ACT 1: Don’t fuck with grief !
That’s going to be my main take-away message today. Don’t even try to bury it, or put it on the high shelf in your closet, or dress it up in a short story ( like I did here in Medium ( https://medium.com/co-existence/this-quiet-this-long-acc33abb6853 ) in hopes that it leaves you to lick your own wounds, quietly, privately, safely and with a certain degree of self-satisfaction.
Grief is that messy roommate that leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days until you can’t take it anymore, the crusted food’s wet mustiness rising up from the sink like a throaty burp. Reluctantly, but oh so necessarily, you end up washing the damn dishes yourself, muttering under your breath the whole time:
“ I can’t believe he’s such an ASSHOLE !”…
A Daily Walk to Clear the Cobwebs & Emotional Fog (Photo by Shutterstock.com )
ACT 2: Walk it Out, Talk it Out !
Grief grabs your hand (and your gut) and says:
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Grasping the car keys from the telephone table, you go through the kitchen door to the garage, get in your car, put the keys in the ignition, push the garage-door opener, wait for the door to fully open and fly ! Turn left on the corner, then another left , then a right on Delhi Drive all the way down to the Huron River where your next left is where you’ll really step on the gas . You’re on your way to the nearest walking trails where you pull into the shadiest spot at Barton Park, congratulating yourself that you’ve even remembered this minor detail that pays off so handsomely once your walk is over as you return to a cool car, panting and sweating , but feeling the coolness of a tree-covered calm. Relief.
I’m fumbling with my keys, putting my backpack over my right shoulder and finally get my sorry self situated: “Let’s walk !!,” I hear myself say out loud. My phone’s barking at me, again, making demands: “Start workout !” ( I sometimes hate this MapMyWalk app but it’s easy to use and effortlessly documents my routine , reminding me I’m actively working through this god-forsaken grief !).
Chapter 3: “Yes We’re Shattered”
Sounds so fatalistic this three-word mantra . (No, I didn’t borrow it from a past episode of Oprah, either. )This morbid mantra is all mine, totally me as I start walking the stone-covered path leading to the bridge that spans the murky brown , late -August Huron River. The two bearded fishermen don’t even look up to see me as my footsteps make the wooden planks vibrate and squeak. I want them to notice me and say , “Hey !” or some other lame attempt at hello. Is it too much to acknowledge my existence? They re-worm their hooks and cast their lines. I continue walking.
“Yes, we’re shattered,” I repeat to myself , following the path as it enters the part of the park called Gumby Island , of all things. The shade of the trees is dramatic and I stop to remove my sunglasses so I can see more clearly, the dappled light through the leaves, the black-eyed Susies and Queen Anne’s Lace all waving in the breeze. Yes is an affirmation of all things, good and bad. So … yes ! Yes, I’m walking. Yes, I’m avoiding the hanging branches above and the thick-veined roots protruding form the ground below. Doesn’t Gumby know I’m shattered and struggling? “What’s wrong with everyone,” I ask myself?
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: iStockPhoto.com
