The Day I Made a Friend of Grief

“Grief is just love with no place to go.” ~Jamie Anderson

I am not one to fall in and out of love easily, but the times I’ve fallen, I’ve given my love totally — and been devastated just as completely. Every break is harder than the one that came before, and yet I keep expecting it to get easier. As if loving and losing could ever be a simple thing.

Today, I met my grief quietly, standing on my lawn. The sky was blue, and so was I. It wasn’t the dark blue of a coming storm or the soft, watercolor-brush blue of coming rain. It was a calm blue of certainty.

You see, I heard his voice today, and it was a simple joy. It didn’t tear pieces of me away, the way it sometimes has before. It didn’t hurt. I just loved him in a pure, uncomplicated way. I loved him wholly — without expectation or agenda. Then, I went and stood outside and met my sadness there.

It was beautiful in its simplicity — whole and full and complete. I didn’t try to hide from my feelings or run away from them. I felt the love and its twin edge of grief knowing that I could not set it free or feel it returning. I could only acknowledge its presence, its rightness, and its refusal to be anything other than what it is.

“Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” ― Jamie Anderson

People often talk about grief coming in waves, but this felt more like a butterfly landing lightly. Beautiful, simple, real. So many of my feelings are complicated. This one isn’t anymore.

I let the memories come, too, but I did not try to hold them or resurrect them. They came as simply as I let them leave again. My arms are so tired of holding where no one is holding me. I stood there, but I did not feel defeated. I felt love, acceptance, and a quiet sadness that did not leave any more room for wishes than it did for blame.

I hate the phrase “it is what it is.” It is only ever used when the reality is disappointing. I’ve never heard the phrase uttered for a positive reason. It’s acceptance but of the bleak variety, a note of defeat creeping in. That’s not what I felt. The acceptance was calm — a peaceful experience shaded by sadness but allowing room for possibility.

I am not the same. Who among us is after our hearts have hoped and then been left to make sense of the pieces left behind? Sometimes, we complicate our sadness with elaborate stories. We assign roles — determining who will play heroes, villains, or victims. We play our parts, and the healing is often only a plot device to get us from one lover to the next.

I feel like I am deconstructing narratives.

There was a story of us, and I’m unwinding it. Usually, I would be crafting a story that would make sense of the ending, and perhaps I’m reverse-engineering the process. Instead of trying to make sense of everything I wanted falling apart, I am simplifying it. I loved and dreamed of a shared life, but the one I loved didn’t share that dream.

I don’t have the energy left for any elaborate stories. I accept that I cannot love anyone enough to keep them, nor do I want to be kept by anyone who could so easily let me go. The time for building narratives may be another, earlier stage of grief. As we heal, we may not have the same need of them anymore.

I didn’t try to make anyone else carry the weight of my feelings.

For the first time, I didn’t reach out to a friend. I didn’t tell the one I love that I love him or that I’d taken small steps forward in an effort to move on. I didn’t share that the weight of grief sometimes accompanies even the smallest of steps. I simply felt the love and made space for it — on my lawn on an ordinary afternoon.

Cars went by and did not notice my stillness. The sound of a lawn mower started and later died away. My puppy tugged at the end of his leash. I let the sadness be, and I did not look around for anyone else to help me shoulder the weight of my feelings.

There’s nothing wrong with sharing our experiences with others, but there does seem to be a time when our feelings are for us alone. They are ours to experience and to process. Often, we need to turn our attention inward rather than looking around for distraction or relief. Doing so allows us to listen to what we need. My sadness didn’t need me to vent. It just needed me to make a little room for it.

I felt sad, but I am not sad.

I am not over-identifying with my emotional experience — or judging it. Later, I would go back inside and make room for other feelings. There was gratitude for my children, appreciation for a quiet evening, the simple happiness of bedtime hugs and kisses, and the joy of a good book.

We don’t have to feel sadness or grief and take up residence there. We don’t have to draw out the feeling and make it home, intertwining it with our identity. I have loved fiercely, and the emotions that followed were just as intense. They came for me like a storm, but then they moved on like storms do — gradually decreasing in intensity until we are left with blurred skies, shimmering mists, and soft rain before the sun comes out once more.

I made a friend of grief.

So often, when sadness or grief arrives, I try to make it something else. I’m annoyed that it’s still there, that it won’t go away no matter how much therapy I get or how many small steps I take to move forward. I judge it and try to change it and get angry with myself when I can’t.

This time, I made a friend of grief. I accepted the sadness as a normal part of the human experience. I’ve loved many people in my lifetime, and grief seems to be the price we pay for the experience. I cannot regret the love — so how can I begrudge the grief? I made a friend of it instead. I let it be what it is without feeling it should be something else. I let it stay as long as it needed to, and then it was free to go with my blessing.

Today, I met my grief while standing quietly on my lawn. I don’t know if I’ve ever stood as still as that or accepted my feelings so completely. I don’t know that I had the strength to do it until now. The sky was blue, and so was I — and everything was exactly as it should be.