The hard work of going gently

hoping you find the truth in gentleness

Be gentle with yourself.

This phrase has often struck me as bland and frankly, annoying. When one is going through a difficult time, gentleness is often what you need, but maybe not what you can muster. You, like me, may not have the energy to put hands to heart, sip hot soup, love yourself through the weakness or stand on two feet when life demands one.

The last two weeks ran like sludge, slow and deceptively dark. Amidst all this spring sun and lightness, it felt like a familiar burden. Oh, I don’t think I can do this. This doesn’t feel good or right. I want to bolt.

I was very sick with a horrible virus that turned into an infection. I spent many days in bed, and because of that, I found myself feeling depressed. Then, the anxiety crept in. One sick day turned to five, then ten, fourteen. I kept waking up hoping I would feel better.

I knew I needed to be gentle with my mind and body, the tender bits that were on edge, exhausted and waning under the weight of sickness. Then, my precious auntie died after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer six months ago. While sitting with her body, beside other family members, singing, weeping, grieving, I felt the infection raging in my body. I felt a sense of panic eroding at my foundation. A foundation I have worked really hard on rebuilding. Old patterns, wounds, fears emerged. Being in the presence of a dead body again in springtime did something to my nervous system. It took my a few days to come to terms with it.

I’m not afraid of a dead body, am I? Why is my body reacting so strongly to this? Why is this virus so bad? Will I get better? The anxiety swirled around inside of me, waking me each morning with it’s dips and spasms.

I began to piece things together. This week will mark 10 years since my daughter, Florence, died. Yet every year, it sneaks up on me like a ghost. I pretend it’s not happening. I imagine my body won’t remember anymore, because I truly have ministered to so many of the aches in my body, spirit, and soul. My body reminds me: there is a story here, there is memory, there is trauma. Go gently. Be soft. Allow it.

The grief, she arises, like a dust storm, clinging like cat hair on a black cotton t-shirt. Suddenly I look down, and she’s all over the place.

My body sings, still she sings this song of remembrance. Maybe it will take 25 years for the choir to take a seat. Maybe longer. It’s only been 10 years.

This feels like gentleness.

My body knows each tonal variation in birdsong in the first weeks of May. It knows all the shades of the blue sky. It knows what it feels like to watch the darkness finally descend at 9:17pm. It knows the cloud patterns, the increasing drone of lawnmowers, the creeping warmth in the air. It knows the earth and her rhythms and it knows my daughter lay dead in my arms amidst all the beauty, newness and blue skies.

Whether I expect it or not, I brace. I brace for impact.

It is not wickedly painful, it’s not disorienting as it has been in the past. But it’s alive. I grieve this knowing, each year. I will have to slow down. I may get sick. I may not sleep well. I may feel anxious. I may stay up too late or struggle to wake in the morning. I may lose my appetite or feel a sense of fatigue.

Sandwiched between the births of my two children, Mother’s Day and sunny, long weekend plans, is the death anniversary of my first born child. This won’t change. I can’t change this part.

I don’t want my bones to hold this story each year, but they do. I release them to break under the weight of it.

I don’t want my mind to be on high alert, wide eyed, clenched fists, concave gut. But my body responds.

I release my body to buckle gently under this remembering blanket.

I forgive myself for all the times I thought I was weak. For all the times I wanted to be joyful, when grief was blowing down the door.

I forgive myself for not wanting to feel, for truly needing gentleness, when all I could deliver was productivity, distraction or busyness.

Being gentle with myself means I accept my fatigue, sickness, sorrow, fear, remembering, trauma, and how it shows up this week. It means I stand back and count the years, one at a time. I notice the distance between us: my daughter, many of my parts, stories.

I notice who is near, and who I call upon.

This year, when I was wracked with sickness and holding new grief, I had to wipe the calendar clean. I asked for help. I took the medicine. I went back to bed. I prayed for the first time in a very long while. I planted marigolds with feverish hands, hoping the dirt would revive me. It didn’t. I ended up back in bed. I whispered how scared I was. I noticed how scared I was. I let myself be scared, something I could not do for so many years.

This year, I learned once again, to scoot over and make room around the fire. I gave a side eye, plopped my hands in my lap and felt a small, polite smile emerge. I know how to greet this friend, even though we’ve both changed so much. I knew her. I know her. I will know her more.

Hello, you. Welcome back. Here, sit next to me.