was still here and had to show up to a full day of doing all the things.  And I did it.
I don’t know what to do with this stretching beyond what I thought I could handle.
I didn’t expect capacity to show up.  Capacity + a heart full of questions and sadness.   And anger.  There’s a fair measure of anger because some of this seems senseless to me.
Quite frankly, I’m tired of my own emotions.  I want to cut them off.  Put them in a box.  Not look at them.  But, I’ve learned that storing up pain and anger doesn’t serve me.  It shows up later as a migraine or shaking hands.  As extra pounds or a knot in my shoulder and usually an injury of some sort.
I have learned the very hard way that grief must take the time it takes.
There are no short cuts or walk arounds.  There is only through.
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One of the practical ways that I move through is to find a way to say all the words.  It does no good to store emotions in my cells.  And so I say them.  Every last one of them.  I write down every question and every fist shake.  I wrap words around tears and unknowns.
And I make marks.  Intense marks.  Tentative marks.  Scribbly marks.  Because sometimes the right kind of line says all the things. I recommend a big ass black marker for grief marks.
And then I put the whole thing through the paper shredder.  Or cry over it.  Or paint over it.  Or write poems and sacred text over it.  Whatever makes it safe to say the thing.
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Today the hydrangeas were bent over with the weight of all the water from the last two days of storms.  The herbs on the back deck look beat up.  And one beautiful hollyhock just lay down on the ground.
I get you hollyhock.  Me, too.  I just want this to be over.
And it will be.  It will all take the time it takes.  And I will emerge.  Different for having known the people and experiences that are now gone.  Still, I cannot reconcile their absence in the world.
All I know is that I must remain awake and aware.  Even if awake and aware has me weighted down with grief.
What I know is that eventually, the plants lift their heads.  The water soaks in.  The weight lifts.
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I hope today that you are present.  Whether your head is lifted high or you’re moving through.  Be here.  Take the time it takes.  May your story be infused with grace and peace.
BE in your life,
Betsy
By | 2016-10-19T14:20:23+00:00 June 2nd, 2016|Uncategorized|4 Comments

About the Author:

I create containers for words and paint and I fill them. I craft safe, sacred spaces for people to wrestle, create, heal and shout from the mountain tops.
 
And I teach people to do all of these things for themselves.

  • I’m going to Lowe’s tomorrow to buy the lemon hollyhocks that introduced themselves to me yesterday. I will plant them in both my gardens, and when I see them, they will remind me of you and your grief musings. And of Josiah. And Shirley. And Fidg. And Alan. And Sarah. Always Sarah.

    • Oh! I love when plants introduce themselves to me. Plants connected to loved ones are particularly precious. They are visually beautiful and store memory and story. Take photos!

  • Kathy Mercure

    I’d love to see your garden, this I know for sure… I love that your garden is your buoy on rough seas. The beautiful thing about many plants is that they are resilient. When peonies get bent over with rain, they tell me to take them inside, shake off the water and allow their beauty to light up my office and remind me that beauty and grace are everywhere.

    • It’s a tiny little garden + a deck full of herbs. Tiny and full of lessons and metaphor and message. “they tell me to take them inside, shake off the water and allow their beauty to light up my office and remind me that beauty and grace are everywhere.” <— Your peonies are so wise. <3