My body’s talking to me, and being loud about it. Tensing up, aching, being off balance. It’s been doing this for the past week.
I’m listening and I know what’s going on. It’s all about my Mom. The first anniversary of her death is nearing, and my body remembers. It’s calling for her and she no longer answers.
Last year, right from the start, the grief for my Mom was physical. My body was pain, muscles tensed and cramped, nerves agitated and on fire. I took medication to help ease and get me through, and it helped, but only time brought relief.
At first I wondered what was happening, then two weeks in I began to remember Mom caring for me through every childhood illness, helping me feel better, memory after memory after memory.
She wasn’t here to make me feel better.
I began to feel how physical my connection to her was.
Of course it was.
Her body created and nourished mine before I was born. The whole of me relied entirely on her for life after I was born.
Of course my body—I, we—grieved for her. I grieved for the hands that carried me, for the warmth I rested against, for the voice that soothed and reassured me.
There is no fast track through grief. It comes and go as it pleases, and I will not, can not, close the door to it. My grief comes out of the love I carry, and I would never close the door to love.
For me, the only track through grief is patience, kindness, and care. Though the learning has been hard, I know now to allow my body to feel what it must feel, allow my heart to be broken, healing, scarred.
This is another face of love, the face of allowing and letting go, giving grace and release to one I love and to myself. Watching her take her path and branch away, as I remain standing, both loving and bereft, on mine.
I love you Mom. Safe journey.