I sit here now after a Zoom call with three close friends.  The four of us spoke about and shared the weight and pain of grief.

I shared how on Tuesday I broke down when I bent to pet a little dog.  Sobbing I told the man who held the leash that my son and his wife had just lost their little dog Velvet/Vellie.

I’m not one to cry in public and certainly not with a man simply walking by.  What’s happening to me now? What is this weight that continues to break apart?

Anna led us today in Sensory Awareness.  We began by moving from our elbow, allowing our elbow to lead.   We then allowed the wrist to lead, the pinkie. As we moved the arm and shoulder blade, we felt into the back of our lungs, the front of our heart.

I felt how I hadn’t been breathing fully, had been holding onto my breath.  We spoke of how there may be a place for that, a place to hold back, and as I sit here I think of how grief, all grief, touches us deeply within and asks us to pull apart as though removing a shirt.  What is it to live with a full heart, open and exposed, beating, beating, beating, pounding the sound of breathing, connecting transition with love?

We agreed it may feel painful to allow the full pulse and weight of grief, but only those who do so are allowed to reach into the tangled thorns and bring forth the rose.

I look out now, allowing my eyes to open, flowers on a stalk, birthed and berthed, in the soil and soul of my heart.  

A rose in my garden


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