Grieving in the Desert

Too Many Losses When I Have To Leave Here

Grieving in the Desert

It��s been a while since I went walking in the desert. A couple of months ago, I started taking extra dance classes, so I felt as if I needed to rest in the evenings and on the weekends to make sure I had the strength to dance, but lately it��s more because of . . . well, because of laziness, I guess.

After last night��s upsurge of grief for all my losses, I wanted to talk to Jeff (my deceased life mate/soul mate). During the past four-and-a-half years since his death, I��ve felt the closest to him out in the desert away from the traffic and commotion of the city. But he wasn��t there today. Of course, he��s never been there except for the part of him that used to be a part of me, but today even that tenuous connection was missing.

I used to worry that my grief kept him tied to me so he couldn��t go wherever he needed to go, though I��ve believed from the beginning that when he died, he went far beyond my influences, back to the higher reaches of radiance he came from. (At the same time, oddly, I believe he is gone, obliterated, oblivious. This second belief seems to be the result of my logical mind, while the first is more intrinsic.) I have no true belief as to what happened to him — either way, he is gone from my life with only his very pronounced absence still making him present to me.

At the moment, I have his photograph standing on a table where I can see it frequently, though sometimes I put it away or lay it face down depending on my current state of dependency. During the time of my dysfunctional brother��s nearness and my father��s decline, I needed to keep the photo handy to remind me that my life wasn��t always such a horror. Eventually, I��ll pack the photo away and not look at it much if at all — I��m not sure it��s a good thing to keep reminding myself of our past. The past is past, and only shows itself in what I have become because of it, anything else seems to be . . . I don��t know. Wallowing maybe. Irrelevant perhaps.

It does seem strange to think he isn��t relevant to my life anymore. For thirty-four he was relevant to everything I did, said, thought. Now my life is mine alone. I still��wish I could go home to him, but though I seldom admit it even to myself, I know I would chafe under the life his illness forced us to live. I remember how numb I was that long year of his dying, and I don��t have that sort of defense any more. His death and my ensuing grief killed that particular mechanism in me — now I feel everything, as if my emotional tuning fork is poised to thrum at the slightest disturbance.

Sometimes, when I am at my most mystical, I feel as if my life��s journey is just beginning. That everything up to now has been prologue. (That sounds familiar. Didn��t Shakespeare write, ��What��s past is prologue��?) So I won��t say prologue. Maybe school. My life does have a bit of that ��almost graduation�� feel to it, along with the panic/excitement of what is coming — whatever that might be. I��m trying to follow the advice of a very sage woman and not give too much thought to the future, but my mind does seem to wander/wonder at times.

I will make one plan for the near future, though. I��m planning to walk in the desert again tomorrow. Even though Jeff might be absent, I was very much present, and that��s what mattered.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, ��an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.�� Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.