I had a wonderful birthday. I began the day with a yoga class and then dropped Bodhi off with Shane and drove up to the Indian hot springs and spent the afternoon soaking in the geothermal natural caves. The water is 120 degrees and the cave rule is silence. AAAH now that is a rule I can handle occasionally. I stayed for over two hours alternating soaks and laying on the stones. When I left my relaxation was so complete I could hardly formulate a word. I came home to a beautiful supper prepared by Shane complete with gluten free chocolate cupcakes. My boys gave me turquoise and rose quartz, Tibetan bells and special candles. Shane gave me a beautiful Buddha and a huge bouquet of calla lilies. Oh what a perfect day!
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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