This is not the solemn low drone of letdown, with an honest knowing that life is as it should be. Rather this grief is the long traverse of deep sorrow into a valley, with stumbles over rocks and potential drops that leave you marred for life. It is a graceless fall, crashing along the way, to the bottom of it all.
There you are, alone, without even a pack mule to carry your burden. This grief sits squarely on the surface of your entire being: unbalanced, unpredictable and unfamiliar in a way that makes it hard to shift around. On the floor of this strange existence, all you can do is peel yourself up off the ground and move forward with no guarantees.
You must trust your actions like the flow of a river running over rough rocks, patiently smoothing the edges. This grief is an epoch. It is relentlessly painful some days with a hollow echo bouncing off you, alone in this valley as the world whirls above.
There is beauty in it too, mostly in the silence that becomes your confidant. Even the steep walls that surround you start to feel less ominous, less like a trap and more like guardians protecting your delicate way.
Along this uncharted path, you begin to consider what the names of the wildflowers are; you catch sight of a hawk circling above with a snake in it’s beak; you lighten in the colors of the sunset and untie moments of hope in the sunrise. You get good at heating a meal again and perhaps even embellish it with something you found in the day.
At night you are mostly so tired you let unconsciousness steal you away. Some nights you wallow under the stars. The underbelly of night feels like a thin veil between this new existence, and the one you left long ago. The flame from your fire drowns in all the darkness around you. The faint flicker is barely visible in the vastness of the valley. You stir it with a stick, poking at the kindling; sometimes you let it flicker out as you lay beside it letting go.
Days and nights turn into an immeasurable ribbon of time. There’s no set date for when you will venture up and out. You look for signs to help you find feeling again. Living is heavy. Even in the moments when it all falls away and you find a remnant of your former self, you suffer the duplicity of familiarity and foreignness.
Still you move on. Shifting into a new shape. Somehow, as you’re watching your steps, sipping water and noticing the clouds in the sky, you find you are on your way up. There are vantage points you rest at; you don’t rush the view or the undisclosed ripples that roll through your being.
The grief flows behind you like a mantle bestowing wisdom, grace, and bravery. You look back and see all that you just walked through, especially where you started. Though it is still relatively close, the valley holds a reservoir for you to come look out across when the guilt of remembering guides you back.