I carry the grief in my bones.
Or in the stuff of life that brings together my body and mind.
In the involuntary part of being like breathing or heart beating or blinking or inhaling.
I don’t notice my heart or even may breathing until I run up the stairs too fast and I’m aware of the beat or think about pacing the exhale with the inhale.
I carry the grief there.
Where it only occasionally intrudes.
Where I don’t notice it.
But my body knows.
When the memory stirs somewhere deep and lost in my mind and my body sends the reminders before my spirit even knows.
I’m tired.
My sleep is restless.
My thoughts scattered, as if crowded by some unknown uncertainty or wrestling to be mastered.
A sadness manifested in tangible ways – if only designed to slow me down.
To tug at me to remember.
That the body knows.
And rest is ok. Patience is ok.
Listening is ok. Taking the time is ok.
The time to experience my own thoughts and unknowns.
And to heal bit by bit.
I carry the grief in my bones.
Today marks 10 years since my husband Mike’s death. This is one of my favorite pictures. I like to think of him with this smile and the children climbing on him, not sure if he might break out in an Elvis voice or John Wayne. For years he wasn’t able to find this smile or anything carefree. It’s taken a lot of ups and downs for my heart to move past his troubled soul and settle on this picture of him in my memories. 
