the canyon of my heart
On the outside, you might see me sitting on the couch working on my laptop. Sometimes I wear my headphones and will suddenly start singing and dancing while I work. Other times I am hunched over the Chicago Manual of Style trying to figure out how to reference something. You might see me reading a book or a magazine while I am curled up in bed. I might be making macaroni and cheese or a cup of tea. I might be on the floor in bridge pose stretching out my back. This is what you might see on the outside if you peeked in on me in the middle of the day.
This is what you would see on the surface. But what would it be like to look beyond this outer me?
As I looked through the pictures we took in Durango last weekend, I had a thought when looking at this photo of the cliff dwellings carved into the side of a mountain at Mesa Verde—looking at this photo is almost like peeking into my heart. All the emotions and memories and dreams that live in my heart live in a place like this.
When I was taking this picture, I heard someone from across the canyon call out to another person. I was amazed at the thought of how I could hear the person as though she was right next to me. I started to imagine how it would have been to call out to one another hundreds of years ago. How the seemingly quiet world of living on the side of a cliff was probably not all that quiet with thousands of people living throughout this canyon. The surface of something is never quite what it seems. I wondered about the loneliness people felt hundreds of years ago. When did these people decide to leave this place? Did somebody run back to pick up a lost belonging and turn around to find her family had left her? Only to then hear someone from across the canyon yell, “hurry up, we are just over here.”
Someone told me that the second year after you lose someone is the hardest. I remember nodding my head but thinking, “you have no idea what last year was like for me.” Today I am beginning to understand the truth of this statement. The first year you are simply trying to wrap your brain around the pain. And as humans, I think we are used to the idea that pain goes away. You break your arm, and then it heals. You fail, and then you get bounce back. So part of you is waiting for the pain to go away. But at some point, you begin to realize that this pain isn’t leaving. The person doesn’t come back. Ever. Sometimes I will just look at Jon and say, “my grandmother is totally dead.” This isn’t my sarcastic self talking. No, this is me reminding myself of the truth. I appreciate that time has a way of dulling things a bit and that she is with me and on and on and on. But I also know that my heart feels broken. And sometimes I am paralyzed for seconds at a time at the thought that this is how it will feel when I lose the next person. And then again with the next. My breath is cut off by this thought.
No one ever explained all this to me. Though I realize that maybe you can’t really understand it until you experience the loss of someone you love. Still, I wish I had even understood a tiny piece of it. Every day I am still a bit shocked about the depth of feeling I have now. How my understanding of life changed in one moment. And this isn’t melodramatic; it is just truth. My truth. Me.
At times, my heart does feel as empty and lonely as this cliff dwelling appears from across the canyon at first glance. However, I know that even through this emptiness a spirit is strong within these walls. These dwellings have been here for hundreds of years and they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. And even when they do crumble, the energy of the people who lived in these walls is everywhere. This is also true of my heart. Even in moments of grief I am not alone. Even when it seems as though no one knows my experience, I am not alone. The spirit of all those who came before me lives in me. The spirit of all those who are with me now lives in me. The energy that creates the future lives in me. I try to remind myself that even in the deep, wide feelings of grief, I am not alone.
And if there are moments when you don’t know what to do, you don’t know what to say, or you don’t know how to respond, remember: To really see me, is to move the outer stuff aside to take a peek across the canyon to look inside my heart. To really love me, is to call across the canyon to let me know you are there.
And I will remember that this is true with you too.
on grieving (and healing)
Reader Comments (19)
angel, thank you for getting it. you and i will have so much to talk about when we meet x
i remember my first experience
with real loss...
no one could have ever prepared
me for it, no matter what they had
said...
i had never felt so
empty
in my life...i might have thought
i did...but i didn't, not really.
and it does get worse before
it gets better...
and even when it gets better,
sometimes it will blindside you,
right when you don't expect it.
thinking of you
xo.
I am teary-eyed, reading this...visiting my favorite sites over the past few days, I see so much being worked through and honored and embraced. I feel a quick blush of almost-shame, because I haven't really reciprocated. This weekend is the anniversary of my brother's death--I wish I could tell you the years soften things. I wish I could say, "Yes, the second year is the hardest..." but, then, I'd think of the fourth, ninth, twelfth, or--like this year, the eighteenth. It doesn't soften...but, my grief is now a part of who I am and I am just letting myself feel this as time goes by. I'm sorry for such a rambling comment--but, your voice echoed for me...and I wanted to reply.
No one ever even told me the second year is the hardest. Not that telling me would have really prepared me for how it felt, but still, I wish someone had told me.
FWIW, as I'm approaching the 5th anniversary of my mom's death, I'll tell you that I think it does get a bit easier after that second year. The loss is forever and the missing them never goes away, but somehow once you get past that shock of realizing that "oh, this isn't just a matter of getting through the first year, this is something I have to deal with forever", somehow I dunno...things get better. Or at least they did for me. Now the mom-sized hole in my heart is a dull ache instead of an open wound most days. I hope they get better for you too. {{{Liz Elayne}}}
I've never heard death explained this way and I thank you for the gift of this knowledge, because I feel like I'll be a little bit more prepared. (if that's possible).
the stregth, and depth, and sadness, and joyful parts of our hearts are so mysterious, so big, and unknown. your journey through this grief has been heartbreakingly real. i admire your courage to trudge through it with gentle mindfulness.
"Liz...iz iziz"
"I can hear you..ou ouou"
"I love you..ou ouou"
"I'm sending you a hug...ug ugug"
"and a kiss...is isis"
"I'm just right here...ere ereere"
"you're not alone..one oneone"
xxx d (hee hee) :)
Liz:
I'm so glad to be a little tardy with my Poetry Thursday reading.
I shared your thoughts with my Gerri whose father died this Spring after a long illness, etc. What I love about these canyons in particular, our own ones, but also those of Mesa Verde, are all the ghosts that sweep over them, the history of every witnessing, the echo of every sounding.
Thank you, again and again for your generosity.
liz, this is a stunningly beautiful piece of writing. to make the connection of the dwellings and your heart, to speak of the canyon's connections, to share so deeply your loss. and to help others prepare and understand.
of the dozen or so posts i've read by you, the authenticity of this one is, again, stunning.
kj
i am calling across the canyon to you, across that depth of grief that feels so painfully solitary and yet is a canyon full of all of our collective griefs. your words are so beautiful. your bravery and honesty in writing about your own experience with grief offers me some courage and clarity in seeing the unattended grief in me. i wish for you healing and comfort tonight.
thanks for sharing this, being so vulnerable at a time when you are so raw...
Hey there! I'm WaaaaaaaaaaaaaaYYYYYYY over here on the other side calling you and telling you that you are not alone - I know I've been not here this week, but here I AM!! Here I AM!!! Love Love LOVE LOvE to you!!!!!!!
p.s. ;)!!! check your email!!!!!
your writings during the past year about loss and grief are so intense and poignant. i am glad you are writing. i believe this is critical to the processing of grief, that it is healing while also giving the reader a zoomed-in view of this very important aspect of life.
i wonder if you might find a significant sense of connection doing some emotional processing work inside a grief-work group, working together on common ground where a sense of being fully understood occurs because others are in the same place dealing with similar feelings. it is amazing how much we can learn from each other when we share common experiences, when we allow the thread to connect us in ways which bring us intimate knowledge of another, an understanding which cannnot happen unless one has truly stood in our shoes. there should be several such groups in the area. usually such groups meet for 60-90 minutes (depending on the size of the group) once a week for a specific period of time, often 8-12 weeks.
sending you hugs and a reminder that you matter and my ears and heart are always open to you.
COOEE!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cooee
i hear you. i acknowledge you. i sit holding you from here (new zealand) and want to honor your courage, honesty and openness.
This is a lovely and moving post...I do understand. And I see you.
:)
this is a call across the canyon to you. and though it might be a bit echo-y when it reaches you, know that it is my loudest voice. big hugs to you.
Rosie x
Your echo has reverberated 'round the canyon, and finally reached me - where I stand in my own canyon, with caverns carved out, shaped like a mother and grandparents and aunts and uncles; and little babies that almost were...But when I stand very still there, I can hear their whispers carried on the breeze, and I realize I'm never really alone there.
I don't know if this is something that speaks to your heart, but I offer it in case it might - one of the most healing things I finally did, after my mother had been gone 5 years, was to honor her memory with a Dio de los Muertos (day of the dead shrine) in a collaborative art project. That was almost 4 years ago now; that's when I started to feel the canyon was liveable again.
Wishing you peace.
i hope you hear my call from across the canyon