Stuck

The morning sky is yellow.  Clouds silhouetted darkly like stepping stones make a path to the sun that shines just above the horizon.  Air that hints of pollen and just a whiff of woodsmoke warms in this sun.   Already we had made the great curve and are on the course on that path around the sun that is called Spring in the Northern Hemisphere.   I feel the weight again that reminds me of how weary I have become of being aware of time passing.
It is important to give a name to things for humans.  It seems to be part of being human to qualify and quantify, document and label.  It seems a misnomer to lump the things I experience under one little title, “grief.”  There is more to it than that.
Yet it is easier to give it just a simple name for the sake of those I meet who don’t understand or recognize what they see.
I have fought for the longest time the notion that I am changed.  So many grieving parents have stated “I will never be the same.”  Maybe my frustration comes with the word “same.”  I don’t think I have ever stayed stagnant or the “same” for long.  Evolving, growing are words I like to think apply to me.  I have never wanted to stay the same.  I can say unequivocally however, that I did not want to change this way.
I know that not wanting change does not apply solely to experiencing the loss of a loved one.
Yet, the loss of other’s I love has not altered  me as the loss of my son has.  There are people whose change was rendered by health issues or accidents, by change of job opportunities and rifts in families.  Each of us because of this outside force had to try to learn to adapt.
My adaptation, as perhaps it is for others whose situation I am not familiar with, is a daily effort, an hourly effort, some days moment by moment.  And I suppose like so many others I find it frustrating, exhausting, depressing.   Sometimes I feel very angry and stuck.
Where once I felt care free I now feel guarded.  In social situations and upon meeting new people I feel the shield going up.   I watch everything and though not meaning to, by doing so I see so many many things that remind me of my son.
I am hyper-critical of what people say.  I hear them say the same things I once said not knowing what those things really meant.   I do not try to stop them because they have the right to think what they want, and hopefully they will never have to remember those careless words.  Hopefully their little house of cards will stay in tact.  I cannot impact their fantasies or illusions. Later I go away from them and stew around in my thoughts about how stupid I have been to think, to believe that I could live unscathed.
The death of my son has changed everything in my world.  Family members have noticed and perhaps some friends – but the rest of the world goes on.   I fantasize that it would feel good to take the world by the lapel and thrust myself into its face – like a gangster in a movie.  I imagine commanding the worlds attention and being able to shout in its face.  “What are you doing?  Don’t you understand how short life is?  Don’t you know how little time you have to learn to love? Stop.  Stop using God as an excuse to hate others!  Those you know, get to know well. Stop thinking anyone is really paying attention to whether your hair or clothes or house is just right. Stop thinking that you have any power.  Start paying attention to the pain that others have and learn from it.”
But this is as close as I will get to that.   And this is a sad effort.
The person I was before is the person my son loved.  I, in my stew of thoughts sometime wonder what he would think of me now.  I wonder if my grief would grieve him.
I struggle with the thought of what comes after this life.  Teachings that I embraced before cause me pain.  I haven’t figured out if I can discard them or just must live with the additional pain.  I realize that I am not alone.  I stand with legions that have gone before who have questioned and searched and gone down some pretty strange paths in an effort to understand what life is and why.
My faith in what man teaches of God resembles the worn out raggedy corner of a child’s blanket.  So revered but for all intents and purposes utterly useless to me in the dark and lonely hours.
I write these things and then hesitate to put them out there.  It is so depressing, but it is the truth about where I am.  And I, though wanting to be utterly unique, am not.  So I assume there are at least a few others who feel the same way.
I always wondered about people who make ice sculptures or sand paintings.   They put all that work into something that melts or that eventually scatters.   Yet those two things in particular may be the best analogy for me concerning life.  So much beauty that is so quickly gone, just like color of the morning sky which started  bright yellow but now a faded gray with the passing of time.