good grief Young Adulthood
good grief Every New City, the goodbye is already unfolding with each hello. Every first reminds me there will be a last and that I have the end in mind as I’m beginning again.
good grief The Best Years of My Life, I’m nostalgic for the present moment. Even if I could be thrown back into the same situations, it wouldn’t be the same. Irreplaceable magic occurs in the convergence of people, place, time, what I know, and who I am each moment of this exquisite existence.
good grief Twentysomethings, doesn’t everyone think in timestamps? Each experience with its own expiration date segmenting time into digestible chunks. Who told us we could live like this forever?
good grief Covid, you rocked me from my reverie of carefully planned transitions and proper goodbyes. Learning I had to go and leaving Nicaragua three days later crunched all my disappointment at not being able to share my gratitude into a 6 hour plane ride. My feet touched down in St. Louis and I’ve been dealing with the additional unexpecteds since then.
good grief Transitions, when the exit for each portion of my life finally has come, there’s no more space within me to lament what is happening. I set myself up to have closure ahead of time and excitement for the next adventure as I’m leaving.
good grief, Mom, is finally being able to do more than just wish away sadness, loneliness, and anxiety. It’s learning those net negative emotions won’t bury me. That bad things happen and I’m finding I can deal with that.
good grief, Restlessness, is pure movement. Taking my grief on a walk, to yoga, to a conversation with a friend, writing it out or listening to it in music helps the process of wading through so stagnation doesn’t become me.
good grief, Lifelong Friends, is realizing we don’t have to waste time on inconsequential endeavors or digital distractions when we know all we want is to be together before inevitably parting ways.
good grief, Young Adulthood, is allowing spontaneity to take the wheel and guide experiences I know are finite. Soaking up everything I can is the only way I know how to quiet the voice of regret yet to come.
good grief, Sunsets, is chasing you to remind myself of the vastness that is out there. Both the fullness of opportunity but also the expansiveness of the unknown. Sometimes you fuel my optimism. Sometimes you make me want to crawl into a hole. Either way, you make me ask the question: what’s next?
good grief, Grief, is realizing I will choose you every time if it means having people, places, and experiences worth losing. I know I am continually setting myself up to meet you in the doorway between here and there, but that is the price I agree to pay for having something I’ll eventually miss.
each good grief participant was given the opportunity to contribute something to the project
see below for this participant’s contribution
Reflections on the Table
(Inspired by the poem “Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo)
A kitchen table means community, communication, together, wholeness, love, appreciation, sustenance, bring what you can and take what you need. I think of how the chaos of life always happening around us is different for everyone, but we meet at the kitchen table to be together. Makes life more digestible. In a very real way we sit and eat and maybe talk, cry, rejoice at the happenings of time. The healing, fixing, folding that is done at the table sows seeds of calm, purpose. At the table we are all holding one another up. There is always room at the table, add more chairs, put the leaf in, no one will be left out. The table to me means everything- the good, bad and everything in between. This has been my experience at the table and what I hope everyone feels at the table.
During the pandemic this table became virtual, less tangible, painful. What once was a place of comfort is now a place of risk. The goodbyes that didn’t happen, the in-person hellos would have to wait awhile. It felt like an ominous end to the type of humanity I knew. The lack of transition to a state of alarm and uncertainty. In this time I revisited the poem by Joy Harjo “Perhaps the World Ends Here,” which reminded me of what community feels like. The stress, anxiety, and uncertainty are welcome at the table. While the table became virtual, we as a community worked hard to make the table tangible. We were still able to laugh, cry, and eat together, and hope for a better tomorrow.