warmth and wind and water

The other day, I wrote about persistent, loud grief and I received such kind words from my friends. Thank you.

I knew I should pray about it. Heck, what with all the direct answers I've been getting, you'd think I'd want to pray all the time -- you know, sort of maintain this constant prayerful spirit, looking up instead of back & ahead, instead of looking into the shadows all the time. But, I must admit, after I received an answer I didn't like, I sort of avoided it for awhile. Then, of course, there's always the fact that when my life speeds up, my prayer life all but fades away, as do all activities that require a calm spirit.

Yesterday was the perfect melting pot for looking up. Sassy was with her Nana all day, and Jeff worked second shift, which left me with an empty home save the Vunderdog. I returned home at 6:00, fed myself, fed the Vunderdog, and gathered some materials for gardening. I was certain that getting my hands dirty would settle me enough to hear answers if they were there. I took out an oil torch for lighting. After I planted some lettuce and spinach in my new coldframe, I sat on our trash-picked swing with Peter Bjorn and John on the mp3 player. There, on the swing, I took some minutes to feel the unseasonable warmth, the restrained power of the pre-storm wind, and the vitality of the day's rain and finally, I could ask the questions and listen for answers.

As usual, the answers make little sense right now. I trust that they will. I was left feeling that the pain IS and that's all. The pain is neither inherently good nor bad. It just is. And, as Jeff suggested earlier yesterday, I am allowed to pull it out, examine it objectively, and eliminate its negativity since it simply is.

The other answer is that even though my reticence to share my pain is actually a symptom of fear rather than strength, that balming the grief isn't going to happen by opening the floodgates. Instead, my pain will be soothed by daily activities. By simple routines and grounding organic activities. Things like cooking from scratch, growing food, being side by side with my animal, washing our things, arranging our home to be even more of us, and replacing Google with God (thanks, Lara). Things like noticing the "triangles in the water" running down our street (thanks, Sassy). Things like portraying what is in our hearts through the artistic techniques of masters (thanks, Caroline).

I enjoyed watching the wind sway the branches above my head for almost an hour as I considered these concepts and how to put them into practice. The storm was on the horizon all night, moving the warmth through our area. But the wind didn't rush things along. It had a steady intensity about it, but it didn't blow through in gusts, leaving wreckage behind, as I've seen so many storm winds do. As a result, I felt more wholly comfortable and settled myself, in the warmth and the wind and the water.

How much wreckage could be eliminated in my home and in my heart if I approached life with a steady intensity rather than my long-standing pattern of either strong gusts or light breezes?