Let Go and Let Goddess

There was this trite phrase that I used to hear in the cult: “Let go and let God.”

It was used to encourage surrender and submission to “God’s will” (which always turned out to conveniently be what the authorities wanted you to do) and to remind people that they didn’t need to understand what was happening. Questioning God was just rebellion. Rather, a good cultie—er, Christian—would recognize that all they needed to do was follow God’s lead and take joy in whatever trials were sent their way.

Gag!

But in a weird way, this phrase has sort of been coming back to me, with a slightly new twist.

I’m taking the biggest risk of my life. Okay…maybe not the biggest. I did decide that going to hell was a worthwhile risk when I left the cult, so eternal damnation might be a slightly riskier move than opening my own practice.

But it feels that big!

While my partner has decided to go back to school, I’ve taken up the role of breadwinner for the household…by going into business for myself, spending thousands on getting set up, and crossing my fingers that I can make a living doing what I love.

Part of what makes success seem like a possibility is that I am an extremely hard, self-directed worker. I’m thorough in planning and tirelessly detail-oriented.

But there’s a point at which I realize that I can only do so much, and then it’s out of my hands.

That’s when this phrase returns to mind. There is never a reason for me to abdicate my right to question or to sacrifice myself in surrender to some sadistic divine will, but there is a point at which I need to…have faith, I guess.

I find myself asking, Is it faith in myself? Or is it a faith in something larger than myself?

Perhaps it’s a bit of both. As someone who has a healthy skepticism about the existence of a divinity and definitely doesn’t believe in an omnipotent god, it feels infinitely strange to find myself sending out a kind of prayer.

“Dear Goddess, it’s me—er, well, you know who—I’ve done my part; if you could see fit to send people my way, that would be great.”

I mean, I know there are other ways of looking at it. One of the people who has been instrumental in helping me get set up has resorted to the Field of Dreams mantra, “If you build it, they will come,” which is helpful in a different way in reminding me to chill the fuck out.

But I can’t help but be amused by the irony in the fact that I can’t control everything, regardless of which quote, phrase, or cliché I use to remind myself of that. At some point, I have to let go….At least, I can choose to give it over to a Goddess this time. Bitches get shit done!

 

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Creating My Own Meditation/Oracle Deck

A while ago, I took on a project of painting a 3×3 watercolor every new moon, pairing it with a quote or phrase that felt significant to my life at that point in time. I wrote about the process in the beginning, and about my hope that I would eventually have enough cards to be able to shuffle and select one to focus on. Well, months later (and several repaints down the road), I have a nice little deck that holds incredible meaning for me.

My artistic skill isn’t perfect, but I feel proud of my deck and want to show it off.

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Related quote: “The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.” –Longfellow

The original card for this Longfellow quote (this picture is a repaint) was painted during a period of intense grief over the loss of someone very close to me. It helped me remember that I needed to allow myself to cry as needed. Even now, it reminds me that sometimes emotions just need to be. They cannot move out if they aren’t allowed to move through. I’m a big believer in having days where “moping” is the only thing on the to-do list.

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Related quote: “You’re a divine animal and you’re beautiful; the divine is not separate from the beast.” –Lenore Kandel

This one is also an early card that was repainted because the image didn’t…well, it didn’t look like a person. Most people thought the original was a dog’s face. 😛 But this is a message that has been recurring for me to love myself as an embodied creature.

I’ve worked so hard to work through some of the baggage that comes from being raised in a puritanical, sex- and body-shaming environment along with the baggage that comes from sexual abuse itself. But I realize it’s never a “won” battle. Shame can come creeping back in even years after I thought I had cast it off. I need recurrent reminders that it’s okay to be embodied, to be sexual (or to not want sex), or to be imperfect.

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Related quote: “I wanna think that you’ll be different. Smoke and mirrors are so clever clever.” –Kelly Clarkson in “Let Me Down”

This mirror (which will probably be repainted because it doesn’t exactly scream “mirror”) grew from my need to remember that people who have been toxic in the past may know all the right things to say–and I may be tempted to believe them–but it doesn’t necessarily signify that things will actually change.

I’m coming up on a year of official cut-off from my parents. Inevitably, I find myself wrestling with questions. “What if they’ve changed?” “What if they can be better?” “What if I can make them love me?” Sometimes the most treacherous smoke-and-mirror trick is the one I can play on myself in thinking that I can somehow change the past by being “good enough.”

Deep down, I know that’s not true, but the lies that are the most tempting to believe are the ones we want to be true.

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Related quote: “But the monsters turned out to be just trees.” –Taylor Swift in “Out of the Woods”

I love this one as a trigger grounder. I have come to truly admire the way that my system can recognize red flags, but I also realize that sometimes it’s reacting to something that is not currently actually a threat. This card reminds me to take a step back and think about whether my brain is reacting to shadows.

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Related quote: “And so here we go bluebird, back to the sky on your own.” –Sara Bareilles in “Bluebird”

I’ve written before about the sense of permanent displacement, the sadness of always “moving on.” This card is a poignant expression of that–as much a reminder to think about when I need to take flight as it is a form of mourning that sometimes I cannot permanently belong, no matter how much I want to.

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Related quote: “What do stars do? Shine.” –Neil Gaiman from “Stardust”

A lovely but simple quote from Stardust that can encourage me to let my talents do their thing. I have magic and power within. I have skills that I have honed. Sometimes, all I need to do is let them be visible.

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Related quote: “Change your perspective, and you change your world.” –a spirit guide

I’ve seen somewhat similar phrases since I had this one come to me, but I can’t rightfully attribute it as a quote to someone since it was a phrase that came to me during an active imagination/vision quest in which I was conversing with a fairy queen who was my guide in that moment. It’s been an important concept for me for years at this point, so it seemed only right to put it into a card. It reminds me that there are always multiple ways of looking at something.

This is not one of those bullshit positivity mantras that all problems will go away if I stop thinking about them as problems. Rather, it’s encouragement to look at the ways that I can address the problem that may not be readily apparent. Sometimes that looks like “letting go.” Other times, it looks for ways in which I may not be recognizing my own power or using all the tools available to me. When I’m feeling stuck, sometimes what I need is a different view of the problem.

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Related quote: “I’ll be an army, no you’re not gonna stop me getting through. I’ll sing a marching song and stomp through the halls louder than you. I could surrender, but I’d just be pretending. No, I’d rather be dead than live a lie. Burn the white flag!” –Joseph in “White Flag”

This flag card is, hands down, one of my favorites–both as a quote and as a picture. It’s such a powerful card for me and probably one of the most recurrent themes I face in my life–the choice of whether to surrender or “fight against all odds.” This is my Frodo heading into Mordor card, my Aragorn at Helm’s Deep card, my Joan of Arc card, my Braveheart “FREEDOM!” card, my Thelma and Louise card.

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Related quote: “If you wanna break these walls down, you’re gonna get bruised.” –Halsey in “Castle”

Probably somewhat similar to the flag card, this card is also about fighting…but more about fighting the established systems and recognizing that there isn’t a way to break down some of the toxic structures of life without it hurting a little. I felt this card a lot during the election season, the realization that we were at a painful juncture as a nation that offered little hope of positive outcome. This is the card that reminds me that sometimes in order to address the root of something, it might seem like things have to get worse before they can get better.

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Related quote: “You can’t push the river.” –Unknown quote found in “Waking the Tiger” by Peter Levine

I think this might be a proverb or something. I have no idea where it came from. I read it in Peter Levine’s Waking the Tiger. It’s a lovely image though about the importance of letting a process happen at its own pace.

I need to remember this for my own healing. “It takes the time that it takes,” as a dear friend put it once. Like the Longfellow quote, this one helps me remember to allow myself to be in the muck, but also reminds me that the much doesn’t last forever–it’s just part of the flow.

I also need to remember this when it comes to others too though. As a counselor, as an activist, as a friend, as a lover–I find myself in various positions of supporting or encouraging growth and change in others. It’s easy to get frustrated if things don’t progress as fast as I want them to or in the way that I want them to, but I cannot hasten someone’s process. I can’t do the changing for them. The more I try to influence the flow of the process, the more I’m probably going to actually face resistance.

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Related quote: “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” –Sylvia Plath

This heart is another that is a particular favorite of mine. I adore the colors in the heart! I don’t think I could recreate this if my life depended on it, but I’m thrilled that it turned out this well when I first painted it.

This was the card I painted following the Pulse massacre. It was the cry of my heart at realizing that people not only hate me for being queer but that some would even want to kill me.

It was a cry of grief as well as defiance. “I am here! You can kill me, but you can’t kill my pride!” Perhaps that is why they colors turned out so vibrant…

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Related quote: “Once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.” –John Green from “Paper Towns”

There is a particular passage towards the end of John Green’s Paper Towns that I have earmarked and read over and over. It’s a passage talking about the importance of metaphors and how they shape how we approach different things. It’s also a passage that talks about the ways that life buffets you. This is the passage the reminds me of how our wounds are what helps us connect and empathize. They can become our superpowers, so to speak, like Harry seeing the thestrals.

The thing about this meditation deck is that it’s literally tailored to my life. As an oracle, it might have some meaning for others as a side effect, but it isn’t designed for the sake of universality. Rather, it is a reflection of the specific themes and patterns of my life, something that makes it particularly powerful for me. It’s far from finished, but it’s full enough now to be useful.

Feel free to share the mantras that have helped guide your life in the comments!

 

How Faitheist is Restoring my Faith in Atheist Writers

Atheism is one of those mindsets that I have had a hard time reading, despite my intention of opening myself up to multiple viewpoints on spirituality and religion. Even more surprising, it’s in spite of my lack of investment in the belief of a deity. I have come to think of myself as largely agnostic, believing in some things because I want to, not because I think they are definitely right, so atheism never struck me as a perspective that would bother me.

Atheists as people are fine for me. I have enjoyed getting to know many and have rarely encountered any whose atheism seemed problematic. They all have, mostly, been along the lines of Chris Stedman. And maybe I’ve just been lucky, but I choose to believe rather that there are more of him than not out there.

But atheist writers…damn if they don’t tend towards the same trends they claim to loathe. I’ve tried reading Richard Dawkins and stopped because I was just too revolted by his prejudice and too thrown off by the logical fallacies he commits in his quest to demonize all things religious.

I’ve made it through other books, like The Atheist’s Way, which were more tolerable and had some great moments, but I was still uncomfortable with how much the slippery slopes, broad generalizations, unbacked assumptions, and disdain for “other” resembled the fundamentalism which I left.

It’s actually kind of…funny, I guess, that the two camps would look at each other as the worst while being so damn similar, but I digress.

More recently, I decided to give it another go. I wanted to have at least one book by an atheist author that I didn’t want to burn along with my theology books from the IFB.

Enter Faitheist.

It’s more of a memoir than anything, and much of it covers the coming out journey of the author. (And full disclosure, I haven’t finished it yet. I have maybe a fourth left to read).

But it’s a beautiful book—perhaps not in spite of being a coming out memoir, but because of it.

Stedman values story-telling and didn’t set out to write a philosophy book, though there’s plenty of philosophy peppered throughout his story. He carefully details his own conversion and deconversion process and the struggles of realizing he’s gay while being part of a tradition that taught that gay is a hell-bent identity.

His loss of faith is poignant, something I can deeply relate to. His search for a reason to keep believing equally so. His subsequent disillusionment and anger towards Christianity is, well, pretty damn familiar.

But what makes this book stand out to me is that he doesn’t stay in that place. He realizes that his hatred of Christianity (and religion, in general) is reliant on stereotypes and caricatures of the worst sides of religion, missing the incredible complexity of belief and meaning-making that exists within any given path. He also recognizes the way that certain sections of the atheist community resemble the close-mindedness of religious zealots.

In other words, he is able to look at what he dislikes about the other and recognize its presence within himself.

His story of atheism is a personal one. He recognizes that it’s right for him right now but that it isn’t necessarily right for others. He recognizes that people who aren’t atheist are able to be good, even intelligent people and that they can have common goals towards which to work.

His goal isn’t to eradicate religion, as Dawkins and that ilk would want, but to work towards eradicating injustice and building bridges of commonality.

Some of the criticism of the book has expressed doubts about whether he’s a “true” atheist and suspicions that he will become religious or spiritual again. Ultimately, I don’t think it matters what he believes down the road. There’s always a chance that each of us will change our minds/beliefs for any number of reasons. But throughout the book, I can see his atheism grow into the atheism of someone who doesn’t need to believe in a God and, thus, doesn’t need to debunk other’s beliefs, which makes me suspect that his atheism has a better chance of being lifelong and genuine if he’s not holding to it in opposition, anger, and fear of religion.

I would love for others to read this book. His journey is one that we can all learn from, regardless of what path we ultimately choose to walk.

 

That Time a Cult Survivor Attended a Winter Solstice Ceremony and Survived

I worked up the courage to go to a solstice ceremony this past week. I haven’t been to an actual religious ceremony in years, mostly because I can’t stand being in churches or church-like buildings–but a good portion of that also stems from the distrust I carry.

Since the ceremony was taking place outside, that removed the problem of the setting being an unnecessary trigger.

I have been curious about some of the public sabbat ceremonies held in my area for quite some time, and with the help of a new friend, I finally convinced myself to check it out.

Much of it was familiar enough from reading Starhawk that I could understand what was going on. I think it was good that I had that map because I might otherwise have been too insecure to stick it out.

There was the opening of the circle and calling in the four directions, followed by a short soliloquy about the symbolism of the solstice from who I assume was the High Priestess.

I was jumping out of my skin with apprehension, but I also found it really powerful to be in the company of people who honored nature and who didn’t deny the integration of darkness with light.

It was similar to church in some very small ways, but it was also significantly different from church—more than any other type of ceremony I’ve been to. Even when I checked out a Buddhist meditation, that felt more “churchy” than not. This one felt like the “churchy” feeling was residual for me, not due to the ceremony itself.

After the High Priestess finished her piece, people were invited to bring a stick up to the central fire and burn it with their solstice intention.

My readers who come from the IFB will probably chuckle or cringe to read that. A symbolic stick-burning was a very integral part of the indoctrination experience at the summer camp we would often be sent to. Four days after being separated from everything and everyone familiar, being run around ragged, and listening to sermons on hellfire morning, afternoon, and evening, The Wilds would “invite” us to throw a stick in the fire to represent surrendering our lives.

Summer after summer I would be pressured into showing my submission after being systematically terrified of dying on the drive home if I didn’t, so I fully expected to be freaked out of my mind when I heard the invitation at this ceremony.

But it was, again, different. No one was asking me to give up anything in the process of participating. I was setting my own intention. I could share it or keep it private.

And it was actually beautiful to hear the things that people were wishing for the world—things like peace, love, and healing. Even for a ceremony that acknowledged and embraced darkness, there was none of the “darkness” of the hatred and judgment and othering of the IFB.

Then came the dancing…and that’s when my participation meter maxed out.

I wanted to dance. I loved the idea of dancing as part of a religious ceremony. I was desperately cold by then and would have appreciated the warmth of dancing near the fire.

But I’ve also spent too much time studying the ways that people are influenced by cultic groups. I know that dancing in a group or singing in a group can be a subtle way to create a lack of oxygen, decreasing critical thinking and potentially even stimulating a trance-like state. Group participation increases the conformity and belonging drive. The combination of all of that can be a vulnerable mix.

Not a bad mix, per se. Dancing, singing, chanting, etc. can also be used to stimulate spiritual experiences that are entirely healthy.

However, I couldn’t know what would happen during or after the dance. I was new to this group and needed to keep my wits about me. I needed to know I was safe, that someone else wouldn’t try to make demands or interfere with my process while I was in a vulnerable state.

I simply couldn’t know that about this group the first time.

I felt awkward dropping out to the edge of the circle and watching. Part of me was afraid that it would be considered inappropriate, but I also knew that dropping out would be a good test of the safety of the group. If someone tried to coerce or pressure me into participating, that would tell me that my own limitations weren’t respected and that there may be more toxic elements to this group.

Spoiler alert: that never happened.

I was able to withdraw and stand at the edge, watching, without any interference. Moreover, I was able to observe, with my critical thinking, observing mind, that those who participated in the experience had nothing to fear regarding others trying to influence them during that process. No one tried to recruit new members to join the group. No one tried to pressure attendees to give money.

After the dancing, the dancers regrounded their energy. I was able to rejoin for the closing of the circle and farewell to the directions.

And that was the end.

In some ways, this feels like a huge milestone for me even though all I really did was go to a public place and stand at the fringes of a group, barely participating. What was happening inside was far more significant than it seemed on the surface.

I was healing and teaching myself that I can hold my boundaries in group situations that are unfamiliar.

Ultimately, I was able to face down some of my own fears and participate in something truly lovely while respecting my limitations and enjoying an actual ceremony that didn’t feel at all cultic.

It was a lovely Solstice gift to myself.

 

 

Adventures in Proselityzing: It’s Not a Religion. It’s a Relationship…With Someone Who Tears Me Down

It’s been a really long time since I’ve found myself cornered by an Evangelical Christian hell-bent on telling me all the ways that they aren’t “religious” but “in a relationship with Jesus” who, of course, is the best friend, counselor, teacher, etc. that I could have if I would only convert.

This week brought that streak to a sudden halt.

It came out of nowhere…it had to in order to catch me off-guard and prevent my escaping before it happened.

I was surprised by what it brought up for me. Or rather, what it didn’t bring up.

Generally when I have previously been witnessed to, I’ve been able to hold my ground, but inside I’m trembling, triggered, angry, and secretly terrified that the spiritual onslaught will never end. I’ve never been the type to lash out at those who try to slip their proselytizing into a “casual” conversation, but I’ve never felt particularly strong or compassionate either.

Usually it mirrors the way that I feel about getting harassed by a stranger at a bar. I might smile and decline politely, but it’s coming from a place of fear that suspects that things will only be worse for me if I express outrage. It’s a placating kindness.

However, when I suddenly realized I was in a room with someone who was going to “witness” as if my life depended on it (which to her it probably did), I was shocked to realize that it didn’t feel threatening.

I still didn’t want to listen. I’ve heard it all before. Hell, I’ve said it all before!

But the dominant emotion wasn’t fear or rage. It was somewhere on the spectrum of pity and amusement.

Amusement because despite her attempts to sound genuine as hell and to convince me she wasn’t talking about a religion, it was as canned a response as if she had broken out into a Hail Mary. They were memorized phrases that she had been instructed in how to use in her witnessing to convince others that her religious expression was more genuine than any other type of Christian’s.

The pity came in at the way that she couldn’t help but devalue herself in the process. In order to talk about how wonderful Jesus was to her, she had to talk about how unworthy she was of God’s love and how imperfect and depraved a person she was because, for her, the wonder of God’s love and Jesus’ sacrifice was in that it wasn’t “deserved” but given in spite of it all.

She couldn’t build up the object she wanted to share with me without creating a foundation that tore herself down.

I realized at one point that we actually shared something in common. As a Pagan, I also don’t believe I am particularly perfect. I have a shadow side. I have less than admirable motivations and compulsions to work through. I make mistakes.

However, the difference is that I don’t see myself as needing to be “saved.” I don’t see my flaws and imperfections as indications of how worthless I am. I especially don’t think that the answer is to eradicate myself and replace myself with an inner Jesus.

Within her framework, there is no room for anything but shame towards the self.

In contrast, my spiritual inclinations help me celebrate that I am not perfect. Perfection would be boring. Or just nauseating. It’s in the imperfections that growth happens…and growth is part of life.

I have no desire to destroy those parts of myself that are flawed. Rather, I want to engage with them, learn from them, integrate with them, and transform them.

Having come from the same shame that I saw her expressing, I can remember how devastatingly awful it was. Brene Brown says, “Shame drives disconnection.” That is true especially with the existential shame that certain sects of Christianity try to foist on members. This kind of shame drives a repulsion of the self, which in turn drives shallow interactions with others built on judgment and fusion.

I could recognize this time around that this woman posed no threat to me. She wasn’t even fully present in the interaction as she spouted off her memorized phrases. She was speaking from a fragmented and alienated self, and I felt sad that she was caught up in that and desperately thankful that I had escaped.

The Pagan and the Atheist

I go through cycles in my spirituality. Sometimes I’m more focused on meditation, being still, calming my mind, enjoying the moment, etc. Other times I’m all about the visions and trance journeys, dreams, scrying, and working with guides. Still other times I pull out my spellbooks and get down to business with working some magic.

And then there are periods when all of that is fairly quiet and my agnostic side is dominant.

I never worry when a piece of my path recedes because I know that it will come back around again whenever it’s needed; however, I hadn’t realized why my agnostic side felt so disconnected from the rest of that cycle until I read two very different books: The Spiral Dance by Starhawk and The Atheist’s Way by Eric Maisel.

One was a very well-thought perspective that blended a deep respect for the author’s own beliefs and experiences with a kind of casual take-it-or-leave-it attitude. The author could clearly laugh at themselves, recognized that there was a certain level of absurdity to things, and wasn’t invested in anyone else believing as they believed. They expressed a healthy skepticism about the world along with some deeply held values, and they encouraged readers to make sure that reality testing worked with their own belief system as well. They addressed social justice issues and the way their worldview contributed to that. And they demonstrated respect for the whole person (rational, emotional, conscious, and unconscious).

I hardly expected to be blown away by either book, but after I finished the first, I was quite impressed.

The other book, in contrast, had the opposite effect.

From the first chapter, the author exuded classism and prejudice. They demeaned anyone who did not ascribe to their beliefs and presented humans as having to fight against their very nature and to uproot anything not in line with the presented worldview. Even worse, they used progressively religious, fear-mongering language in favor of the strict form of belief presented, warning of “backsliding” to those who dared stray from their path. All in all, they presented some of the most blatant slippery slopes, straw men, unaccepted enthymeme’s, and naturalistic fallacies I’ve seen in a book, religious or otherwise.

Would you believe it if I said that the latter was written by the atheist?

Despite stating over and over that his readers had the freedom and power to choose what they wanted to believe about the meaning of life, it became clear that there was only one acceptable choice in Maisel’s mind.

I guess up until then I’d never realized that I’ve carried around a mild shame over my chosen path. In my personal dialogue with myself about my beliefs, I’ve always said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not because it is nurturing my psyche and helping me accomplish growth.”

But in conversations with others, I’ve always felt a need to hide my beliefs just a tad, especially around atheists.

It was sort of like I saw this hierarchy of spirituality.

Not being tied to a religious tradition out of fear felt like a step up from where I’d been, but not believing in gods at all seemed like the “better” more “rational” stance. (After all, I had basically chosen my own beliefs partially because they seemed more fun than believing in a non-magical world.)

But the truth is, I’d be much prouder to be like Starhawk than like Maisel.

Maisel’s atheism hasn’t made him more open-minded or more logical. In fact, I dare say that atheists like him and Dawkins are closer to religious fundamentalism than they would like to think. That’s not the kind of person I want to be!

I certainly don’t think all atheists are like that.

When I no longer have a bad taste in my mouth from this last book, I look forward to reading more atheist writers to round out my experience.

At the same time, I also no longer feel the inferiority of choosing to believe in the power and value of my own path.

Maisel was right, I do have the ability to choose the worldview I want to give my life meaning. What he failed to realize is that atheism is not inherently better. As Starhawk reminded me, my spirituality can enhance the meaning I find, strengthen my social justice commitment, and create harmony between my rational and “child-like” self.

Even if it’s based in make believe, I think that’s better than a worldview that cuts me off from parts of myself, makes me fear my own spiritual longings, and participates in systems and patterns of oppression.

 

 

 

 

Grief Is

This upcoming week marks six months that I have been grieving.

I’ve heard that the first year is the hardest, encountering all those “first” reminders of holidays, birthdays, memories, desires, etc. It’s probably one of the only things that keeps me going at times like this, thinking that next year it might be a little bit easier to breathe.

When I first started my grieving process, it felt profound. I was determined to grow and change through it. I was determined to live in a way that would have made her happy.

I’ve made changes to my life…yes. But reckless ones. There are days when I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

More often than not, grief just feels empty now–a gaping hole of missing.

I’m pissed off at a world that no longer has the person I want to see. I’m angry at a god I don’t believe in. In fact, I’m more convinced than ever that there can’t possibly exist a benevolent, all-powerful god who would allow something so senseless to happen.

In some ways, this disillusionment is more difficult than grieving. I’m so used to seeing emotional pain as a catalyst for growth that it borders on devastating to realize that sometimes it’s not.

I feel like I’ve stepped into a Dr. Seuss book.

Oh the things you will find
as the sacred you mine.
Your grief is a sign
that your love lasts through time.

Except when you can’t
because treasure is scant
when you’ve lost your whole soul
to that motherfucking cancer.

Bad rhymes aside, I’m having to realize that not everything can be silver-lined. Grief is not always filled with wisdom and life-changing moments of expansion.

Sometimes, it just is. It hurts, and there’s no way around that.

Maybe next year it will seem less bitter and more sweet.