Mischief, a Grief Journey

Missing Gordie.

Listening to music and hearing my inner responses.

Journaling the talk. Link to the music...

Making Mischief. A creative process. 

 

Is it possible to have a simple, low wave path through the grief process?

One where you are okay, except for memory sadness?

And the memory sadness passes, as time goes by.

That's one way. 

Expectations. Get on with it. People say.

 

I feel like that way whatever the missing is about doesn't get its real, full expression. For me.

Leaves spaces. Gaps

That don't get filled with something as meaningful as what's gone, so we can go on, feeling whole.

 

 

So, choices...

 

My choice, to listen to the music I play every day that floods me...with the beauty of it, the madness of it, the brilliance of it.

The longing in it.

 

Listening to it brings me constantly, daily, to the depth of the feeling that I get when I am surprised by a grief memory that brings a tear to my eye, or doubles me over with the sadness of it. 

 

Listening, means that I am flooded with memories of all kinds. 

Present moment memories, from my past.

So, not just grief memories. Memories of childhood, teen years, wildly fun memories, fear memories, charged memories, peace filled memories.

 

Also, in listening, and watching...deeply affecting recognition of others' creativity. Stunned into breathing, that intake of breath. Exhale.

 

And possibilities. Possibility. Creativity generated. 

Music does that. For me.

Not any music, so it takes work to find the rhythm, speed, melody that harmonizes with the intensity of feelings I am experiencing, in the missing times.  Work I am more than willing to do. Like digging, to get to the treasure.

 

 My choice to go deep, to inhabit the deepest feelings. Look from there.

And what that does is give me an awareness of the subtleties I'm missing. The specifics.

Break it down. 

And breaking it down brings an understanding of how to fill that miss. What to do. What fits. What will do the trick.

Something specific. Like needing resistance. Missing resistance. Who knew? Ok... Find that. Fill that.

 

Create. What fills the gaps. In a good way. So we don't shrink from the missing.

Fill the empty spaces that are left when someone we love is gone.  With meaning, fun, love, action, dance...

With wildness, intensity, conflict, coolness, resistance. Whatever it is.

 

Mischief, a creative process. Mine. Fill the missing.

 

Note on another day...

How to fill the deep space of constant laughter, missing it.

G was maybe the funniest person. in. the. world. Seriously.

This man...his mind.... I was always laughing.

For thirty years. Longer, when I count the years reading his work and knowing him, prior to our cohabitation.

G had a mind that made connections between the ordinary, the extraordinary...and what was hilarious, ironic, and laughable about it all. It meant we laughed, I laughed, even when it was not a laughing matter. 

Even during our tragedies.

That laughter gives time to process what's happening. Put it in perspective.

So a meaningful, appropriate, and loving response can be managed...

I could never fill that particular miss.

It was a thirty year gift I treasured in all those present moments.

I knew enough to do that.

I wonder if that constant laughter, filled with delight, has anything to do with this constant state of bliss I'm in right now.

You think?

 

A grief journey creates decision opportunities, or necessities...

Here's one that goes through my mind, living in a little house in a garden. My estate. 

Here for 30 years with G, and now one year without.

 

My notes one day on this, perhaps, decision coming...

I always figured, when I thought about it, that the time would come when I moved out of my high maintenance home and garden (you’d have to see it/know it to join the laugh track here), and find a room or two somewhere. Perhaps a studio space.

But I wasn’t anticipating the loud music I’m filling my space with now. Starts earlier in the day now, with son Sol gone, back to work.

Music any time of day. And into the night.

Right now happy to have my yard, a sound cushion around my space.

So, rethinking my plans for the future.

 

Maybe a roommate instead.

Laying out criteria…

Must tolerate high decibel music at any time of day or night.

(Ok I do sleep for a while between 2 and 7.)

What else?

Must be witty, loving, funny as heck, make me mouth watering meals and cookies, teach me how to fix household things myself, care for me when I’m not feeling good, and come to bed with me whenever I turn in.

Oh shit. No, that was partner Gord. Too high expectations. And inappropriate!

 

Okay how about…

Must stick to himself, not care whatever I do or say, let me swear about trivial things at the top of my voice level, pop head in to tell me what is happening in the world, bring me supplements to keep me healthy, share meal making, like loaded tacos, and download any series or movie I want.

Aissshhh! No, that’s son Sol.

Hmmm, shelve roommate plan for now.

 

For now, keep my little house all to myself, look after the disheveled garden myself. Have space for my scattered family when they come….

 

I need time to get my belongings under control anyway.