Isn't this life?

PART ONE: the grief

What have you lost?

This was the first question my counsellor asked me yesterday—her response to seeing my tears and hearing the tiredness within seconds of our session.

Days of weeks of months of years, of pain and torment troubleshooting this complex chronic gut issue, now with an overlay of Peri-Meno-mania, had taken its toll. I was full of fatigue—there was no energy left to care with compassion for what I was experiencing.

I pondered her question: What have I lost?

I can’t make plans easily or carry them out—for simple things like taking a walk or a catch up at a cafe but also bigger things like trips away. I don’t feel I can commit to working anywhere other than the couple of small shifts I do as a volunteer each week. I miss out on social activities and events and outings. I can be so consumed by the pain that it’s too hard to be available for others—which affects my relationships, especially as a parent and partner. But this also affects my writing/creating output. So much of my time is spent managing the situation and making plan Bs and Cs and Ds. Which again takes me away from the more meaningful enjoyable things of life. I make do, get through.

So what have I lost?

I have lost connection with friends and family.

I have lost my enthusiasm for life.

I have lost my confidence.

My hopes, my dreams, my plans.

My place in the world of work.

Faith in myself and at times, life.

Optimism. Lightheartedness.

Time. Freedom.

Kindly she validated: you’ve lost a lot.

But have I Naomi?

The voice in my head says: But you still have Rolly. But you still have that beautiful property. But you still have those wonderful kids. But you still have sunshine. And lungs that breathe and a heart that beats without help…

Wisely she shared: we have to hold both—the gratitude and hope while honouring the losses and the grief.

More tears. This time of resonance and relief.

I then thought about the homeless I cook brekkie rolls for on Tuesday mornings and the oldies I sit with in Palliative Care—how could I have empathy for them if I didn’t validate and honour my own losses and grief?

My response: Isn’t this what life is? The grief and the gratitude. Joy and despair. Anguish and peace. Some days better than others…

The next question she asked was: what could I say to the fatigued grieving part of me?

This time a torrent fell from eyes—I couldn’t find the words for myself but I could imagine what I would say to one of my kids if they were feeling helplessly overwhelmed.

I wouldn’t tell them it would get better—that’s not something I know.

But I could say this:

We don’t know how long it will go on for but I love you and I’m here for you and I believe in your ability to get through this. You will make it through somehow, I know you will, and I’ll be right here with you.

And if they said how, how will we get through?

I would say this:

You will do it one day at a time. One moment at a time if you have to. You will do what you need to do and you will treat yourself as dear and precious. And somedays you will make it through easier than others, and you will smile more and laugh more, and other days, other times you will sigh more and cry more. You will do it one step, one hour, one minute, one breath at a time…and then the next, and then the next, and then the next one after that. And you will do your best to welcome it all. To let it all be here…because it is.

These were the words I needed to hear—the unwavering love and support I needed to feel—from me to me.

When I got home and journaled what I had learned from my time with Naomi, I was reminded of this heart-searing poem Adrift, from Mark Nepo:

Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
This is how the heart makes a duet of
wonder and grief. The light spraying
through the lace of the fern is as delicate
as the fibers of memory forming their web
around the knot in my throat. The breeze
makes the birds move from branch to branch
as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost
in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh
of the next stranger. In the very center, under
it all, what we have that no one can take
away and all that we’ve lost face each other.
It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured
by a holiness that exists inside everything.
I am so sad and everything is beautiful.

We are not happy or sad. Life is not light or dark.

Both exist simultaneously.

Both are true. And both matter.

And both deserve at a place at the table.

We are both, and all, all at once.

Life is both, and all, all at once.

In fact, would we know grief without gratitude? And gratitude, without grief?

PART TWO: the gratitude

Later this same day, I am faced with an all-too-frequent dilemma:

I have plans to meet two of my favourite people (and writers) for a meal. But as so often happens, when the gut pain persists, my energy for anything other than the tv and the couch is low.

Do I stay at home in the zone of preservation and practice self-care?

Or do I choose the other kind of self-care—the one that fills my all-but empty cup with fulfilling conversation and the laughter and lightness I know we three will have?

The pain and grief come with me to the pub. They come home with me too.

But so does gratitude—for these two beautiful humans and the opportunity they gave me to feel such meaningful connection and to also share the joy for something very important to me and my purpose…

You see a very exciting project I have been working on this year is coming to life—very soon.

Note to self, my first publication from back in 2009, is being revamped and reborn!

Innovative Resources is publishing a new edition which is amazing in itself, but the process and the people involved have been incredible. And as for the product…it is beyond my brightest dreams! And you can take a sneak peek and read a wonderful article about its re-creation via the latest IR newsletter.

I will definitely share more about it in the weeks to come so stay tuned! But you can also stay tuned directly via the form on the Coming Soon Page.

So while there is grief, there is also a whole lot of gratitude.

Both matter. And both are welcome1.