A Season of Grief

Sometimes, out of nowhere, I burst into tears.

What season is this? This season, where at any given second, grief rises and pulls me under.

There have been other seasons. I don’t know if I am alone in this season. Others I know are also swimming in grief, in depression.

I think maybe it is energetic. That it is not about the specific events of this time. But a convergence of many.

I know in the moment, I can find so much beauty. The small world of sitting at the kitchen counter eating hummus omelets with my husband. Taking Nutmeg on her walk, she snuffs and grunts at the amazing world of smells that only a dog can appreciate.

There is so much to feel grief over.  Our unwinding world. The pain I read about in the papers. Lives cut short, truncated or stomped on.

My identity crisis. That is a season. The season of who am I? What is my life? What does this mean?

The season of what is the future. Will the green of the grass, the sound of the birds nourish me? Will the moment with the trees still fill me with love and hope?

The season of feeling powerless. What actually matters? What is slowly being unwound in me? Like a tight ball of yarn or string, or a knitted blanket, the ends coming loose, unraveling. Until all that is left is a pile of colorful yarn… without real shape or form.

The season of grieving for what could have been but never will be. That season.  The season of old eyes turning into new eyes. How do I see differently? How do I take what was lost and find a way to see what is fresh and new?

When I was younger, I didn’t realize that most, probably all, people struggle. I knew of the harshness of slaughtered cows and pigs. I knew of the birds the cats caught. I knew of my father’s anger and violence. But I didn’t know that each of us experienced tragedy and pain. I didn’t realize that life could be harsh for many.

It is a season of sight, of the thousand eyes of a fly, seeing a holograph of images.

It is a season of overwhelm, of taking deep gasping breaths to try to stay in the body, to bear the pain that rises unbidden, to not exit to the sky.

It is a season of caring for my older husband, making him a sweet apple-flavored green tea. A gentle drink. A tender moment.

I am also in the season of Pluto. Transiting Pluto, ripping my still-beating heart out of my chest as I weep for unknown reasons. As I question who we are, why so many cannot see, what this giant process is, and how to find meaning and god.

When I was little, I watched the ants have wars. The black ants and the red ants. They would capture and roll the supposed enemy into a ball, carry him or her away. I used to watch and wonder. What does this mean? Why? This has not changed. I still watch and wonder.

I wish I could say it was all clear. That I understand the metamorphosis I am in. I do not. It is a season of confusion and overwhelm. This, I think, is the other side of sensitivity. One of my gifts. One of my crosses to bear. To feel too much. To understand too little. Perhaps this is the season of being human.

Read about Love’s Cauldron: Reclaim Your Wild Feminine – Book 1 here.