It was my first experience with watching a person decline and die.
I suffered protracted grief that went on for years. I became angrier, more driven, and much less spontaneous.
Now at nearly sixty-two loss comes knocking more and more often. No amount of barricading will keep it away.
Today I got up and got going. I notice that I welcome my daily chores more and more the older I get.
They serve as a roadmap for my day.
I have come to be grateful for structure. When I was younger, I spend much energy rebelling against it. I guess I feared being swallowed by routine.
As today wore on, I began to feel a sensation as though I were trying to walk through a wall of water.
My chores became more difficult. My body felt unbelievably spent.
I knew I must rest. The best relaxation for me is to lie flat on my back on the floor and stare at the ceiling. The hard surface of the floor serves to ground me.
If I get lucky, one of my feline familiars rubs its face against mine or bumps its body against me tickling my soul just a tad and reminding me how much delight life still offers.
Five minutes flat on the floor helps to restore me.
I get up and do the next thing on the list.
I have learned to lower my expectations for my day as I age.
Grieving forces that on me.
Moving slowly but steadily has its own rewards.
It allows me to take in the small, sweet bits of my day.