Last year was our first Christmas as a family of three. And although a major milestone, a marker once again digging at the pain of our loss, in many ways upon reflection it was simply an ongoing extension of the grey, flat road we had already been navigating since June. No decorations were unboxed, no lights hung. The only proof or nod to Christmas was the beautiful white tree my sister gifted us. A tree dedicated to Londyn.
Flash forward a year and one finds much can change, yes even in the face of major grief. And so it was, thanks to the sweet nudgings of my now 18 year old son, I found myself open to the idea of decorating. Although it took some time to build up the courage to pull everything out, I’m so glad I did. The various ornaments carefully unwrapped, many containing pictures of the many stages of Londyn’s beautiful face, were hung on the tree with care. When all was finally in place I found the resulting atmosphere to be surprisingly beautiful and serene made all the more special with her very essence once more filling our spaces. It was as if we were surrounded by the wings of an angel.
And so when the holidays came to an abrupt end, pulling me into the ever familiar camp of the post-holiday blues, I found my heart heavier than usual. Even in normal circumstances there’s a unique emptiness that follows the pulling down and cleaning out of holiday decorations and why not? After three months of endless parties full of rich color and lights, decorations and gifting, our human brains are quite literally set up for a fall. It’s like a rug suddenly yanked out from under one’s feet. But when grief is added to the mix, when one finds they now carry within them the weight of a new empty space, the proverbial rug turns into a cliff dive from which recovery is all the more daunting.
It’s in this moment of free fall I see flash before me the many empty spaces that now make up the fabric of our new reality. There are of course some that may seem obvious on the surface, her bedroom ironically filled wall to wall with all things Londyn but somehow all the emptier without her vibrant presence to fill it. The bathroom sink on her side of the bathroom once full of makeup stains and toothpaste droppings now meticulously clean and rarely used. And the airplane seat next to me when I travel, always a gut punch as I once again embark on my own next adventure, one which should have been hers to enjoy. But not all spaces can be seen or touched. There are those during lunch time when she would unfailingly FaceTime to catch me up on her day, a practice that became habit not long after she left for college. The booming silence in our house at times, one that used to be filled for hours on end with her beautiful flute music. And simply moments where time and space catch me off guard, unusually free of distraction thereby forcing me to sit and converse with grief.
As I continue to stumble through the processing of our loss, I’ve somehow come to recognize the importance of intentional interaction with these spaces. It’s human nature to protect our hearts, and with enough practice over time, one can find themselves putting a box around it. Much like the ornaments on a tree, we attempt to carefully wrap our feelings up, those too painful to constantly carry and face, and place them out of sight. But grief is not an object that can be tucked away. It is an ever-changing organism, one with surprisingly human traits of its own. And just like one who is ignored or dismissed without the right amount of attention and interaction, will eventually grow temperamental and lash out, often with very inconvenient timing.
And so it is I find myself grabbing the wings of love gifted to me by my beautiful daughter and slow the free fall meant to outpace grief. Now gliding, I am once again in control and able to guide myself back to the many spaces of my reality. Yes, some heart-achingly empty but many others very vibrant, full of hope and life. And on days when grief begins to lash out, when it refuses to be ignored, we sit together and I give it the intentional recognition it needs. As I slowly come to accept that this relationship is not one I can avoid or cut out of my life I adjust my approach and work instead to embrace it. A daunting task but one filled with hope that one day, given enough time, growth and understanding, we may just learn to share these many empty spaces harmoniously.
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