Yesterday was a bit lighter. I am not sure whether it was that the week was so awful and I could not bear the gloom, or the pep talk that I gave myself and shared with a group of nurturing widows. I also was able to get up early and make a dent in an overwhelming amount of work piling up. Whatever it was, it was better. I try and tell myself that as much as I could not have predicted that I would have awakened on February 20th, and said goodbye forever to my soul mate, I cannot predict that tomorrow, something good may happen. While I admit that it does not seem in the realm of possibilities, given how challenged I have been by misfortune, it may happen. I guess this is hope. Hope is in the land of resilience. It is food to the hungry, comfort to despair.
I have learned so much these past months. It will be 8 months on the 20th. I have also been stunned by the nature of grief itself. I feel like the rug on the floor has literally been pulled out beneath me. It is almost like ice skating and I keep hitting that really slippery bit of ice and fall on my butt. And it is hard to anticipate the slippery spots, sometimes I see them coming, sometimes not. But in general, it is hard to keep upright and I have never been much good at balancing. I literally have always had difficulty with balance, sometimes falling, just because I am unsteady on my feet. Ironic then, that this metaphor seems to follow me now.
And so it goes. Every day is a challenge and I now know that some days I will be up for it and some days not. But I can try and revive hope every now and again. We do not know what is ahead. And it is just as likely that whatever is ahead can be good as well as bad.