Skip to main content

grande

My life feels grey, heavy, frightening...like there is a storm just about to break, a smell of ozone, impending darkness and I am uncertain of shelter.  I find myself on the point of tears often.  I don't know if it is because my Grandmother is gone or because the sharp reality of mortal existence has finally dawned on me.  Tears roll, salty, down cheeks, blurring my vision and the world I see.  Suddenly my willingness to accept the monotony of half living, silent suffering mediocrity and deeply buried truths, seems harder to bear.  I, like a sodden dog heavily water logged with doubt, fear, thought and belief, want only the freeing sensation of a good shake- sending rivulets in all directions, until I am light again.
I miss her.  My grandma.  I miss the world she represents- warm naps in kind arms, dinners lovingly prepared without thought for what is "healthy", laughter, childhood and an unconditional love that beams from behind spectacles inches thick and bordered by grime and plastic.
I don't feel prepared for this world we live in.  I never really have.  I just keep moving forward one step at a time, with an eye on the horizon, watching for signs of rain.

Comments

Madeline said…
Oh dear sister~just keep moving forward...eyes opened or eyes closed~You are LOVE, you represent love eternally and as difficult as the road is at times...now, hold on~your hands are being held and directed~when you feel like it's the darkest time, feel it, appreciate it and remember that after the dark, there is light~always~*~i love you~you ARE STRONG and AMAZING~*~
Angelina Lloyd said…
Thank you sister! I feel blessed to have you in my life. Thank you.
Wind said…
I too think of death nearly daily. I see our elders with an eye of careful looking, trying it on for size, imagining something so close to deaths door being so soon to come. Will my life be a thing I have truly lived? Or have I walked with the same numbness, the same dead while alive gaze as so many?

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...