Mid-January, Rain - January 13, 2012 |
January 08, 2009 Talking about Grief Dreaming about grief, writing about dreaming about grief. A signcard in front of a bedroom door: "GRIEVING THIS." Then listing underneath, all the things that went agley. Talking with my homeopath about grief and its possible connection to eczema. It is fortunate that I've kept this journal because I went back and looked at the winter of 2007, and discovered something significant. The virus I had, which spawned the first eczema outbreak, was one to two weeks after I broke up with James, not two months before. It came just when I decided I wouldn't have intimacy in my life. I was happy to be free; still, a door closed when I said, "If not like Will, then I won't bother." I'm grasping, here; I'm looking for connections. The dream last night was vivid. So many old, dusty spiderwebs; swaths of cobwebbing. I couldn't vacuum it all up. I never made it into the inner sanctum, the inside bedroom with the plaque outside the door like an art installation. "GRIEVING THIS." Underneath, all the things that were painful about a certain breakup. The public could go in; I was still trying to clean up the outer room. I think the key is not in recapturing some lost innocence, or mending some broken dream of love. The key is in accepting life on life's terms. Embracing life as something other than what I expected, but something rich and cunning nonetheless. Instead of reacting with horror when I look at where the skin is changing, cycling, blistering, I will try to be transparent to what I feel. I will try to remember that I am in the process of healing, and not be afraid to own up to what is passing with me in any given moment. ******** I cleaned the big house today; I did a good job. I was tired, though, so that after dinner I didn't want to sand cello pegs or try to play Pearl's cello again. We ate the lamb stew I brought, and the wonderful bread and dipping spices. We laughed and drank wine and looked at something on YouTube. I left not too late, forgetting my laundry again and coming back in for it, laughing. |
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