the hand hold

When the dust settled, and the world felt a little less moving around me, grief and I met again; for good this time.

It became about two lives in one.

It felt like I held the life I had lived with mum alive in one hand, and this new life that began when she left in my other.

When I tried to juggle them, one was super glued to my palm.

I tried to shake it off, to remove it completely, to deny it any right to be stuck to me.

I refused to accept this would be the way we would co-exist forever.

Until I had no choice but to love the super glue hand hold grief had on me.

When I adapted to seeing the GOOD in the GRIEF, we started to work alongside one another.

Grief became a filing cabinet of the most important moments of my life.

At any point I get to pull out the beautiful parts of my life with my mum and hold them.

It holds the sounds and the smells and the feelings and the lessons and the laughter, for me. 

It has taught me when to open them, and when to let them sit there.

I accepted that grief didn’t steal anything from me, it just became the place I get to unravel in, the place I get to reminisce.

For in all the ways grief has been excruciatingly hard, it has been the precipice of so much GOOD.

Sometimes I think the hand hold of grief is a magnifying glass.
It amplifies the parts of my life that are different now, and pushes me towards decisions I never would have considered.

Sometimes I think the hand hold of grief is a clock.
Reminding me to take risks as it ticks away.
Reminding me profound growth comes from the courage to embrace change.
Reminding me to have more fun.
Daring me to do it all.

Sometimes I think the handhold of grief is an opportunity.
In all the ways I have connected with other people who feel the weight of loss, too.
In all the ways I consider the possibility of the bigger picture.
In all the ways I consider the power of presence.

Sometimes I think the handhold of grief is love.
In all the ways I get to learn to love myself again.
In the showing up of my people, in their no matter what ways.
In the ways I get to show up for my people.

Sometimes I think the hand hold of grief is art.
A blank canvas for a life I get to recreate.

Not sometimes, but always, I think the hand hold of grief is just my mum reminding me she’s there. And in my new weird way, I hope it stays stuck down.

The journal entry that inspired this article: 

Grief is the dance of everything, and nothing, ever being normal again.

Whilst everyone waltzes around you.