February 1

on surviving the grief of Cold

Yesterday we closed out what felt like the longest January ever, at least to me. I’m sure there have been other Januarys that carried such heaviness, but this year it seemed oppressive. Each day opened and closed with unrelenting weariness — from disturbing news reports, to grim weather, to the troubling burdens of those I see in the counseling room. It seems every direction I turned, friends and loved ones expressed similar sentiments. We have all been on the seesaw of survival and recovery, doing what we can to make it through one day (or moment), only to find ourselves grasping for the counterweight of recovery to sustain us for the next drop.

It’s easy to spiral into self-accusation in this season of surviving.

I should start my day earlier.

I should eat more greens.

I should walk longer (and faster!) on the treadmill.

I should clean the bathroom or reorganize my bookshelves on my days off.

Surviving seems not enough, doesn’t it?

In taking stock of these days that feel like years, I’ve realized most of my should statements are motivated by that pesky inner voice that’s still there after all these years, screaming at me that my value is tethered to what I have to show for myself. But what if at the end of the holding on, hunkering down, and hibernating, when the earth begins to unthaw, what remains is me?

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call “Despair” –
There’s Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –

To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they’re mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –

[from Emily Dickinson’s “I Measure Every Grief I Meet”]