As a therapist, I have walked many people through the darkness of grief and thought I was somewhat of an expert. In fact, I knew little. Only when I walked alone through the Valley of the Shadow of Death did I begin to understand the gifts and challenges offered by grief.
I had always thought that grief was about sadness, sadness that the Beloved was no longer at one’s side, that the future had suddenly been deleted, and that emptiness replaced fullness.
That is true, but it is only the outside skin of a process that is as transformative as it is shattering.
My grief started when Chris began to lose energy. Suddenly, the life I took for granted could no longer be found. Who was this man who sat in a chair, quietly gazing into the beyond? That couldn’t be Chris. Where has my Beloved gone?
But at that time, it was too terrifying to engage with these questions. No, Chris hadn’t gone anywhere. This was just a phase. I watched, but not close up. That would have been too frightening. But from far away, I told myself he was transforming and that all was well. I trusted that all I had to do was stay in the present, and things would unfold perfectly.
Then he was gone, and another kind of grief emerged. Of course, I knew he was gone, but there was so much of him surrounding me that I couldn’t feel his absence, not that I wanted to. I clung to these reminders and told myself that they were good enough. I knew I couldn’t have Chris, but I could have my memories. I could have the dream that we were still connected, even though one of us was in form and the other in the mystery.
Miraculously, I kept this story running for over a year and a half. I returned to the road, alone yet with Chris seemingly informing my every move. I returned to places we had been together. I visited people we loved where there was often an empty chair, which we chose to believe was held by Chris.
Then came the day a year and a half after Chris died when I realized the truth, or shall I say a truth. Although I had been trying to keep Chris’s memory alive, he and my life were gone. My old life was shattered, and there was no longer any foundation.
I had been traveling for almost ten years and had no home, community, job, or family to return to. This was no longer a question of return. That option was closed. There was no place to return to.
Home, home, home. I kept hearing the words and knew that if I didn’t find a home, I would not be able to stay on the planet. I was now running for my life.
The next period of finding my way back to the East Coast took almost six weeks and was filled with the most challenging experiences of my ten years on the road. It seemed as if I had to prove to the Universe that I wanted to stay despite difficulties, danger, rules I didn’t believe in, and the terror of finding a life by myself.
I ran the gauntlet and survived intact. I found a home, yet in the finding of my home, I went through yet another level of grief that I had not expected. As the new life unfolded in its richness and depth, I had to say goodbye to Chris in a new way. I was now going into a life that did not include him physically. I had a new community, home, activities, and friends. This was a life that he would never share with me. This was a life in which he would be part of my past. This was when I grieved that I was becoming someone he would never know, a stranger.
Yet, as my grief dissolved, I realized that a new relationship with Chris was emerging, one in which I could never lose him again. He was embedded in my cells and would always be a part of me.