Grief is a wildfire. With a flash of lightning it sparks, burning through you like dry prairie grass, hot and suffocating. Just as quickly, she’s gone, leaving you charred and hollowed out, as you stare at black, rolling fields; the embers of your life left in its wake.
Grief is a hurricane. A deluge of wind and rain carving deep scars across the landscape of your heart with little ceremony as it scatters pieces of you to the wind.
Grief is a drought. The marrow and soil of your personhood calling out for relief, only to be left barren and without rain as you feel pieces of who you’ve been - pieces of before times - shriveling, drying, left to be blown away on the breeze.
The heart cries for consolation; grief, in her unflinching way, offers none.
Losing Bella made me more familiar with grief than I would have ever cared to be. I've learned a few things with a short bit of time and in the small amount of perspective time has given me.
It still hurts. Every day. And for right now, I’m glad that it does. The hurt and grief I feel remind me of my love for her. I know those feelings will take different forms over time, but today, the challenging moments of loneliness, of missing her, highlight the bond we share. I’m not one to quote celebrities, but I couldn’t agree with Andrew Garfield more than when he said grief is unexpressed love. There is an endless well of love that we pulled and poured from for our Bella girl, and it feels like it has been abandoned with nowhere to go.
Another unexpected element of this journey is that I don’t feel like I am only mourning Bella’s passing. It feels like I am also mourning my identity as her mom and caretaker. Who am I if I’m not feeding her, letting her outside, giving her loves, making her bed, and all of the other things that shaped my day? She wasn’t only a part of my day, she was a cornerstone of our family makeup, and who are we without her? Do those special, magical parts of who the three of us were together stop existing because she’s not here with us anymore? One of the first things we discussed in the wake of Bella’s passing was how many habits and disciplines she gave to us that we want to carry forward in our family culture. Some of those things are still too raw to pick back up, but we know, or we hope, that they will feel right in time. Bella wouldn’t stand for us not being outside and walking in every season.
What do we do now?
That is just one of the questions that has been clanging in my head like a bell as we try to figure out how to honor Bella, move forward, mourn, and heal.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but a significant part of my healing journey happened driving out to Antelope Island recently.
It was early morning, and the air was cool as we drove through the gates and made our way closer to the water and the island. Away from the noise of the city, we could hear the sound of our tires crunching down the road as scores of birds called out, soaring from the water to the land and back again. The peace was tangible and immediate. The quiet was, for once, a balm rather than a thorn.
As we wound our way through the island roads, we eyed the water levels, and it was heartening to see that after long droughts ravaging the lake’s water levels, the water was slowly returning to normal levels. The beaches, marinas, and rock formations still show the trauma of the drought, but it was evident that the water was creeping ever closer. A promise of healing.
That morning we saw bison, big horn sheep, a lonesome coyote, antelope, and other animals grazing, resting, and coexisting in this small pocket of peace. It was magical. My soul needed some magic.
Later on, as I looked through that morning's photos, I was struck by the significance and healing lessons of a simple drive.
The lake continues to sustain life, even as it works to heal. Life surrounds the grief of drought, engaging as the lake is coaxed back to life. Yet, even when the waters return and the lake returns to health, which I have faith it will, the scars of the drought years will remain, etched into her landscape. In time, the water will cover the dry lakebeds, concealing the pain of the seasons without water. The wounds may rest under the surface, invisible and unknown to those who weren’t there to witness the lake in this season, but they will remain. The sun will reflect off of the glassy water as the waves lap the shore, not revealing the long and arduous journey to healing or the scars that tell the story of survival. And yet, with her scars, there is hope for our Great Salt Lake.
I pray that means there is hope for me, too.