40 Days

The morning has been quiet.

And the minute I pause before typing, a lawnmower next door begins to sing. The note is discordant against the morning's peace and, yet, as I continue to type and it continues its relentless movement, it becomes part of the soundscape. There's a sense that what I expect, what I hope for, becomes replaced by something else, something not quite so welcome.

It's been 40 days since my mother's death, 40 days of walking through the wilderness of grief. A new landscape I would not have chosen to explore, but one that is mine nevertheless, a peaceful early morning interrupted by the sounds of power tools. 

I think of Elijah asleep at the edge of the wilderness. He is exhausted, emptied by grief and trepidation around the future. He's lost his determination. His sense of self. His sense of knowing.

His sense of connectedness.

He wakes briefly. An angel is there with him. A cake is being cooked over a fire. It carries the fragrance of presence and nourishment. There is a jar of water. 

Eat. Drink. You will need your strength for the journey ahead.

It will be 40 days of crossing an inhospitable landscape, one that a rare person would choose. But it is the only way to Horeb, the mountain of God. There are times in life when only God's companionship and counsel will do. This is one of those times.  

It is a solitary journey, the only companionship a belly full of grace and a journey cloak of memory. An angel had been there, weaving it with words, water, and journey cake.

Finally reaching the mountain, climbing, climbing. Hiding in a dip in the rock, the only shelter from the elements. Fire, wind, earthquake. 

Silence.

A voice calls his name. 

Why are you here? Come out. Feel my embrace. 

Remember who you are and that you have things to do.

He stands, wraps his mantle around his bony frame, and steps into the very power, presence, and palpability of God. There, on the precipice, more vulnerable than he's ever been before, he finds his footing. Begins to walk. Climbs down and moves forward, back across the landscape. Differently. 

What has changed for him? 

As I think about it today, I'm thinking that the beginnings of grief are a deep sense of aloneness. The movement through the landscape is discovery around presence. But there's also a sense that the awareness of being alone is true as well. Deeply true. And, yet, there's also a sense of companioning that we put on like clothing. It's available to us, but separate from us. And as we continue to live into this new thing, we get used to it. It becomes what is now real.  

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What is Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what is on my mind most of the time.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.