Friday, January 28, 2011
All week I have felt distracted, tired, unambitious, and unmotivated. Doug says that I am grieving. I planned on grieving. Next week I plan to spend the one year anniversary of my Mom's death with my Dad. I trust Doug. He knows me. For instance, he is able to tell me when it is time to close the books and go to bed; or, that my problems looks so overwhelming because it is 5 o' clock; or, even, that I am frustrated because of where I am in my "moon cycle." So, I have decided to trust Doug. Perhaps, I am not lazy, sick of Graduate school, seasonally depressed, or "coming down with something." Perhaps, I am grieving. I have had clearer times of grief. There have been times when pain help me reassess my values; times when it hit me that Mom was separated from me by time and not distance; cathartic times; maudlin times; angry times. If this is also grief it is the worst form. A final whimper. Grief as a dull tooth ache, a sense of futility, the realization that death is also mundane, that it can become as weightless as those other things we cling to for meaning. Grief found in remembering how good that cup of coffee tasted after leaving my Mother's death bed. I refuse to believe that this whimper is how the world ends.