Sunday, May 23, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
I am not a huge journal writer. I jot my thoughts on scrapes of paper. When my desk drawer and nightstand reach overflowing, I collect the scrapes and read my scribbled thoughts. I read and am moved by memory to places past. Here are some thoughts of mine from August 2009.
“Grief is a violent reworking of the deepest part of my being. I wake up to a world with no color—only sharp contrasting edges. The music is gone. It is as if all the notes have fallen off the page and all that remains is blank sheet music.’’
The contrast within myself is exhausting. I have often thought, “Grief doesn’t really begin until the heart figures out what happened.”
My mind can understand the mechanics of death—rebel cancer cells that refuse to yield or scare tissue preventing the sinoatrial signal from traveling to the next cell in the heart wall. Such is the language of my mind. My mind needs understanding—the facts—the who, the what, the where help bring order to the chaos—the new world—that I really do not want to know.
My heart finds no comfort in facts. It protests at an ear piercing pitch in response to the loss. I think of Strider from JRR Tolkien’s book, Lord of the Rings “Memories are not what the heart desires.””
As of today, the protest of my heart is quieter. I know the color and music will return—not the same but I welcome the return whatever form it may take.