It’s about this time of year that I wonder where the year has gone. How can it possibly be October? I’ve been thinking a lot lately about life and the passage of time. But that’s some deep stuff and for another post once I have it a bit more sorted out in my head.
That’s my older sister Michele with me in this photo. It’s was taken just a few weeks before our younger sister was born in August of 1979. It boggles my mind when I realize that the two of us are still here, but our baby sister is gone. Actually, it makes me cry to think about it. I’m still not so good at crying. I still feel like I’m going to get in trouble for it. I vividly remember the day my grandmother died. I was married and lived in Hawaii at the time. Due to the time difference, I got the call from my dad early in the morning. After I hung up the phone, my husband told me to stop crying and go to work. I wasn’t “allowed” to fly home to attend her funeral because he thought the ticket was too expensive. In retrospect, I should’ve told him then and there to go fuck himself, jumped on the next flight to O’Hare and never go back again. Live and learn.
“Seattle” sent me this the other day. It’s bizarre show some people can get into your head and stay there. It falls into the category of things I needed to hear without knowing that I needed to hear it
Thought of you. It’s been a year of ‘firsts’ for you and I know the anniversary is coming up in a month.
Here’s an excerpt that I really enjoyed –Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, pioneer of the conscious dying movement, lived to regret having described the common features of the grief journey as stages. She came to see that everyone grieves differently and that science collapses in the face of the mysteries of the heart. There is no map for the landscape of loss, no established itinerary, no cosmic checklist, where each item ticked off gets you closer to success. You cannot succeed in mourning your loved ones. You cannot fail. Nor is grief a malady, like the flu. You will not get over it. You will only come to integrate your loss, like the girl who learned to surf again after her arm was bitten off by a shark. The death of a beloved is an amputation. You find a new center of gravity, but the limb does not grow back.
When someone you love very much dies, the sky falls. And so you walk around under a fallen sky.
Sigh. It’s so true. I’d like to think that I’m feeling melancholy due to the shorter hours of daylight, but I know there’s deeper stuff brewing. I’ll get it sorted out. I always do.
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