Digging for Joy

I have cried buckets of tears,
rested for two months,
drove over 2000 miles,
downsized my instrument collection of one piano and a set of congas,
cleaned out my closets of unused items,
​parted with Pete's wheelchairs,
and poured my thoughts into 168 pages in my journal.
And in so doing, I have uncovered joy.

Last night I sat outside after a huge thunderous rain storm and gave thanks to God, the ground beneath me and the Mother of us all, for being present with me. She has shone enough light on my path for me to see my way forward and my way inward and my way outward.

Stella belongs to dear friends Jeff and Chelli. But she loves me and is determined to teach me all about dog kisses.

Pete used to always say that I had what the French call joi de vivre, a life giving joy that walks into a room before I do. And although I was quick to joke, to laugh and to make light of almost anything life was throwing at me, I had a hard time finding this joy within myself. I’m not sure when this joy started to hide but I have a pretty good idea of what started to pile on top of it.
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For me in the second year of grief as a widow, I began to see more clearly the pain I experienced as a caregiver. I started to have more words for the struggles I had navigated. I could feel again. And the feelings that swarmed in my head, feelings of anger and frustration and regret and even bargaining, finally settled into my body in the form of sadness and depression. And as my therapist explained to me, once we feel sadness in our bodies, we can no longer run away from it. Sadness takes up residence and it becomes a companion. And this companion has been helpful, even if not always embraced. My companion named Sadness came with tears that were new and surprising. It was if this new round of tears washed me, cleansed me and rinsed away years of pain.

A few days away with my "sistas" Anita and Dawn. We all took turns being captain.

That sounds great, right? Having years of pain washed away. But with the pain went memories and experiences and love and promises made and kept. Staying in those tears was an essential part of my healing. I needed to feel the loss to be able to name it. And once I could name it, I was invited to let it go. The invitation was open and unending. It was mine to accept, in my own timing. Letting go of a lifetime of life, letting go of the past season of life is not easy. In fact it’s downright terrifying.

I was reminded of an element of a ropes course I’ve done several times. Have you been on a ropes course before? High up in the trees, strapped in for safety with ropes and wires and carabineers. If you can imagine holding onto a rope attached to the high wire and moving forward there is another rope ahead – but it is just far enough away that I must let go of the rope I am holding onto in order to take hold of the one in front of me. And in order to move forward, to make it to the next ledge, I must let go of what I have and reach hopefully and trustingly for the next rope. None of us want that choice. We like what we have. We are accustomed to what we have. And who is to say the pain we experienced with what we are holding won’t happen again with the next thing?

You can see how cyclical my thinking got while I imagined letting go of the life I knew. This letting go I believe is what they call “acceptance.” Accepting that the life I had is no longer available to me. I knew it in my head. But once my heart felt it, there was no going back, only going through and moving forward.

Perhaps history will say I found my joy in Hope Springs, NC at the Wild Goose Festival.

This is a hard piece to write because I will most certainly feel sadness again and again. Grief is a journey and I am most certainly not at the end of it. And if I’m honest I think I’ve only glimpsed a little bit, a few feet or so ahead of the next leg of my journey. But it feels lighter and freer. And I could go on and on, definitely for a different time, about how I am still figuring out what I want or need and I have a terrible time asserting my wants and my needs still. I am not naive to think this newfound feeling of joy is an end. But it is gift enough to say it aloud.

So here is my truth today -
I have cried buckets of tears,
rested for two months,
drove over 2000 miles,
downsized my instrument collection of one piano and a set of congas,
cleaned out my closets of unused items,
​parted with Pete's wheelchairs,
and poured my thoughts into 168 pages in my journal.
And in so doing, I have uncovered joy.

Thank you God, the ground beneath me and Mother of us all.​