In The Spaces

I have been neglecting pretty much all of my social media as of late. Work has kept me more busy than I would like. I've been wanting to get back to the rest of my work, the processes that I have been in and making progress on, but actual job has been demanding more of me.

But I need to get back to this work too. It's important, and necessary.

I do find that I'm sharing more stories about my Dad these days. The more I have been able to talk about him with new people, people who... well, didn't know me when my Dad was around... I'm finding that I apparently had the best Dad on the planet. It creates this dichotomy where I miss him even more for being gone, but also appreciate the time even more because I do have this entire boatload of good memories to pull from.

There are these brief moments in my life where I have the space to actually think about my Dad in a conscious way. There are small, but they exist, and I still make room for them. I wish there was more ritual though. There's something missing in my closure (?) and I've yet to define that.

I've been thinking to go to a grief retreat in September, but on the flipside I'm not sure if I need to dwell, if that makes any sense. Still pondering that one.

My moments are brief these days. I'm doing what I can in the spaces in between.

Time Is Relative

The more I process, and watch others around me process, talk to people who have been through the same, it all comes down to the same thing... time. Time is required to not feel the loss so acutely. Time is what makes things bearable again. Time is what gives us distance from the intense emotions, what let's the bad fade from memory and the good stay even when the moments are gone.

Time.

We pass the time in the hopes that eventually it will do it's job, but it only goes so fast, good or bad. A day is a day, even if it feels like a moment. Einstein explained it as such: 

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.”

Loss feels like the hot stove. Sitting in it feels like torturous moments. But eventually even these moments will pass. I think we get concerned that over time, we will forget. But I don't think that's possible as long as we keep memories alive.

It sounds trite to say "Time heals all wounds". It doesn't. But it does give us the space to process and find a new path. I have to believe that it does let us become functional again.

Distraction Helps... Kinda

My everyday life has been a bit hectic lately, and I can't really say that's a bad thing. I'm one of those people that will have a weekend with no plans and by Friday night, I've got at least two things scheduled. I am social, I want to be out in the world, and I appreciate my friends and family immensely.

This weekend is a little different in that all of my activities seem to be crammed into Saturday. This is by design, I know I need some time to myself to prep myself for the upcoming week, get my house in order, all that jazz. But there is a tiny part of me that is dreading Sunday because when I have swaths of free time, I somehow come back to thinking about my Dad and how I don't get to share events with him in the same way anymore.

I also find that I want to somehow paint my grief, but then when I do I end up painting over it because I don't necessarily want or need that lingering on my walls. This insane process of getting through loss does, apparently, get more manageable over time, and I'm not sure I want to have some permanent reminder (except this blog) of how much this royally sucks.

Distraction. I need to both use it to my advantage and recognize that if I'm constantly distracting myself, I'm not letting myself heal as I need to.

Romanticized

I absolutely adore my Dad. I pretty much think he is the best man that I've ever known, that he is wise and taught me a whole ton of things about living a good life, that he has an unbelievable amount of patience, and that his love is absolutely infinite for everything and everyone.

All of these sentiments remain true, even after he is gone.

But I do wonder if I have romanticized his existence in my world a bit. And even if I have, is that a bad thing? I don't remember fighting much with my Dad. I remember laughing a lot, I remember kisses on the forehead before bed, and I remember swimming at the beach. I remember grocery trips and amusement parks and vacations. But I have an incredibly hard time recalling anything negative... occasionally exasperation at my childhood antics, but as an adult I look at those moments and ponder how it was never more than a sigh or rolled eyes.

I'm not sure if he really was just the best man that I have ever known, or perhaps will ever know, or if I just had this amazing relationship that appears to be something of a rarity in the world these days. I hope my daughter looks to her Dad with the same wide-eyed wonder that I still look to my Dad with.

I suppose it could be colored by not wanting to remember bad things, but I've really been struggling with the idea that one of the best people I've ever known is gone, so I've been trying to find the flaws. I'm sure he had them, I'm positive he did, but I'm finding it near impossible to think of any.

So even if it is romanticized, even if it's some rose-colored glasses I'm wearing, it is still my truth, and I'm sticking with it.

Plants As A Tool

Serendipity, coincidence, the stars aligning, who knows, but this post earlier today from Crow's Daughter comes at a very relevant time in my life. Lately I've been talking to a friend of mine about plants and herbs and their properties, even going so far as to consider an herbology course.

I tend to think of plants as healers of the physical world, but in reading her post, I have to consider that our physical affects our mental, and vice versa. Perhaps some healing plants would help shake loose the grief that I'm wearing like a shroud these days. There is far more in my life than just the death of my Dad, but it definitely colors my world on a daily basis in a way that I had not anticipated.

I am still in the process of finding tools to get through the rough patches (Dad related or not) and plants as medicine is something I believe in. Not in replacement of Western medicine, but as a supplement to, and in many cases doing far more for my health and wellness than pills ever did. I have certainly felt connected to certain things in the natural world (a specific tree where I live, for example), and the vast majority of people can't help by smile when they see trees changing color or flowers blooming.

Plants also go through natural cycles that we can learn much from and may be better off aligning ourselves with. Taking periods of rest, blooming with wild abandon at others, and creating deep roots when we have found ourselves in a safe space. I've seen plants take over concrete structures and change the very ground beneath us, so I find a wisdom in these green things that cover our planet.

Some comfrey tea may be exactly what I need to let myself heal and remind myself that death is a natural part of life. And that we all return to the Earth from which we came... and that is not a bad thing at all.

Up and Down

Grief is not this linear process, where once you go through the stages (ha, see here), you are suddenly free and clear of feeling the negatives. It does come in waves. Mostly I've been in a high, personally and professionally, and it's been a good thing, and would have been a good thing regardless of circumstances.

But then you stumble across the most random things and then...

I was going through my phone a few days ago, and there was a video from a trip that family took last summer. Saying goodbye to my paternal grandmother, spreading ashes, saying hello (and goodbye) to some family haunts. I had recorded a video of the location that had been my favorite in my trips, and was babbling on about the scenery. At the very tail end of the video, faintly, I hear my Dad talking to my kid.

My Dad saying my kid's nickname. Saying my name too.

It all came back, and anger over things like not taking his picture there, or having a recording of his voice on purpose, self-blame and judgment for not saving voice mails, it just flooded me to this point of being frozen.

I listened to that video fifteen times in a row. Over and over, just a few short words, not even directed at me, and since it was unplanned I cut it off at that point, probably to tend to whatever was needed in the moment, and now kicking myself for not recording longer, for not even suspecting that it would be one of the last recordings (possibly the last recording) I would have of my Dad's voice.

Five seconds that caused me to crash into that place of grief. Back to anger and acceptance and back again.

I feel lucky to have found it. I feel sad that I didn't record more. I feel happy that even that little piece exists. A blessing in a way, but I wanted more.

We all wanted more more more.

New Things Are Weird

In this new reality, I have recently received an offer for a new job. Nothing I was explicitly looking for, but it will be good for me and mine.

Sharing the excitement about the job with family is part of the... well, excitement. But there was something, someone, decidedly missing this time around. To not be able to call my Dad about the job itself, or after the interview, or when I accepted... It just felt off. His personal encouragement and advice was missing from a narrative that has always previously been there.

In spite of all that, I could still hear his voice when I looked for parental approval. My Mom has it in spades and was, perhaps, doubly encouraging, but I could still somewhat hear what my Dad would say in this new adventure. Things about being positive, showing them what I know, learning from others, being proud of me. All things I've heard before, so it was a memory that I can latch on to.

It's just different, weird, not really being able to share it in the moment. I know it's the new normal, but it still doesn't feel normal. I still wanted to tell him about it, and hear his voice literally, not in my head.

Of course this is going to continue to happen, and I'm going to have to look to memories about what my Dad would say about various new adventures in my world. Thankfully I have many to choose from and can piece it together as needed. But it still won't ever be the same.