Rooted and rising with each breath and each step

Oh me, oh my, the grief process, 16 months since my husband died, it's like traveling down a long dirt country road, lined with trees that seem to grow into each other so it's like you're in a little tree cave, light peeking in here and there, with no apparent end in sight, and not quite sure what the final destination looks like or feels like. And with each step choosing, or not, to walk with trust that the next step will keep you moving forward, that you will continue moving toward peace, toward healing, toward wholeness.

Now, I sit with the imperfections of our relationship, the inner-reality versus what we showed to the world. Reclaiming my way, rediscovering and uncovering what that looks like, being real with what it was, what it wasn't, what it is, and what it will never be. And standing tall in my own foundation, building and rebuilding, brick by brick. Anger at him, anger at me, I ping pong back and forth, until I decide to let go of the blame. I float in the pool, I look up and the moon is my anchor. I have called on him everyday since he died, in one way or another, still looking for his guidance, looking to follow his lead, and now it is time to look to myself, to my knowing, to my way.

As I walk up the hill to our hotel room in Nicaragua with my baby strapped to my body while pushing my toddler in the stroller, I am struck with the reality of this physical world. It's me. And this must be how it was meant to be, quite simply because this is how it is. The questions I have had, held onto, desperately seeking answers to, I lay to rest, I come to accept his way of life, his way of death, I let it rest, I let it be. Now is when I focus on me. Embracing this she, that was the other half to his he.

I hold this spiritual reality in one hand, and this physical reality in the other, and I bring both of my hands together in prayer, and the two worlds merge. And I emerge, more whole, more on this earth. Rooted and rising with each breath and each step.