Our cable gets switched over to the old house on Monday, so that is what I'm using as the starting gun for our move (in big, echoing voice): ACROSS... THE... STREEEEEEEET!
We've already done the requisite cleansing and smudging as per native tradition, and I am off to Home Despot to get an area rug for the dining room, after which time I can set up the dining table. Got loads of deliveries coming this week and need to make sure I have the rooms ready to receive.
I posted on my arts blog today.
The Grief Club is an odd entity. One never knows who will end up walking through the door. We had one very talented actor come in to read for our film project, and he mentioned he'd recently lost his father. I commiserated with him, explaining that I too had lost my father last year, and understood his situation (as much as another can). He was new to the grief experience. For a brief moment, I wanted to tell him that grief and I are old friends. I wanted to tell him my whole story - the loss of Sam, my father, the house, everything. Not to get in a pissing contest, but to show that I'm still here, still working, still creating, still trying to be a functional human on Planet Earth. To show that it is possible to continue despite great losses and pain. Renewal is born in the ashes of grief. Life must go on. Because the alternative is unacceptable.
But I resisted. It was neither the time nor the place. But as we shook hands upon his exit, our eyes locked briefly, and I saw a kindred soul. It was one of those bizarre moments out of time. One of those rare "hey - I know you" moments. Very cool.
those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else
- David Whyte