The two year mark is approaching and I couldn’t be more ecstatic. This year has been another form of hell and I am welcoming my third year of widowhood with open arms. I have delved so far into my grief these last two years that I am ready to come up for air.
To breathe again.
The beginning of year two was harsh, I was my worst enemy, a miserable wreck.
I stopped writing about you because that started to hurt as well.
At first, the words flowed out of me and then I became lost within the pain.
Was I too much?
Say too much?
Share too much?
Feel too much?
Be too much?
How can I start over in this new life if all I do is talk about my dead husband?
Why can’t I just be okay?
Always too much.
So I clammed up. Burrowed further and further into my shell.
But then I started to dig.
Both literally and figuratively.
Digging into my garden, digging into my soul.
Dirt and sweat, tears and isolation.
Planting seeds, nurturing plants, honoring myself and everything that surrounded me.
After days and weeks of this I began to feel cleansed.
I started to go out and experience life more and more.
(yeah, no one warns you about the
merciless guilt that accompanies grief)
I explored my grief on my own terms and became so self aware that I could recognize it when it came around.
I knew exactly what I wanted or needed to do.
What a contradiction.
To be digging in the dirt for clarity, but it was always there.
And so were you.
And so was I.
I found myself.
And in year three, I want to explore more of who I found.
She’s pretty remarkable.