I’ve been walking down roads where my words won’t follow,
where they park themselves at the trailhead and sit down to eat a snack
because they wince to hear the language of these wild places
where the wind bleeds a howling sound that shakes me to the bone.
Grief has such a deep voice it’s hard to listen long,
maybe because I’ve been afraid that I might make out what it’s saying.
But it’s not as commanding as I’d feared.
It really can’t swallow the whole of me like I’d always imagined it might.
It comes charging like a rogue wave, sure, sweeping up and tossing like a ragdoll
every bit of my bearing at times.
But I can ride it out.
It can’t hold me under longer than my breath will hold.
It just can’t.
When I let go the fear that this pain is a shameful thing,
that deep sorrow is dangerous and indulgent and wasteful
and just surrender into the tumble,
I come up lighter, less lost, and letting myself be loved.
I read this recently and it spoke aloe over my burns:
“Watch the ones whose only option left is to lean into the questions.
The ones who are uninhibited by the unknown
because they’ve jumped into that gaping hole
and found themselves, by grace, unswallowable,”
Wherever you’re braving to be all in,
the pain will not swallow you.
It just won’t.
Learn to un-fear it.
You’re more alive than you know.
“Grief has a way of showing you
how deep your aliveness goes.”
– Alison Nappi