Love is still here

There’s some love right there.

I hijacked my Writing Through Grief group the other day. As a facilitator, I want to lead by example, so I typically share my writing to the prompts with the group, but after everyone else has gone. Not first. It feels bossy of me—I am the one who makes up the prompts, so I’d feel like the kid who brings the ball to the playground, but will only share it if the other kids let me play.

Anyway, this was the prompt: Do you ever feel stuck in your grief? What does it feel like?

This prompt came straight from my life because I have been stuck. Mired. Slow-moving. When I read my response aloud, I mentioned feeling as though my foot was in a bear trap. I was stuck, in pain and tired and I made them all listen to me first. And they did, because they’re an amazing group of writers who understand grief.

I’ve clocked this stuckness as beginning right after Christmas. Nothing crazy or earth-shattering had happened, I just fell into sort of a fog. Part of me knew it was Annie…missing her, having everything remind me of her. I took a small wooden spatula out of a kitchen drawer at her house one day and cried as I imagined her buying this particular tool for a very specific use. And her birthday is in a few days, so I’ve been anticipating that since the beginning of the year. My teeth have been locked in a clench day and night, but that must impossible considering the tonnage of chocolate I’ve been cramming in my mouth. I couldn’t watch the Golden Globes—I couldn’t even follow along on social media--because watching it together was one of our “things.” We’d have a sleepover, pop open some bubbles and have extra special snacks and sweet treats. Then we’d watch and comment on the winners, speeches and outfits in our comfies.

(The first time I visited her in California for her birthday, we went to the Peninsula Hotel and sat in the lobby watching the celebrities return from the event. Robin Williams peered through some potted palms at us and quipped about us sitting there.)

All this lethargy is happening against the backdrop of the insanity that is our country right now. I’m not the only one with sprawling emotions and a numbing regard for taking anything else in right now. We are trying to contain the uncontainable as we try and go from one simple task to another without falling apart. This pervasive feeling is not just me having a hard time missing Annie around the time of year of her birthday—it feels as though we are all dealing with grief.

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? The loss of people and ideals and tenets of our government are being dragged across asphalt parking lots and ice-covered streets. In my last essay I suggested it was denial. Why else would I get pulled into binge watching Stranger Things? But it’s more than that—we’re not just stunned, we’re gutted. We’re in shock and disbelief. We’re grieving.

Oh, look! More love.

But, I was reminded recently—in another writing group of course—that even in our darkest days, love is still here. Fear isn’t the absence of love, but we probably have to remember to look for it. Love doesn’t disappear—it’s in all the places we’ve found it before. The small pockets of love in the laughter of your granddaughter or the photo of your parents. All the other stuff is pervasive, yes, but it doesn’t cancel out love. Whether it’s a tiny spark from an act of kindness or a bear hug from a friend, love is still here.

And I’m sending you some right now. ♥️

*You might like to try writing to the prompt yourself. In my groups, I set a time for 10 minutes and the writers simply write—no editing, no thinking, just keep the hand moving across the page until the time is up. Try it. Let me know if you do.*