The Truth About Grief: It begins with an Invitation
Grief is an ocean. Not unforgiving, but thorough in its purpose. It will, at some point, consume every piece of your being. The option to escape or sidestep is not available; however, we are offered a delayed delivery of the sharpest edges.
It begins with an invitation, a welcoming by the current. The beckoning undertow, ready to tug at our center of gravity. We find ourselves awash in chaos; disoriented, suspended, bloated, and muted. There is nothing left for us to do but be swept away, watching our surroundings blur as we're jostled about.
Things are seemingly okay in their fluidity until others stumble upon us, assuming we need rescuing. They don't understand we're back in the womb, protective fluid surrounding us. External noise muffled enough that we are able to allow the flow of processing. It's a delicate thing, this processing. This breathing entity demands our attention, nurturing, energy, and every last fiber of our being until we feel like we have been scissored open and turned inside out to be graciously scrubbed anew with steel.
Every move we make is orchestral. It may feel like chaos, and certainly seems that way from the outside, but it is finite in the way it asks us to move through the swaying grass until we somehow find ourselves in the clearing at the shore, calm waters under a new moon.
It's in that moment we are able to claim a new aspect of our power.