This morning I woke up early. Had my coffee. Listened to the Daily Office being read on an ITunes podcast. Ate my eggs and spent a good long time praying about different things. Several family members have significant needs and so I remembered them. Then I asked God to help me be able to grieve thoroughly.
I don't even know what it means to grieve thoroughly.
Don't know why I was prompted to pray that.
A pain came upon me that was almost beyond my ability to bear. Went through the motions of milking. Thank goodness for rote habits. Made my bed. Asked the kids to eat yogurt and toast and fruit for breakfast.
A friend came over to help me in the garden.
I felt so paralyzed I couldn't do a thing. So I tended to a few business matters, left him and Thomas doing this and that, and since we were out of animal feed anyway, I drove to Stewart's Draft. Couldn't be around people.
Grief is strange.
It really hurts more than I thought it would.
I couldn't figure out exactly what the pain was about. It wasn't that I was especially missing Philip, although I do. It just hurt.
My face felt hard and I couldn't smile. I felt like I would never smile again.
After picking up our nearly a ton of grain and mineral, I headed home.
Raymond had already headed back to town and kids were otherwise occupied. I tried to rest for a half hour but was miserable lying in bed, so I went to the garden to attack weeds.
Much of the time I enjoy gardening with the kids or with friends. Today I wanted to be left alone.
As I hoed violently down between the 6 big rows of potatoes a dam burst. I cried and cried. Stood there, lifted up my eyes to heaven and cried some more. Picked up the hoe again, whacked the weeds and cried some more.
Moved over to the corn and tried to hoe and cultivate. They were too little and delicate. We planted those rows last week and the shoots were only a few centimeters high. I got down on my knees and gently worked along rows. Slowly but surely I found most of the corn under the quickly sprouted weed cover. Can't mulch until the corn is up just a bit higher to make sure it won't be smothered.
Moving along the row I was made grateful for the quiet task that required absolutely no thought. No conversation needed. No need to smile and say I'm alright because it is too painful to say I feel terrible right now and don't feel like talking.
Perhaps tomorrow I will smile. We start a new farmer's market down the road tomorrow. I will begin baking for it at 3am, hopefully. I am not sure if this farmer mother can handle another bakery day or not. Guess we will find out. There are so many things to think about in regards to farm strategizing. I have been praying for God to order my days.
A friend reminded me that everything feels better after a good night's sleep, so I am hoping for a good night's sleep tonight and a clear head tomorrow.
A couple of sweet things in the middle of the grief: Rose taught Nora how to tie her shoelaces this week. They are growing very close in the middle of the difficulties. The other day the two of them had to be put in their separate rooms, since they were too "tired" to be together. They taped up envelopes and started the habit of writing each other sweet notes and drawing each other pictures so they would have "mail." Considering the very horrible winter they have gone through, they are doing so very well. I am very proud of all the children and how they are doing. They bring me joy.
So my springtime recipe for those who are sad and greatly burdened, go weed your garden. Alone. Make sure no one is around so you can cry as loudly as you need. And don't ask for God to help you grieve thoroughly unless you really mean it. Isn't that like asking for patience and then getting many opportunities to practice???
PS The evening sky here, at 8:30pm is the most lovely of baby blanket shades. Pink and blue and purple, like an afghan crocheted by some sweet grandma. The green of the trees on the ridge and the garden and yard is unusual. It almost glows. I think that we are close to a full moon, but alas I won't be up late enough to see, I hope.