Glimpses of Truth

I've been writing poetry and recipes here, all the while tracking in my writing community what it's like to write in the midst of grief. When I write about what I notice about grieving. And when I don't.

Grief is with me always, but I usually want to write about anything but that.

I'm too raw.

The Band-Aid of time has been ripped away and the scab came off with it, leaving some very sensitive skin exposed. The sensitivity, of course, is part of the healing. 

Last week I was at Mom's looking through photos and letters. I mentioned that in my writing. What I did not mention was having to take a break for weeping and wailing. I am grateful to have the empty house to do that in. I can't do it here in my apartment. I can't do it anywhere I would be overheard. 

It comes on suddenly. Is expressed. And then lifts. Sometimes I think of my mother and just start crying. Sometimes I want to talk with her so badly I think about ways to tear the veil in two and reveal all the hidden worlds. 

My heart hurts. 

I'm giving myself time to feel it, to feel it ease, and to catch my breath. To close my eyes and sink into the darkness behind my lids and let my breathing slow down. To feel the seat beneath me. To feel my feet flat on the ground. To feel into the memories of my mother and the parts of me that contain her essence. The DNA we share, the ancestral memory we share, the stardust that makes us what we are. The energetic signature that was hers, that will never cease to exist because she lived. 

When it's a sunny morning, I think of Mom. When I wake up with a headache, I think of Mom. When I get in my car, I think about calling her. When I think of something she would liked to have heard about, I want to reach out and tell her. 

Like today. A friend dropped her daughter off at IU for her first year in college. They posted pictures from all over campus. She's living in the dorm I lived in. She's studying the same discipline, albeit updated. I remember the day Mom and Dad moved me into the dorm. I was so excited. It was a new adventure. I was fledging, and there was safety because I felt supported by my parents. A net to catch me if I fell. 

And then I remember what it felt like when they drove away. I started to cry, unexpectedly. There was something primal about it. It was a passage. I found out years later that the minute my parents pulled away, my mother began to cry. The same kind of tears. Just for a moment, I wanted them to come back and get me. Just for a moment, Mom wanted Dad to turn around and come back and get me. I cried myself to sleep that night. Mom cried all the way back to my grandmother's house, ninety minutes up the highway. 

The connection is strong.

This morning I was transfixed by the beauty of the morning glories and wanted to tell her about it. So I did. I trust that somehow, some way, she heard me. 

Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's 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 I'm thinking about most of the time these days.

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