Seasons grievings

Woof. This year. This whole goddamn year. As it draws to a close, I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve been through, all of us. Our collective trauma. And what we’ve lost. It’s been a lot. We’ve lost and grieved A LOT. Seriously, there’s more grief in here than even Elizabeth Kübler-Ross could have imagined.

The year started off okay enough for me. I had my blackeyed peas, courtesy of a friend who is a wonderful Southern cook. As he always says, “Imagine how bad the year might’ve been if we didn’t have them,” and I’ve tried to take that to heart. Because, if 2020 is any indication, it seems that things really could always get worse. If I’m being honest, January and February weren’t half bad. We had a great trip to L.A. and San Francisco, which was a lot of fun. And then . . . the wheels fell off in March. And for that I am grieving. 

In March, I was on travel for work -- a planning retreat with my department’s leadership team. We looked ahead to expanding our team, broadening our budget, and doing some really exciting things. Nine months later, half of the people in that room no longer work with me and everyone is doing more with less. Like so many others, it feels like it’s a constant state of crisis at work (and I’m well aware how fortunate I am to even be able to work...for that I am grateful). I am grieving for big plans and their potential unrealized. 

The last time we saw our Palm Springs friends, we were celebrating my husband’s birthday in mid-March, right before the shutdowns. We agonized over whether or not we should even gather, and, still today, I don’t know if it was the right decision. But, I’m so incredibly glad we had one last chance to see the gang all together. We didn’t know then that it would be a long goodbye. We didn’t know it meant no visits from our far-flung friends from other places. We didn’t know the seemingly endless isolation to follow. I am grieving for the friends, our framily, who we don’t know when we’ll see. 

We’ve stayed connected to our community online, and by following the news. That’s how we’ve learned of the countless businesses -- some owned or run by friends, and many that were favorite places to be, both in Palm Springs and in D.C. -- that have shuttered forever. Our friends and family in the service industry have struggled to make ends meet, to get creative in how they sustain themselves and put their talents to work. I am grieving for the incredible gifts of so many that are waiting to be brought back to work, safely. 

I’ve watched incredible parents who have done everything they can to ensure that their kids are learning and whole through this incredibly unstable time. My friends and family who have kids have undertaken creative activities like birthday parades and dance parties and art projects and a lot of hiking; there are so many incredible ways that parents are showing up for their kids. And I’ve worried for the kids who don’t have those resources. For the kids whose parents are essential workers or who are in unstable homes, homes without internet or basic necessities, or not in homes at all. I am grieving for our kids and the lost year of their childhood that they can never get back. 

My heart is broken because I don’t know when I will see my family again. I’m so proud of my parents and in-laws for staying home and safe and doing everything they can to protect their health (including indulging my protective instructions and worries). And it hurts to know that they, like so many, are doing that by themselves. I worry for the people who don’t have anyone to worry about them, to call and tell them they can’t go to the dentist or the grocery store because it would be too big of a risk, to nag them with love. I ache for the loneliness that I know has settled into the hearts of so many people. And I am hurting so much for the friends who have lost someone; a parent, grandparent, in-law, colleague, elder. I am grieving for lost time -- especially when time is getting shorter every day -- and for all of our separated and fractured families. 

My husband is a social butterfly without his garden. His energy comes from his people, and right now, his only people is me. And I’m afraid I’m not much help a lot of the time. Because this perpetual state of grief is no way to live, and it certainly doesn’t do much for one’s personality (okay, my personality...it does NOTHING for MY personality). But every day, he tries. Every day, he makes me smile and feel better, whether he’s feeling better or not. His patience and resilience are immeasurable. And for that, I feel so grateful and want to be better. I’m grieving for our extroverts who are surviving the best way they know how, even when cooped up with a moody introvert, or worse, with no one at all. 

And with the holidays upon as -- normally a time of togetherness and celebration, and for many, an already-difficult time -- I know there will be more to grieve. There will be more loneliness and sadness. There will be more loss. And while my tendency is to wallow, I will do my best to find the light. Because there is still light. And, I have to believe, more light to come. Because grief can’t last forever. A hint of it maybe, but not sustained, deep, perpetual grief. Our grief will have to dull as our joy seeps back in. 

And our joy will seep back in. Even though I’m grieving unrealized potential, I’ve had the benefit of some unexpected opportunities. While I’m grieving the faces of friends I can’t see in person, I’m fortified by the depth of the long-distance connections that we have worked hard to sustain and make stronger. Despite my grieving over closed businesses, I’m celebrating the talents of my friends who’ve taken their creativity in new directions (online drag shows, anyone?) and given us light and distraction. Though I’m grieving for our kids, I’m full of pride for the ingenious and flexible and strong parents who are giving their all in the most extraordinary circumstances. Yes, I’m still grieving for loneliness and lost time with family, but I can look forward to the time when we can be together again and how much sweeter it will be, how much more grateful we’ll be for each other. And, while I’m grieving for the extroverts, I am so everlastingly grateful for MY extrovert who has made this misery bearable. 

I know this grief isn’t going away any time soon. At least not fully. And even when it does, it will come back unexpectedly, out of the blue, as grief is wont to do. But I also know there are those bright spots to be found. There is delight and triumph, even in the midst of so much pain. There is raucous laughter. There are flashes of brilliance. There is inspiration. Perseverance. Resilience. Hope. And, yes, there is fleeting joy.

Keep grieving. For this moment -- which is unlike anything else, where we have lost so much -- must be processed and understood. But do not forget to look for the joy. It will sneak up on you, perhaps like an extroverted butterfly, and remind you why you must go on.