(Originally written June 18, 2018)
I tripped and fell hard into my pain this weekend.
It was embedded in the wall of an unexpected chapel tucked away in the woods on a campsite. Polished rocks, gems, minerals cut into thin sheets, their beauty revealed to the light of day, were installed in the outer walls of this perfect little building. Inside, panes of rock substituted for stained glass, uncovering their glory as the rays of light found their way through.
The light exposed the details of the rock and allowed me to begin to make out the sharp edges of my pain as well.
Dad was my rock, stalwart, always there even when distance meant he wasn’t there. And man, did the man love rocks. At museums and gem shows, he was gleeful seeing how much nature and the Earth had to offer. If he’d built his dream building, it would have looked like this. How had we not thought of this? How could be not be here for me to share with him?
I walked by the first time, and took note of a bench. What I would give to sit here with him and just marvel at this place.
The second time, I noticed the rocks in the walls.
The third, someone had propped open the door with a boulder, and I stepped inside to see that makeshift stained glass -- and two walls lined with cases of still more rocks.
There was that smoldering ache -- always there, but the burning feeling was growing.
Then that night, a song I’d never heard before laid bare the pain in my heart.
Nothing is as it has been
And I miss your face like hell
And I guess it's just as well
But I miss your face like hell
Been talking 'bout the way things change
And my family lives in a different state
And if you don't know what to make of this
Then we will not relate
So if you don't know what to make of this
Then we will not relate
Rivers and roads
Rivers and roads
Rivers 'til I reach you
A daughter and father sang to us around the campfire, and the lyrics breathed life into the embers of my smoldering ache, turning it into a raging fire.
I wept silently, and a friend noticed and embraced me. I made it through the song, then escaped. I passed the chapel, pressed my hand to the wall and wept some more, then fled to the cabin.
I was engulfed but I couldn’t sit with the pain and try to coexist with so many eyes around. I took what I needed -- time -- and drove home alone with my thoughts and my tears and my memories. At home, I found the song on YouTube (“Rivers and Roads” by The Head and the Heart) and played it on repeat while I scanned in a stack of old photos of Dad for a Father's Day remembrance.
I raged, and I cried, and I sang along, and I remembered, and I loved, and took it all in until I could sit with it again -- until it was embers instead of a firestorm. For the time being, anyway.
(Note: I wrote this as part of the Refuge in Grief 30-day writing course called Writing Your Grief. Signing up was a whim, but it ended up being a gift I gave myself. I am still struggling, I am still sad, I am still angry, but I'm more in tune with it all and able to sit with my grief and extract some of the threads of joy and love and kindness that are all woven together along with the pain. If you've experienced a loss, I recommend Megan's book, It's OK That You're Not OK, as a starting point and the writing course if it feels right.)