A visit to what was

Mom and dad lived in Seaside for 10 years.  Last weekend Mom and I travelled to the coast to visit the town.  (We were joined by the rest of the Willamette Valley trying to escape the 90 degree temps.)  The trip took longer than expected.  Even though I had cleverly checked Seaside’s event calendar to make sure we weren’t heading over on the Hood-to-Coast weekend, I forgot to check Portland’s event calendar.  Hillsboro was sporting to major events – the annual airshow and the LPGA golf tournament at Pumpkin Ridge. It took us an extra hour to travel through Beaverton and Hillsboro. 

Our first stop was for lunch at Pacific Way Bakery in Gearhart.  This is my favorite restaurant. Dad tolerated this restaurant when I would visit them in Seaside.  Not really his favorite, though.  We then headed back to Seaside to drive by the place they use to live – one block off the Prom.  We lucked into a parking spot near one of Mom’s favorite shops and stopped there for some quick shopping.  After driving around for a bit pointing out a change here and a change there and much of the same everywhere, we headed back to Salem.

Grief is a funny thing.

The text books talk about grief in five stages.  This mistakenly gives the impression that the process is linear and will come to an end. I don’t believe that is true. For me, grief comes like the waves at the beach.  Some days it laps quietly at my feet, hardly noticeable. Other days, the tide rushes at me a bit more determined. I stagger off balanced for a moment, but I am able to keep wading forward.  And then there are days when a monster wave knocks me down and I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

One of these monster waves caught me a few weeks ago. I struggled for a couple of days to keep my head about the crashing wave. Even as I felt myself slipping below the water line in a wave a grief, I resisted and battled on. The more I fought it, the worse it seemed. In addition to the emotional symptoms, I began to feel  physical symptoms – a sore throat from holding in the cry of despair and a tight chest from a breaking heart. 

And then I let go.

Instead of struggling against the current and crashing waves, I leaned back and floated. I finally recognized the moment for what it was:  a sneaker wave of grief.  I relaxed and allowed those feelings to roll over me. As I floated, the sadness became manageable. And as time passed I found my footing again and was able to stand up and continue walking forward.

We seldom give ourselves the chance to just float.  I remember as a kid playing in the backyard pool some of my friends didn’t know how to float. They had to be taught. I taught them by gently holding my hands under their backs until they got use to the feeling of floating.  I hope we can give ourselves permission to float when we need to.  And for those who don’t know how to float, I’d be happy to teach you.