On the trail when I see a sign like this, I don't stand in dismay, staring at it, wondering what I might have done to warrant its closure. Did I walk too vigorously? Did I stray from the trail? Was I too frequent or unusual with my foot traffic? Ridiculous. No. I just find an alternate route and keep walking. I trust the closure for it's own sake. I look for emerging wildflowers. I befriend the trail, as is. It's time to apply the same logic to my life. When a relationship ends. When a shift happens. When a trail closes. I don't need to examine myself to the nth degree. I can just see it for what it is. Trail closed. And walk on.
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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