Grief Fascinates

Grief is a funny thing. It can overwhelm. Hit you like a tsunami and you are drowning in sadness. For some it is short and sweet and a reasonably easy goodbye. Others carry it along as a heavy weight that they feel must be dragged everywhere with them. It comes and goes for most and then fades into the background reappearing as life sends reminders.

Bob has been gone for 15 months. I had experienced the beginning, middle and tapering off of grief without much notice. He is with me every day as I remember the lessons he taught  about how to live and the memories of what we shared – both the fun and annoying.

I was therefore unprepared for the occurrence last week where I must say for the first time I finally knew he was gone. Gone in a way that my recollections and attributions cannot fill. I hit a void, and it was fascinating in its depth. It was not gut wrenching, but it was a vast empty space that I do not yet know how to fill or if I have a need to do so.

A neighbor and his son-in-law had come over to view some of Bob’s major hobby and life’s work. It was fun to share it and to see faces light up with shared appreciation of his great love in life. The conversation was varied, and I answered the questions I could but my depth of knowledge, while reasonable, could not match Bob’s lifelong study. I then began to share what I had loved so much about watching him in his pursuits. His technique was different than most and like most things in Bob’s life he was Zen in the practice. An ability to be always “one” with it and to enjoy each moment whether he was winning the medal or not.

I could see him in my mind’s eye, and it brought me joy, but I looked up and could see two faces looking back at me that appreciated the story and had questions yet would never be able to experience it. For the first time I could not take them out to sit with him and have him talk about his philosophy and techniques. They could not go out with him and have him teach them what I was talking about. That is when the chasm opened in my chest, and I realized that he could now only be shared through a story or retelling. No more twinkling eyes. The wry smile gone for them (it will always be in my visions).

There is great joy to spend time with people that are passionate about their chosen vocation or hobby. For Bob they were intertwined and a definite part of his DNA. We all acquire information during our time here and when we are gone, often it too is gone. Bob wrote a book about his life, but not about his techniques and in-depth experience. I can keep his philosophies going and write about them, but the spontaneity of “in the moment” is lost now and the chance to sit with the excitement he projected as his mind swooped around his internal library.

I am not sad, just aware. Mostly, I am grateful for all the time I had and that I actually paid attention.