Butterfly

Grief doesn't feel like an emptiness to me. In fact, it often feels the opposite. It usually feels heavy. It has felt like chains around my ankles, weighing me down with each step I take throughout my day. It has felt like a vice on my heart and a load on my back that I can't take off, no matter how many hot showers I take to try and wash it away. Mourning my baby has been the most difficult thing I have ever done. But yet, I am doing it. And I know so many people want to know how I am doing it--or worse, how I am "doing". It's important to remember not to measure a grieving person in terms of "progress" because there's not a linear process at play here. In fact, the stages of grief aren't even relevant because those were developed for the dying, not those grieving the dying or the dead.

But, here's how I am "doing"...

At first it was shock served with a daily side of panic attacks. There were days when nothing seemed as if it would ever be okay. Nothing seemed possible. Breathing hurt. Life hurt. The intensity of those feelings has begun to wane now, and things have stabilized a bit. A lot, relatively speaking. Some light has started to peek through the darkness.

This is not the moment when I will tell you that a new day has arrived and the sun is shining brighter now and I am finding meaning and purpose within my loss. I am certainly not the butterfly ready to emerge into my new life. In fact, to stick with the same analogy, I'd say that at first I was a slow, lost caterpillar, searching for my cocoon. If you're curious what happens inside a cocoon (I was), here's what Google says, "within it's protective casing, the caterpillar radically transforms and becomes a new creature. This requires that the old caterpillar body be broken down and turned into something new...a caterpillar must digest itself from the inside out before eventually emerging as a butterfly."

My process has been a bit like that. Digesting myself from the inside out, learning how to become a new creature. But I am not sure if emerging as a butterfly is going to be my path. Why do we celebrate the butterfly emerging so much anyway, but not the caterpillar seeking refuge or the work she does in there, digesting and transforming? Why don't we respect or talk about that part of the process? Why do we rush to the part where the butterfly emerges in all her glory? Maybe it's because it's too inconvenient, uncomfortable and messy so we skip over it.

Again, one day, maybe I will emerge as the beautiful butterfly but that day is not today. For now I am in my cocoon. In my cocoon I do a lot of things. Some of them are inconvenient, uncomfortable and messy, but not all. I journal, I sleep, I go on walks. I cry, I laugh, I sip hot tea, I talk about my loss, I talk about everything except my loss, I read, I binge watch TV, I listen to music. I think about the past, I think about the future, and sometimes I think about nothing. But what I do doesn't matter so much. It's how I am digesting that matters more. It's how I am learning to live with my new companion--my grief. I know she is here to stay for the rest of my life and as I do all these different things, I practice doing them with her. It's how I am finding sovereignty inside my grief; learning that I have the right to grieve in my own way and time, decide what has meaning, and what path I take without the influence of others.

The death of my sweet baby boy is the worst possible thing that could have happened to me and there is a huge gaping hole in the middle of my world. Maybe something really beautiful will come out of my loss and I’ll emerge the majestic butterfly, but if I do this won't be because of anything other than my own actions or choices. It certainly won't ever make this huge hole go away. There is no fixing it, there is no moving on, there is no making sense of it or finding purpose in it. I didn't need this loss to become a better person. There is no healing it. There is only digesting, carrying, and integrating.

I read recently that God is the sovereign master of his plan. But to carry it out he also makes use of his creatures' co-operation. This use is not a sign of weakness, but rather a token of almighty God's greatness and goodness. For God grants his creatures not only their existence, but also the dignity of acting on their own, of being causes and principles for each other.

So because I was granted the dignity of acting on my own and as a sovereign over my own life and my own grief process, I know that this starts with working deeply with my wounded parts and shadows, and from there, discovering my authentic needs and identity. Grief and loss is teaching me to do this. Grief and loss is teaching me to direct my life in integrity with my identity, needs, and life priorities; to have faith and trust in my gifts; to be resilient with conflict, fear and the unknown; to have strong inner authority; to practice self care; to not betray myself or wear a mask for the sake of others; to have a profound engagement with my life force; and to live in connection with a spiritual path bigger than myself. This is the work inside the cocoon.

It's a long hard process, this digestion from the inside out. But I believe I am brave enough to do it. Brave like Owie.