For Thor - 53 - Ramblin' Rose

It feels mostly good to get back into the swing of things. I also feel like I'm doing some of this stuff for the very first time. In some ways, I suppose that's true. When you died, and I began the terrible process of grieving which profoundly changed me. Now I am slowly learning how to live, again, from this new orientation.

I used to live out of my head. I thought, pondered, and analyzed my way through the day. I worried over words in conversation and held back heartfelt expression, unsure of its value in my world of busyness. I ran at a too-fast pace, missing so many beautiful details and opportunities for meaningful connection. I lost precious years of your short time here. I was tired, exhausted and lost in the craziness I had created. I struggled to find peace and joy in each moment, driven as I was. Then death blew my mind. All that buzzing bullshit came to a screeching halt. The grooves in my mind where years of thinking had worn familiar tracks were gone. That tsunami wave of tragedy crashed over, erased and wiped them clean like sand on a shore; a hard reset.

I can't live out of my head, anymore. Trying to do so gives me a headache and makes me feel physically ill. The well-spring of energy that moves me sourced much more deeply. It rises from through my heart from the soul. The mind is just a collection of functions that gets this body from A to B and allows me to do stuff, like write these words. I walk in the world now with a softness I maybe only had as a young child. I mean, shit, the worst has already happened to me. My beloved son is dead, and I have had to keep breathing. I don't have anything left to protect anymore. Your death left me wide open and vulnerable; I live from this space. There is no purpose for a mind that plots and plans out of fear. I live from love. I'm a big heart, with feet.

When I began my tentative ventures back out into the world, Nana coached me to have my response ready when people ask about the family…or you. I practiced a bit, rolling the words around on my tongue to see if I could utter them without bursting into tears. It's good to be prepared for social situations. People always ask about your family, Do you have kids? "Yes. I have three sons; two are living." or, Cassandra! Where have you been? I never heard back from you about xxx. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch; I've been on leave." Why? "We lost our eldest boy this past New Year." Oh! I'm so sorry for your loss! "Thank you, sincerely." I can practice for the direct questions; this is good for me and the person I'm talking to who has no idea that under this fragile veneer of control is a swirling sea of grief that could swamp us both. Practice desensitizes me to the words. I can say them and not feel my heart twist. I can glide by them and blink away the sting in my eyes if I practice.

Being prepared is one thing. But it's the moments when my guard is down when I casually share stories from my life that are deceptively dangerous. Anyone who knows me knows I like to talk about you and your brothers. Any topic anywhere could eventually find me lending a tale from my life with you three. "One time me and my boys…" or "My boys tease me about…"Every time I made chicken and dumplings, Thor would show up for supper…"

The words dry up in my mouth. My mind freezes. I suddenly stop breathing in mid-sentence. I am so used to talking about my boys, my THREE boys. Who are now my TWO living boys, and my ONE dead boy. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

One. Dead. Boy. For as much work as I've done processing this horrible fact, this tragedy, I still get caught on the barbs of these words. They are cruel as they cut into my still-raw heart.

This is how I walk about these days. I appear fine, regular, unchanged. But I harbor inside of me a swirling vortex that spins down into the core of Life and connects me with something so vast and primordial, I barely feel human, at times. I am trying to figure out what's next, what am I supposed to do? All of this happens while I seem to be doing what is normal - going to meetings, buying groceries, working with my team, planning things for your brothers. My only refuge is to be present in each moment and allow whatever comes to express, which may bring tears. Sometimes I fall into the wellspring of love, and the expansion it creates in my being allows a wave a gratitude and peace to flow into those painful places to soothe and calm them. Sometimes I need to be alone, focused on weeding my garden or washing the dishes where I breathe out the pain in long, puffing sighs. It reminds me of Lamaze breathing in labor. That fits, this is labor for certain.

It's hard to talk about it, anymore. I feel like a record on repeat. Sad. Angry. Grateful. Sorrowful. Love. Hopeful. Wistful. Longing. Sad. Sorrowful. Wistful. Angry. Grateful. Longing. Love. And on and on. I spent hours, days, weeks and months processing these states of being through the lens of grief. How do I talk about them anymore? I've said all I can say. The facts never change. You are dead. I am not. You are free. I am grieving. Your story ended. Mine is twisted in tragedy. You are fixed in time, forever young. I've aged a decade in the past six months. You are my angel-guide, ever at my side. I feel you with me, always. You are dead. I play on.

I'm a Rambling Rose, today, Thor. Maybe it's because life gains momentum as I get back to work and attempt to find my footing and I don't have time to process and write to you as often. I only get snippets at a time, and I don't always have the hour or two to deeply explore when feelings surface. But it's okay. This is part of the story, too. I am learning to integrate and incorporate my continual transformation into something useful in the world. What good are all these insights if I can't share the light with others? I have less time to sit quietly in the navel of sorrow, but it doesn't matter, the current of love that runs through this sea of grief continues to work on softening and shaping me. I just have to keep showing up. The way will reveal itself.

I love you,
Mom