Browsing the archives for the grief tag
Yesterday I went to the store, and when I checked out, I noticed on the conveyor bunches of tulips that someone had decided against. I considered buying them, and thought (for a change), nah, I don’t need those. And then the clerk mistakenly scanned them. So I thought, well, maybe I do need them. And [...]
Max and I are feeling better lately, learning that “no feeling is final.” God Speaks God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody [...]
Yesterday I wrote that no matter how often I wax on about life’s cycles and seasons, they still take me by surprise. I am, apparently, a similarly slow learner when it comes to other topics. Just last night I was talking, well, texting, with a friend about the long process of grieving various aspects of [...]
The man asked his neighbor, a Buddhist Lama, why she meditates every day. Because someday I will die, she told him.
The Salvation Army picked up Gracie’s couch last week. The leather sectional, about ten years old, was worn out. No amount of vacuuming could remove all the dog hair from between the cushions. The torn places where Max had landed after lunging for a look out the front window had been repaired and ripped again. Towels had not completely [...]
“absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird” –The Time Traveler’s Wife. Thank you Griselda for this dark bird. Thank you Amy for the book that found its way to the top of the stack at just the right time and for this sonnet by Wordsorth: Surprised by joy – impatient as the wind [...]
The weekend after Gracie died, I picked up The Time Traveler’s Wife, which had been on my “to-read” pile since Amy Palko recommended it in June. The fact that I have continued to read it over the past ten days constitutes the best review I could give. When the Time Traveler goes, only his clothes [...]
The Well of Grief Those who will not slip beneath the still surface on the well of grief turning downward through its black water to the place we cannot breathe will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins [...]
