For Thor - 25 - Breathless

Today, Mama is not okay. I woke up with an extra heaviness on my chest. Moving through my morning Yoga postures caused the dam break. Wracking sobs overwhelmed me, and an ocean of tears was let loose. Nope, Mama, is not okay. Not. Not. Not.

In the wake of Valentine's Day, which was very hard (I put a brave face on it for the rest of the family), I am flung back into the deepest part of the abyss. It hurts to be here where I can't breathe, and I can't escape. Each day that passes, and especially holidays, gradually concretize the fact that you are physically dead and are not coming back, ever. My psyche only permits acceptance of this horror a tiny bit at a time. The facts gain more solidity and weight as time ticks on. I cry a lot and hope in vain that this river of tears can wash away the horror. I imagine that somehow, my tears and pleas restore rightness; the rightness of you living and breathing among us.

My head can't get around the facts of this new reality. Am I backsliding into denial? It seems that grieving works, not in a linear expression of phases, but in spiraling cycles. I move through each step and do a little work on each, one at a time. Then I am back around to the beginning again, only up a level further on the spiral. Denial, sadness, anger, forgiveness, acceptance, denial, sadness, anger, forgiveness, acceptance….and on and on. Some days it feels like I am working on more than one at a time. These are hard days to handle.

Turning into the pain and facing these facts requires bravery. I am not shying away from writing the word "dead." Still, there is a big part of me that remains wrapped a protective bubble. I am only permitted to feel as much as I can bear and process each day. This shielding must be the work of Grace acting as a step-down transformer or governor switch. Grace actively throttles the pain and helps me to endure this unendurable anguish. It keeps me from losing my fucking mind. On this level, in the physical realm, Mama's heart is broken and hurts big time.

Meanwhile, I am finding new pathways into deeper consciousness. In the deep well of grief, I experience a hyper-expanded state of awareness. It is here that I can feel my way along the tethers that connect us all to Divine Source, and I can touch you. It is here that my heart, having been cracked open by grief, is overwhelmed with love and gratitude. The tears that flow are from a sacred pool that is sustained by the well-spring of Love. These are the same tears that Mary sheds for Jesus and that Quan Yin sheds for all human suffering. These are the same tears that every person sheds when their ripped open heart must learn to heal through compassion and love.

Reconciling the real mom with the existential, spiritual mom is hard. Yeah, I know the truth. I know you are okay and free beyond my understanding. I know you are still here with us in our lives and that there is good yet to come from this tragedy. I know that you are not the body and mind, but are immortal Self. You are my badass angel looking over me - over all of us.

However, knowing the truth doesn't mean we get an automatic pass on suffering. The work of grief results in reconciling two vantage points - the physical realm where suffering and sorrow exists and the realm where we are all connected in love. The one leads to the other if I can build the bridge and cross it.

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
thrown by those who wished for something else.
-- David Whyte

There are great rewards for those who are fearless of being breathless and willing to dive deeply.

Your hurting, broken Mama needs refuge in the deepest quiet of the well of grief. Here can heal the acute anguish of the day. Here I'll find you, and hopefully, my Self, too.

I love you,
Mom