Grievers Need Glimmers
Finding sparks of hope and love through the loss of my mother, Katherine King.
I've been thinking about impermanence, and death's universal reminders that life is a surprise of changes. Some of life's changes we'll appreciate, and many we most definitely will not.
Today marks one month since my mother's passing. Just over seven weeks since her life-altering event began. The passage of time is a funny thing. Sometimes it feels like a couple days since she died; sometimes a couple years.
A few days ago I asked my sister, "Isn't it ridiculous that a very small part of me thought Mom would always be around?"
"It is not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not." —Thích Nhất Hạnh
My mother lived eighty-nine years, several good years longer than a woman's average life expectancy of eighty. Because of that, her death itself wasn't necessarily a surprise. But the immediate, unexpected changes were a shock.
It's the shock, and the nonstop processing of events, the constant replaying of the timeline, the desiring of her presence that have overtaken my mental capacity and made it difficult to appreciate the everyday that continues around me.
Gradually, though, I've begun noticing tiny sparks of hope and love.
A few mornings ago, for the first time in weeks, I looked out my kitchen window and saw the sunrise . . . really noticed it, felt it deep in my soul.
That was the first recognizable glimmer.
The first time I noticed something outside of my pain.
The first in a lifeline.