Grief is a scary, wild beast.
It is.
A jagged, growly, scare-you-when-it-feels-like-it, crazy creature chasing you down… not caring if it waves it’s arms at you at the crack of dawn, the darkest of night, or worst: mid supermarket.
It pokes your weary ribs reminding you of the heavy, heavy acres of lament lurking in your heart and the bone-howling cry so desperate to break free from your knotted gut.
It reminds you outrageously that life continues around you—unbelievable!
I mean, how can it?
Watching others laughing and conversing and wanting to yell at them that life has stopped, haven’t they seen the memo?!
It’s all just wrong.
Surreal.
Where can you unburden, and shed this hounding horror, this nasty nightmare… Surely there’s a quick fix? A way to escape from this mad, soggy, shattering? To dodge this scary, wild beast?
Snivelling, you crawl into bed and pull the covers so tightly over your aching head, whispering your nightly tortured mantra:
“Please let sleep come,
please let sleep come,
please let sleep come.”
And eventually sleep does avail you, only to desert you again so swiftly when you most need it. 1 am.
Where might this end? When will it release you from its intense watchfulness, this scary, wild beast?
Why did no one tell you, warn you of this?
And where do you go to soothe your greyness, your absolute dislike of life at this moment?
You cannot remember what Joy feels like; could it even be possible for you ever again? Will this sharp jagged ache ever stop chasing you?
And then something strange and fully magical happens… a type of outrageous alchemy.
You blink long and sigh in utter exhaustion and in bleary defeat you turn and surrender to the beast. You raise the white flag on your weary heart. You hoarsely but firmly yield. In the shower or in the woods:
“I give up, I can’t do this by myself, I have nothing left… I am yours completely… SHOW ME THE WAY… Show. Me. The. Way.”
Ahhhh, and there it is. A still, quiet moment.
The beast has your full attention now, and its cries relent and relax.
It turns its full powerful gaze on you.
A warm breeze, a waft of softness on your cheek, and in a small, small, hushed voice it responds:
“It’s ok, I’ve got you.”
