It was not my husband’s first stroke or the last stroke or any of the strokes in between that brought me to my knees. It was my disconnect. I lost my way and could not remember grief – the depth and breadth of it, the sorrow and angst and even the joy of it.
Joy and grief… Fifteen years ago I would not have put those words/thoughts together. Today, after years of disconnect, my heart sings me this rich song of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. All within this first part of Grief.
Yes, Grief with a capital G. This is not a moment out of time. This is a dance that has become part of my movement. It is not subliminal. It is a force of nature and just as Sky Mother may cry for all her children I may grieve. I grieve.
Today as I drove down the highway a motorcycle came up on my left side. I cannot tell you what the rider, the man, looked like. I can tell you that his arms became my husband’s arms – strong, flexed, powerful. I drove down the highway with memories streaming like a video. My husband and I in moments passed and present until the fabric of time became seamless and one moment became all moments.
As the memories settled into the backdrop of the day I again heard a motorcycle come up on my left side. There were those arms. Same motorcycle, same man, same road, same world and then Grief…
At night my fingers whisper touch the lines of muscle and tendon that I read like braille. The stories sinew and muscle pull from my memory are wild, calm, fierce – my Beloved.
Today my husband holds my hand. His grip is firm, his gait steady… today. I want to freeze this moment and carry it in my pocket so when this moment is gone, and another that may be a bit less steady comes to stay, I may take out that freeze frame and look at it, refresh my memory.
Today, this moment, Grief grips me.
As I think this I feel. I feel that terror of losing something, someone, all pacing at the base of my throat near the pulse that refuses to relax, rest, be at peace.
Here I fight the moment and the memory and the rising Grief until I am in a flood of emotion with physical manifestations of sweat, unsteady breath, headache and chest ache and fingers spreading to feel.
We are packing our belongings and moving our home once again. This time I thought we might stay in this place, in this town, and I began to put down roots. Silly things roots. They want to spread and take hold and the taproot wants to nourish all.
The taproot had remained unfurled for so long that it took a bit of coaxing to find its way to the heart of the Mother. Now I’m asking it to pull up again and move to another piece of land.
Even the taproot needed time and space to grieve.It told me of the rich earth and the nature of its desire to stay and to shape the world here.
Disconnected and wandering I was not even sure about shaping the world.
And then the sun rose and I heard that first bird singing the song of making for the world to come awake.
Oh yes, that is what was missing, the song of making.
In my life the song of making streams from my husband’s smile. Such a small and intimate piece is that smile. The way his top lip curls and the bottom lip spreads thick and full. Such a lush landscape is my Beloved’s smile.
For five days I lost that smile. I grieved. The bathroom heard my sobs while the fan struggled to contain the whimpers and full-bellied Grief.
I cried in the corners of my home where once I held the crystal Apache tears to bless and protect. My tears have melded with those and on still nights when darkness fills the corners I hear the Grief of those who came before me mingling with my own.
So where does Grief take me now? Grief and I may walk of a morning – in the twilight before day’s making is fully formed. For a moment we walk a silver gray ribbon where ghosts are full-bodied and all possibilities play before us. Then the day awakes and the illusions I have agreed to come back into place. There is a sharp, piercing pain or sound. It is difficult to differentiate as they are one-in-the-same to me.
Today I let go of many pieces that were memory laden. It was time. And as I sit with my taproot fully extended I let the memories flow and those pieces lost or perceived lost – those I Grieve.
Theresa McGoff Ferreira has been telling stories and sounding since she discovered that her mouth was meant for something other than holding her fingers and toes. Her quest to understand the world around her when someone could not answer her questions supported the growth of her creative interpretation of how things work. Sound is her favorite sculpting tool.
You may think you already know how the world works.
Come into Resa’s World for a few moments. See what the weaver has done to all those tangled threads we leave in the corner, in the middle, on the edge.
No one weaves quite like Resa, or you may call her Theresa. No matter… the weaving and the sound do not care what you call her. It does care what she calls you.
Come into Resa’s World…
Read Grief, Part Forgiveness by Resa
Resa broadcasts on Silver Tent Radio about How Sound Shapes Your Life. Listen to Part 8 Here
Back to the blog page