A bell is ringing, a sleepy logging town is in mourning. A Mother of Many has passed and all of us, her tended and mended, are crying. Hurting and afraid, we have always found safety in her unconditional guidance, love, and support. The recent past found those closest to her shifting into the uncomfortable and frightening roles of caretakers for she who has always taken care. Now that time has passed, and without justice or understanding, the Mother of Many has gone.
I wish I had an escape. It seems that the universe has given me this theme again. I suppose there are many names for this phenomenon. It seems like that from which we run, cower, hide, beg, bargain, or deny is in a state of perpetual pursuit. It's the nightmare where no matter how fast we run, the snarling pit bull is simply too fast.
It seems fitting that at this place in my own journey, one filled with begrudging acceptance of my inability to control the universe in the way I prefer, I once again find myself and those around me in grief. My own dark little companion, grief seems to find us and me despite my many years of skillful elusion. In my therapy, I frequently guide clients through acceptance, point out that strategies of avoidance are never successful in the long run. My clients often hear how, unless we accept our unwanted little bits, the parts that of us and our histories that scare us most, we continue to be haunted by them. Sometimes the universe has a sick sense of humor.
Maybe I can try it differently this time. I'm not yet sure how. I already feel the emotional safety and familiar pull of escape, avoidance, denial. I think I'll try feeling instead. No promises.
Sorry for the melodramatic intro =/
