Sometimes without warning it cuts through you, breaking you to pieces. Like a hot blade going through your heart—only you don’t get to die.
Everything inside you wants to dim it down. Suddenly, you crave every addiction you think you have let go of—a drink, a cigarette, a pill, sex. Something. Just something to give you some relief from feeling this raw.
You’re reduced to a big gaping wound and nothing else. You read things that spew crap like, “The wound is where the light enters,” and all you can think of is with a wound this big, it had better be the fucking sun entering. When people ask you if you feel better or say things like they hope you feel better soon, all you want to do is punch them. It’s not a fucking cold. “Better” won’t come for a while. But maybe they forgot what grief feels like.
Maybe they never knew.
It sits with you. Sometimes, it sleeps and you’re fooled into thinking that it’s left you. But then, when you’re sitting there, smiling, it rears its head again. You can’t see it, but you feel it so strongly that sometimes your body doubles over and there you are, on your knees at the mercy of the universe.
All your life, you’ve been told that this is bad. Somewhere in there, your mind is saying, “Well, you’re not the first person this has happened to, so get over yourself.” But this is beyond what your brain understands; it’s not something to fight or get rid of, it just is. It is not a disease.
The tears that fall are your emotions bubbling over into the physical world.
At some point, you ignore the thoughts that tell you this is wrong. Ignore the people that say you should feel better. This is grief. It is not good, but it is not bad either. It is a feeling that tells you that you loved. It reminds you that you are alive.
I used to fight my grief; I used to think that because I was grieving or crying, it meant that I was not strong. Then I was taught different. I was taught to see emotions in a different way, that strong might not mean fighting. That “strong” meant feeling—sitting in the grief.
Easier said than done.
But you know what? That’s life.
As I sit in meditation and the tears fall again, I realize that there is no right or wrong; only the knowing—the understanding—that instead of happiness, the goal might be to just be at peace. And I am still learning—learning to be a peace with grief. Learning to surrender to the fact that it is here, and it might be my travelling companion for a while. Learning to accept of the fact that the tears will fall sometimes when I don’t expect them to, and learning to give myself permission to grieve.
Azra Mustafa. Daughter. Cousin. Niece. Sister. Muslim. Malay. Yoga student, yoga teacher. Part pirate from the Straits of Malacca and the South China Sea, part runaway from the Black Sea and completely human. Former traditional dancer. Urban hippie. Sometimes blogger. Serial hugger. Wonderer. Wanderer. Gypsie. Shoe freak. Beach bum. Dreamer. Music appreciator. Movie liker. Social networker. Kitchen experimenter. Constant friend. Often lover. Still looking for her Dharma. Her blog can be found at: https://azphoenix.wordpress.com/
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Ed: Bryonie Wise
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