I am an accomplished griever.

Yes, I admit it, “accomplished griever” is a unique
title, especially in this society which relishes not
grieving. We live in a culture that says “someone is doing well” after a loss when they are Stoic, when they are holding their “stiff upper lip” in place above their eyes-to-the-horizon chin.

I have learned that I would rather claim my position at the wailing wall and allow the truthful emotions that come with grief to flow than negate the beauty within the sadness.

Today contained one of those classic, grieving moments.

I have experienced several significant losses in the past few days. Denial stood between me and my emotions and I noted to RJ on the way home from rehearsal last night, “My eyes hurt. It is like there is a layer of salt on top, begging me to
cry it all away.”

“Let it out, JJ” my friend responded with all the passion of an experienced albeit youthful thespian. “Emote! Emote!”

I laughed. Out loud. Long.

I held it there until an hour ago when I needed to move my sadness before it morphed into fear and took me headlong into despair.

Hank and I walked. “A short walk” I promised.

He was happy no matter what length walk we took.

The tears came. And came some more. And came some more.  I cried loudly and didn’t care. I put the Mona Lisa look on briefly when a muted red pick-up drove up with a waving neighbor inside.

One more house away, I cried again.

“Sit in the flow of the river,” whispered the wind. “Climb into your boat self and feel the sunset against your skin,” it coaxed.

My tears paused as I remembered. I felt supported by the Earth with no blanket between her and my crossed legs. I watched the beauty unfold as the sun took its daily leave. I smelled the dust and the air and the traces of lead left by my pencil. I heard it scratching and the music of the wind against the grasses kissed my spirit and
followed the tracks of my tears to my heart.

The divine massaged my heart and reminded me that all was well.

Brother David Steindl-Rast wrote, ““God’s inexhaustible poetry comes to me in five languages: sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. All the rest is interpretation – literary criticism, as it were, because poetry resists translation. It can be fully expressed only through its original language, all the more true of the divine poetry of sensuousness.”

I breathed deeply in the here and now and was greeted by the richly satisfying scent of a waning, deep pink rose in the yard of one of my neighbors.

I smiled and thanked the Divine for the poetry, surrounding me, ever ready to remind me and bring me present to the love, all encompassing, which always surrounds me.