The sun is shining, and the birds are singing. It is looking to be a beautiful day. I had this in my awareness, yet I lay in bed wondering what reason I had to get up. My bladder was full but I found that, if I lay still enough, it wasn’t really a compelling reason to get out of bed.
As I lay there, I thought of the activities of the day. There is a Summer Solstice gathering of Tom and my mutual friends. I have not had much contact with them in the past few months – an occasional email from one or two of them, nothing more. I am still contemplating making the drive. Seeing as how Tom died on the first day of Spring, I should be happy to celebrate the coming of a new season. But I wonder what emptiness the new season will hold. I wonder what extent of numbness I will experience as I try to mingle at the event.
Now, before you comment, please know that I have been reading and talking about the process of grief. I am not alone in my apathy. It is normal to feel and act this way.
Is it only coincidence that the roses on my table are a near match to those on the cover of the book, A Grief Observed? I bought the book yesterday and wasn’t surprised to see the familiar image. In fact, it was comforting in an odd way, as are the words C.S. Lewis uses to describe his own survival of “the mad midnight moments.” The book is thin and while the writing a raw, unpolished, and even hard to follow at times, I realize that I am only observing a fraction of of it. My mind drifts off to someplace else as I am reading. I imagine that I will read it over and over.
I think about my assigned run. Coach was kind enough to replace my rest day with a three mile run. It hardly seems worth the effort of changing my clothes though. I wonder if I can do my long run instead. Tomorrow will be a busier day. Tomorrow I will see my kids once more. Even better, I will be able to have them home with me again. I’ve missed them tremendously.