The Truth Of This Story

A grief story meets the truth of timeless connection.

I continue to hit walls when I sit down to write, probably because I’m overwhelmed by any attempt to tackle the indescribable nature of grief. How does one neatly gather words and string them together to make coherent meaning out of the deepest loss of a lifetime? As is often the case, I found comfort in a recent meditation, that speaks about the moment of our birth where we are forced to let go of the backdrop of our very existence—our mother’s heartbeat. And from there, we have been on a mission to orient toward our own hearts. This is where I am— living out a another birth into life no longer accompanied by my mother, and thrust into a phase of finding my compass—my heart—once again.

I’ve also been listening to another of my favorite meditations that speaks to the disconnect in the way we flounder in this search for a Self that is simply meant to just BE. That all our soul is meant to do is experience life—without the burden of a narrative. Even as I’ve written about my inward journey, I’ve come to see that the story I’m writing has an imagination-come-to-life plot, that collects past pain while scrambling ahead, vigilant for any sign of trouble in an unknowable future. But grief cannot ever be managed in this way. It's wild, it comes and goes, it has no discernible pattern.

I realize that grief, like all emotion, is best processed through the senses, so ask myself: What does my body actually feel, right now? I feel my aching feet and I just know they are trying to convince me of my stuckness—telling me I “can’t” move with this pain. Or my hunger, both physical and emotional—suggesting that nothing will ever be enough to settle me, or set me free. Or this fatigue that drags at me—begging me to lie down into oblivion so I can finally forget my predicament, and rest. And, of course, this mind is forever worrying about keeping up with “to do” lists in order to ensure my safety and worth. But I stop myself:

All of that discouragement, yearning, sadness, emptiness, and worry ARE the story I’m writing with my mind. My body simply feels and lets go, but it is my mind that has decided to author a tragedy with every sensation.

Not so long ago, this would be the stuff I could share with my mom—and she’d get into it! She was also a writer—would dive into the writing of our script, helping me to keep all of my life neatly spelled out and (albeit painfully) contained. We’d make perfect sense out of a life that has been hard, and find some strange connection in our suffering, in carrying family wounds, in “understanding” things so deeply, and painting our sadness as either nobility of character or beauty of melancholy. But that was our shared story—not our truth. And it’s time to bind up the volumes of our meticulously spelled out lives, and put them on a shelf.

The truth is … I can feel Mom’s presence, right now, when I look toward the trees and sky. In her physical absence, it’s as if her lifelong kinship with the natural world has merged with my very being. My soul joins hers every time I look above through these massive oak limbs. And it’s as if my hands are being guided by hers as they reach for the bark of these magnificent beings—cracked, rugged and immovable as ancient rock. Time and place are irrelevant—heaven and earth are together in this place, in this very moment. There isn’t a story, just pure love and connection with the one who brought me into this beautiful world and with the ONE who created all of it. I’m still with my Mama, perhaps in a more profound sense than ever before.

But there’s also truth in standing alone, with a whipping and blowing wind in my ears. All the while, transforming the story I’ve lived and the pain I’ve felt into mere flecks swirling around a still point reminding me of my wholeness. Reminding me that my habits, dark moments, and scars are just like rutted grooves on the bark of this oak. That my character flaws are like twisted limbs that keep on reaching toward the sun. That all of our lives are adorned with beautifully deep roots that interconnect. I’m not separate, or stuck, and my unrest is like a sky with clouds that come and go, come and go. My only true story is this exact moment, in this inhale, in this exhale, in this blink of an eye. Not the words I attach to it, but in the seeing, the hearing, the touching, and knowing that all is well.