What do you do in the face of deep loss?
Of breathtaking, world-changing loss?
You die, is what you do.
You die, because the you that lived then
can be no longer in a then that no longer is.
Each moment, if we are paying attention,
we have this opportunity, to die, to be born again, to live as new,
unless we put our all into keeping alive a then that is no longer.
But, the loss. The loss is what guts us.
The wrenching away of a beloved’s physicality, voice, interaction, closeness.
The transformation they undergo from current person living
to having lived, to an energy and feeling that keeps living in us as memories,
and in the things they made, and in what they set in motion.
I write this with the children in mind,
the babies whose parents everybody else got to know far longer.
The children are the ones who die and who need help
re-membering themselves as whole people.
I am looking for how to rebirth the things I’d started before you died
so that I too can be born again and live as new.
I am still finding clues and letting them fall through my fingers,
because they are what my inner life is made of,
and they are the ground I walk on,
and I can pick them up and feel them over and over again
until I perhaps reabsorb them into my skin and cells,
dust and other crumbled things.
It’s funny. I remember two things:
picking blue-green paint off my love beads
and my bro hammering out a piece on the piano.
But, no that’s not what we were doing.
What we were doing was feeling your death,
and since then, I’ve wondered did I really feel it,
or was I giving in to my worst fears?
Is that a thing that I should stop right now,
stop the sifting and picking up, and simply lift my head,
awake and now, alive anew, as no other then, or ever, has ever been?
Maybe that is the key to re-membering.
But writing “did I really feel it?” makes me wish to tell myself,
yes, yes, yes, you did, always do really feel it,
and I will give myself this, that for better and worse
I have made a sort of personal religion out of never analyzing a feeling,
instead just waiting for its truth, often spoken in code and sometime later, to be revealed.
by Phyllis Capanna © 2014 joyreport
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