Does the week begin on Sunday or Monday? It’s always infuriatingly debatable, and our world has had enough of debates and both sides and binary bullshit. I’m taking this Saturday night as the end of the week, because it was a week that kicked my ass and it needs to be over. We were scheduled to be in New Jersey for my late Uncle’s celebration of life service, but storms and bad weather caused Mom to wisely cancel the trip. It’s a shame we can’t see and be with family, especially all that’s happened in the past year, but we will make it up later in the season when there is no more threat of snow and ice. Those days are coming, I have faith.
As for these last few days, they have been… days. Maybe the expectations that spring always brings proved to be too great. Maybe the state of the world and how toxic it feels that everything has gotten are finally getting to me. Maybe I’m just feeling beat-down by a week of therapy, doctor’s appointments, prescription pick-ups, and the meat-free Fridays of Lent I’ve been guilted into practicing. (Thank you to Catholicism and my former life as an altar boy!)
Rather than fight the malaise or change the narrative by some false buoying of spirits, I’ve been facing the sadness and downtrodden days. It hasn’t even been close to a year since Dad died, and this winter, while relatively benevolent, seems to be sticking around (judging by the snow and ice that’s suddenly back). In my daily meditations, I’ve been refocusing on what I’ve felt during the day, acknowledging those moments of doubt and worry, allowing the space to be a little less of what I’d like to be, and going a little easier on myself when my picky, persnickety perfectionist tendencies drag me down.
At both my doctor’s appointment and therapy sessions, when mention of my Dad arose, I said I was doing ok, and as soon as I said it I knew the next day or two would bring moments where I suddenly wasn’t ok, because that’s what seems to be happening. And then I hear from friends who understand, who have been through it, and who say that’s the way it usually goes. There isn’t a finite end date for grief, and for someone whose Virgo-nature likes a schedule and a plan, that’s difficult to accept. My head knows this, and understands this, and works to embrace this; my heart is in a messier state, and I’m learning to accept the mess.
Coated in ice, our Japanese umbrella pine and a stand of hydrangeas bow beneath the weight. It is the weight of a storm, and the weight of a bad week. And in all things that weep, there is beauty here.
