Saturday, November 10, 2007

I Hate Mind Pretzels

Doing some basement cleaning tonight, I found two thumbnail black and white passport-style photos of Deb. I'm able to smile these days instead of sob, but it wasn't long before the rush of emotions began. I found myself thinking, "I was married for 12 ½ years to this person who is no longer a person. What does that mean?"

How does one even begin to answer such a question?

Thankfully, I've acquired sufficient grief tools by now that I was able to calmly sit on the couch and become grounded in the here and now. Within five minutes I was back to my usual self, able to get on with the evening. But the questions remain: how do people exist one moment and not exist another moment? What does that say about existence? About people? About me?

I read a book not too long ago by Thich Nhat Hanh called No Death, No Fear. He talks at one point about drinking tea, and how after drinking tea we don't look to the tea leaves for the tea — the essence of the tea has been absorbed by the water, which was subsequently absorbed by us. In the same way, the essence of our loved one is no longer in their body but has been diffused into the world, and a large part of their essence has been diffused into us. So does that mean that the essence of Deb is in me? Is this what widows and widowers talk about when they say that they can feel their Dearly Departed as a part of them?

Too many questions for one night ;-)

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