Grieving is like the receding tide
Grieving is like the receding tide
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I don't know if you've ever spent much time at the beach - a real beach, not the side of a pond or swamp. The "work" of grieving is like the receding tide. At first you don't see any progress, and your "shore" is just buffetted by endless large waves of grief. They toss rocks at you, and slither the sand out from under your feet so you lose your footing. After some time, you begin to notice that not all of the waves are as strong or reach up as high. But you're not so sure. There are still some killer waves, rivalling the strongest ones at the beginning. But fewer of them. A little longer, and most of the waves are weaker, and you can keep your footing, and even risk standing a bit further down the beach. So you take a few small steps (rebuilding your life, often called “moving on”). Now and then another big wave reminds you that you may have stepped a bit too fast or too far. Or maybe you notice that since these mini-tsunamis come far less frequently, you have some ability to adjust and cope with them - to adjust your footing, sucking your feet back out of the quicksand. More time, and there are mostly only weak waves - a surprising large one rarely, but never as big as the maelstrom you were fighting at the start.
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And keep in mind that the ocean is never still/stopped, and you never get to leave the beach. This means: The beach is your life, your walk in life. Ergo, you don't get to leave the beach. The ocean is your love for that missing person, and your sorrow over not having them again, and complicated by any regrets. So don't be surprised, if, even ten years later, even as a grownup, you have a surprising spell over missing your Mommy ! It just means, you still love.
.
(These are my own words. A Massachusetts girl! Not Cape Cod, but I grew up across the street from a little beach.)
.
Love to all, Glynis Sylvia
.
I don't know if you've ever spent much time at the beach - a real beach, not the side of a pond or swamp. The "work" of grieving is like the receding tide. At first you don't see any progress, and your "shore" is just buffetted by endless large waves of grief. They toss rocks at you, and slither the sand out from under your feet so you lose your footing. After some time, you begin to notice that not all of the waves are as strong or reach up as high. But you're not so sure. There are still some killer waves, rivalling the strongest ones at the beginning. But fewer of them. A little longer, and most of the waves are weaker, and you can keep your footing, and even risk standing a bit further down the beach. So you take a few small steps (rebuilding your life, often called “moving on”). Now and then another big wave reminds you that you may have stepped a bit too fast or too far. Or maybe you notice that since these mini-tsunamis come far less frequently, you have some ability to adjust and cope with them - to adjust your footing, sucking your feet back out of the quicksand. More time, and there are mostly only weak waves - a surprising large one rarely, but never as big as the maelstrom you were fighting at the start.
.
And keep in mind that the ocean is never still/stopped, and you never get to leave the beach. This means: The beach is your life, your walk in life. Ergo, you don't get to leave the beach. The ocean is your love for that missing person, and your sorrow over not having them again, and complicated by any regrets. So don't be surprised, if, even ten years later, even as a grownup, you have a surprising spell over missing your Mommy ! It just means, you still love.
.
(These are my own words. A Massachusetts girl! Not Cape Cod, but I grew up across the street from a little beach.)
.
Love to all, Glynis Sylvia