I won't pretend today was easy. Sometimes it seems I am feeling more pain than I did the first few days after Scott's death. Sometimes, I fear I will lose people with all of this pain. But. That is not the point. It is not the point to worry or fear about how my grief expands and deepens, what my process looks like or how it affects those who can bear to be around me now.
“The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art.”
Grief is deeply personal. It is as individual as the person experiencing it.
I would be doing an incredible disservice to those who are grieving, who have grieved, and for those of us missing Scott painfully to hide my pain in all of this. To cover it up and pretend to you that it's okay, to have all the answers, to know what the big picture is in all of this.
I am on a search like so many of us to find answers to our suffering. To understand what this mystery and journey is all about and I promise to share my experience.
This afternoon, it helped to go outside. I wasn't excited or looking forward to the walk without Scott. I had to push myself to do it. Walking the town square in Sonoma, I felt numb and pain and numb and pain.
I window shopped with zero interest in anything material. Finally, walking through the park, I found the pond and the ducks.
The pond, the fountain and the ducks lifted my spirits. The ducks with emerald green heads, dived down head first in the soupy water searching for food with their cute feathered rumps up in the air, they zipped this way and that in teams of four and six and back to four again across the pond like a waterfowl ballet. They softly quacked an alarm to each other, a grumbling pack of ducks vocalizing their discontent as a black and white boxer type dog walked by on a leash. The whole flock taking off with their carrot colored paddle feet propelling them forward around the fountain to the other side of the pond until the dog disappeared to the other side of the park.
So much life in such a small cement space edged in a tiny square in the middle of a town park.
After the park, at home, I made a small plate of tapas and poured a glass of red wine. And planned a trip to the country where my grandparents were born, where blood, pain, and guts are part of the culture seeped into the art, poetry and stories like a bull dying in the pit of an arena.
It is time for me go to a place I can properly grieve. Spain. And so plans are being written for Spring early Summer 2021 in hopes the fates open the door for me to go.
The Spaniard Poet Garcia Lorca from his poem
"My head is full of fire
and grief and my tongue
runs wild, pierced
with shards of glass"
-Federico Garcia Lorca