Riding the Waves

The thing is, the very singular thing is, that this kind of loneliness can only be filled by Michael, and he’s not ever going to be here to fill it again. There is literally an unfillable hole in my life, and that is the truth of grief.

 

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June 16, 2018

It’s 52 days since Michael’s death and I’ve been alone the whole day. I haven’t spoken to a single person, not one, except of course, Michael. But he doesn’t answer. For the first time since he died, and for a whole day, I haven’t cried. Though of course I’m crying now as I think about him. I’m so lonely and I miss him so much.

I talk to the dog. She doesn’t answer either, but she does wag her tail and lick my hands, so that’s something. The thing is, the very singular thing is, that this kind of loneliness can only be filled by Michael, and he’s not ever going to be here to fill it again. There is literally an unfillable hole in my life, and that is the truth of grief.

Sometimes I wish I had the mind of my dog. She is utterly present-centered. When Michael was alive and lying in a hospital bed in our living room, she loved him. She licked him and cuddled him and wanted to be near him. After he died I held her up to his body and she had no interest at all. None. He was simply gone and she knew it. And, weirdly, if he walked in the door right now, and how I wish he could, she’d be delirious with joy. There’s no gap for her. There’s no missing. He’s just not here.

A new friend reminded me of something Ram Dass said about the loss of a loved one. He said that not only is one dealing with the loss of that person, one is also dealing with the loss of the part of one’s self that was known by that person. And now that is gone. This makes me cry even harder. For no one else will ever know me in the very particular, subtle and conscious way that Michael did. That level of being known, that rich particularity, is lost forever in this life.

In spite of my best efforts, the house is filled with Michael, even as I clear out so many of his things, his books, his clothes — he is everywhere! There’s the art we bought in Green Bay, and the fossil we found at the gorge. There’s the large vertebrae of some huge mammal we stumbled on in the mountains, and the garden ornament I bought for him because of a dream he had. The list goes on and on. Every room of this house, every thought in my head, has a tendril that leads back to Michael. There are times when it is extremely painful and times when it is comforting, but always, it is a little too empty now, and much too sad. And part of me just desperately wants to escape, wants to run away, wants to find another lover, another house, another life.

I find myself cruising the Zillow site looking at houses for sale, and I even find one I think would be right for me. I text my realtor, who also lost a true love, and she talks me down from the edge, thank god. I won’t be buying a new house today. But the impulse is still there and I have to wrestle with it. I plan a trip to California to meet my first grandchild in September and I realize I am pinning so many hopes on this new life that is being born, so many hopes for this hole in me to be filled, all the while knowing that it won’t. I look ahead to birthdays and anniversaries and holidays with something approaching dread, and I pray I’m in a better place inside of myself when they occur.

A friend eloquently writes: “I think about you being alone in a house still animated with scents and wispy trails of Michael’s presence, thicker in some places and thinner and more spread out in others, as if one moment you step into liminal spaces where the veil between worlds thins and the next you find yourself solidly in this physical world of ours.”

This is exactly right! I’m in the liminal space most of the time when I’m alone – between the worlds. I talk to Michael then, and there’s still enough memory of his voice that I can hear him say, “It’s ok, Babe. You’re doing fine.” I imagine it’s actually him speaking to me then, his spirit reaching out across the void to comfort me. And maybe it is.

I have a session with our psychic, the one who correctly predicted Michael’s death, to ask her about my life now that he is gone. She tells me that I’m still in shock from his death but this is lightening, and when it does, Michael will come through to me more easily. She also tells me that finding another love is not my primary mission. Rather, I am to “feel safe in earth” in order to experience profound relaxation while on my own. This level of relaxation is based in utter faith in the Divine as it unfolds. She says this is the key to deeper enlightenment.

She also says that the hardest part of enlightenment isn’t the leap into it, it is the integration of its many lessons and this takes time. I will know that I am making progress  when I am filled with fearlessness. She reminds me of other readings I’ve had in which I am told how important it is, how actually crucial it is, for me to find joy within myself and my own life. She sees another love coming for me but not for awhile, for it is my task to learn to live alone, to root deeply into my own center.

I know she is right. I’ve never really lived alone until now. I’ve lived with girlfriends and boyfriends, and husbands, and children. But I’ve never lived alone.

Many years ago an astrologer told me about my North node. The North node points to what your soul came into this life to learn, and mine is in the first house, the house of independence.  The numerology of my birth date has a similar message, for my life path adds up to the number “one.” This signifies that I am a leader and independence is my greatest strength.

But it doesn’t feel like this to me. I don’t feel like a leader. I feel done in, at sea, overwhelmed. So much of me wants to fall back into what is easy, to meld into another relationship, to give myself over to a new lover or a new house. Yet I can hear the truth in the psychic’s words. She gives me the same information I’ve heard from all of these other esoteric sources. I must find joy in my life without losing myself, without giving myself away to the life of another. Then, and only then, can true love come again. This finding of myself could not happen without Michael’s death, and now I realize this truth at another level. His death was an absolutely necessary part of our soul contract, a necessary sacrifice.

As I write these words, another tidal wave of grief comes rushing in. It tosses me into the deep water and as it does, I know this is sacred space. All of it. This grief is teaching me to learn to love my life without Michael. It is teaching me to swim in this vast ocean without drowning, and it is teaching me to find my way to shore once again. I know that the hardest thing is for me to sit exactly here on this shore, as steadily as I can. Sit exactly here and allow wave after wave to wash through me, leaving me clearer and calmer with each undulation of this endless sea.

Soul Contract

Our contracts aren’t meant to keep us safe and secure. They are meant to constantly throw us out onto the ragged edge of growth and change.

 

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I’ve been thinking about soul contracts lately. I look at soul contracts as agreements our souls make in order to grow in this lifetime. In it the soul agrees to its karmic lessons, experiences, and circumstances for its best chance at advancement of consciousness.

I’m seeing that Michael and I have made quite a contract together. Of course I can only see this contract in retrospect, and god knows, there may be more to come.

But here’s what I know so far: Clearly Michael and I were to meet and help each other out of marriages that were not happy for either of us. Clearly, we were to marry and raise three children. Clearly, we were to create a truly unique healing center together. Clearly, I was to have a potentially fatal disease from which I was to recover. Clearly, he was to care for me during this time, and then for some time after. Clearly, we were to encounter experiences that would lead both of us more deeply into spirit and higher consciousness. Clearly, once Michael became enlightened he was to be diagnosed with a mortal illness. And now clearly, I am to take care of him until he dies.

What a contract! There’s so much suffering within it, and so much potential for growth and love.

Part of what I’ve been doing is watching how this contract is unfolding and what my grief is teaching me over these long fifteen months.

First, grief comes in waves of watery energy. Anyone who has ever experienced a big loss knows this. Sometimes it comes gently, a soft rain of sadness, a pulling down but not under. Sometimes, unexpected, unplanned, and completely uncontrollable waves of grief spiral through me and suddenly I find myself lost in a storm of sorrowful realizations. Other times grief is so potent that only wracking sobs and an inchoate sense of falling are possible. These are the times in which I wonder if I will be pulled under to drown in a pain that is inconsolable and too huge to hold. But I do not drown and I am learning to hold.

Second, rather than stages of grief, it feels like layers of grief that reveal a new look into the depths of sorrow, despair, and fear. Sometimes I still find myself at the initial layer of shocked incomprehension. Other times I’ve plunged so deeply into sorrow that I’ve found a kind of peace. And then I can come all the way back up to the layer of denial and confusion.

I’ve been hoping to find the intersection of sorrow and peace in all of this for I know this search is part of my soul’s contract, part of my necessary growth. I’ve found that it does exist but I need to cry to find it. Once I’ve opened my heart to myself, then tears are followed by peace and by a deeper knowing of the nature of suffering and true compassion. But I must open my heart to myself for this to happen.

Lately I’ve realized that in spite of thinking that I was handling grief about as well as anyone can, what I was actually doing early on was protecting myself with fantasy and a kind of mean-eyed clarity. Fantasies of what my future would be like began to take up a fair amount of my mind-time. How old will I be when Michael dies? How will I want to be living my life? Where will I want to live? Will I get married again? What kind of man will I be looking for?

At the same time, thoughts about our marriage and the holes in our relationship became more prominent. And like all marriages, ours is not perfect. There are co-dependencies that have developed that don’t feel healthy and that have made me question this relationship on and off for a number of years. I spent months inwardly chasing fantasies while looking for some kind of security in an inherently insecure situation.

The hell of it is that we all have these codependent relationships, at least until we really grow up. Not all of them are unhealthy, of course, and any long term relationship will have worked out various methods of getting needs met – rituals and patterns that can be life-sustaining or life-denying. At some point, and maybe too often, we end up needing something from someone we love to the point of compromising ourselves in order to get it.

This is what it feels like to me. Soon, the compromises begin to erode one’s self-reliance and one’s self-respect, and eventually, one’s essence. And even when the erosion is very subtle, it’s still part of the scene.

For instance, very unconsciously I remained chronically fatigued for years so that Michael would take care of me. In turn he got to feel secure because I needed him so much. Please hear that I am not blaming him for this in the least! This pattern plays way back into my childhood, and even though I know and understand this pattern, I couldn’t stop feeling physically worn out.

So interestingly, when Michael became truly ill, I began to be truly well. I’ve been struck by this on many occasions, and I know other people have too. I still have many of the symptoms I had before, I’m still sensitive in ways I sometimes wish I wasn’t, I’m still tired sometimes, but I don’t feel sick any more! And weirdly enough, our pattern was so well entrenched that even with knowing every in and out of it, every devious little twist and turn of it, we were powerless to stop it until Michael got sick. It took something this dire to shake us out of a pattern that wasn’t nourishing either of us!

Michael also knows about this pattern, of course, because it’s been a running commentary between us over the years – me bringing it up and him inwardly groaning while outwardly taking it on. And now we both see the changes that have been wrought in these past fifteen months. Mostly, we aren’t stuck in the old ways anymore – he knows I love him for things deeper than his care of me. And I know that I can take care of myself.

Of course, there’s been a high cost for this. From time to time, I’m overwhelmed with grief and responsibility, and Michael is coping with debilitating illness and chemotherapy side effects. We’re both looking at tremendous losses but of very different sorts. What a price to pay for freedom. What a contract!

But ultimately, the greatest freedom I’ve found is that grief isn’t anything to fear. It’s harsh and sad and sometimes overwhelmingly empty. But the thing that has to be accepted with grief is that there is no protection! There is no safety in this physical life except the full acceptance of what it really is. That’s it. Everyone you love will either leave you or you will leave them. There’s no way around it.

Our contracts aren’t meant to keep us safe and secure. They are meant to constantly throw us out onto the ragged edge of growth and change. There is nothing to hold on to here but love.

And though I still feel fear, I know it is an illusion. I can’t hide in fantasies about the future or resentments about the past. To really love, I have to risk everything and at last come to peace with this complete lack of safety. This means opening my heart with absolute certainty that it’s going to be broken. Now I truly know that I am staring death in the face, and that I am going to lose.

If I really accept this, really surrender to this ongoing practice, then I do find peace or rather, peace finds me – and that is the other wisdom that has come. I can chase peace with a desperate determination but I won’t find it by chasing it. It simply arises in a moment of grace and then there it is.

For that is what is happening now. Michael and I have found a new peace together. It’s not romantic or sexual at all – that has been stripped away. Instead, we’re often just sitting together, talking, and holding hands. It’s the way our soul contract currently expresses itself and we both know that we came here to live it out. It is full of goodness and it is asking us to be our best selves. We try to live up to it.

So what is left between us? It is phenomenal respect, friendship, and compassion for our beingness, for what we’ve been and what we are, and for what we may become. What is left is the essence of love. Finally, we have reached a simple purity of goodness – the goodness of being able to sit in deep comfort, to hold hands in the quiet darkness, to speak softly of spirit in its many guises, and then, to go gently into that good night.