*possible trigger, difficult subject*

If life and it’s meaning had a liturgy for me, that liturgy would be tears. I cry often and easily. My mother used to say I enjoyed being miserable. It may appear that way at times, but to me tears are tiny trails of prayers. Offerings without words. The dancing of light upon the waters. They are not always sorry, and even when they are, loss doesn’t come without joy. Loss implied something held, even temporarily that had value to lose.

Fourth month of the regular year, first of the Hebrew calendar, times overlapping in interesting ways. Counting things, things I count upon. Work brings stability, a regular pattern, expected activities. Home is becoming a home again. Jacob comes to visit. I have an eight week course that allows me space to have him visit. People say it all the time – being alone is not good – have your kids, friends, family come visit you, make time and space to entertain. I do not entertain. We seldom had friends come for tea even when we were in a community that often extended invites after church. Not us. We went out, but we did not invite in. Strange that, how patterns form. Would I have been that way in another life? Could I have learned to relax and prepare a meal. Perhaps.

I bought myself flowers this week. A simple bunch from my local Walmart; cut flowers for a vase. A bit of colour here beside me at the table. Cheerful and bright. Why that’s relevant, I don’t know. It’s not that important and yet.

I’ve made several people mad at me this week. The reasons are unclear, but I take it at face value. I have hurt someone. I apologize, stand back, wait and see. I cry a few tears, but nothing like the tears of frustration and regret I wept years ago, for my ex, my partner, my mother, or years back for grandparents and inlaws. There is an ebb and flow to loss and return. The thought comes more calmly now, small realizations of what is and may be alongside of the things lost. There is love and that’s enough. I’ve been learning to hold gently things I believe, things I think I need. A lot more time is present lately.

Friday, unexplainably, time folds in; the sharp deep stab of pain I felt three years ago surges over me. Death draws near and stares, its eyes pits of darkness I want desperately to allow. I do and don’t. Was it something in the night? Something I dreamed? All I know is I woke at death’s door and it was wide open, waiting. That was twelve hours ago or more. Several phone calls and texts. A drive down to the cemetery and back. Late for an online course where words from my texts and words from calls, where even the rabbi called back, whether I was Jewish or not. He said he listened to my message and wanted to call.

A friend joined me at the grave, stood holding me while I wept. Nodded and listened even though it’s not a recent loss, but just one reactivated by time and season, family I don’t have. Is this something others go through? I so often think, this is just me, my life, too much loss where I love. And knowing I wouldn’t take it back, not a moment; every second worth the pain it brought. Love, as my course today reminded, is action, like faith, and trust, relationships intertwined. I wouldn’t change it, miss the opportunity I know G-d gave. How could I? I prayed and prayed for this love, this chance to trust and be trusted.

I have a thousand things to do before it’s my turn. Family and friends reminding me I can’t give up, and besides I made a promise to listen to Jack, to his instructions and belief, “you’ll live to be a hundred”. Oh so far away. Is it really a hundred or was that an estimate you made? I called the cemetery, got an update on my grave, the payments I’ve made, next steps and things to account for so whenever it comes, I won’t leave Joshua with the costs that it brings. Like going through my stuff. That needs the many years. I have to shorten that time. Make life more presentable here. Free up the space. Tidy cupboards and floor. I can do it. I just don’t. And today, I asked Lin if avoidance could be the plan; holding off the inevitable and the tug of darkness and dark days. If I don’t clean, it’s a broken promise, and a way to delay. Am I tricking myself into waiting, riding out one more wave, where grief hits like shock, capsizing. Or am I just still avoidant from the days of ugly words and labels and blame? I really don’t know which, and it makes a difference. Impacts the choice. Directs the days.

Maybe I’ll listen another time through. Course material. See what the evolution of religion looks like to philosophers, scientists, and students. That and maybe pray.

Tomorrow is work. Something for my hands. My heart and my mind will have to look after themselves. But at least if I’m moving and doing and interacting with others, there is hope it will fill in the time, keep edging on towards what the future holds. And don’t ask questions. Let’s give questions a small break.