Today is Memorial Day. It’s drizzling lightly from a heavily overcast sky.
I think this fits the appropriate mood of the day as the weather weeps a steady moistness that keeps me indoors. It also helps me go inside myself to recollect my past and the many dear good folk who peopled those long-ago years.
I frequently do remember deceased family and friends and I fondly recount incidents remembered, relate the stories to others. But I rarely let myself go deeper to where the memories tug painfully at my heart _ to the place where I feel my loss and regret my foolishness, or long for their presence back into my life. This is the place I avoid with witty stories and laughter to cover my hurt and longing.
The good times are fun to remember and the stories easily told. Many of the hard times can create entertaining conversation or make wistful tales to tell, lessons to teach. But these are the ways I avoid disclosing my fears of death, of old age, of aloneness.
The conversations and tale-telling are good healing acts, and sharing our stories helps build stronger bonds of friendship in the now. Yet this is not enough to assuage the heart. Every now and then I need a good rainy day that drives me indoors and into myself to remember and ponder deeply what was. Only then can I let the tears flow full and hard. Only then do I feel the real ache of my loss.
Last evening was such a time for me. After a day at the computer, doing my usual round of emails, web-searches, writing, and social media I felt “unfinished” and restless. I poured my usual glass of wine. But I did not pick up a book to read, as is my regular bedtime ritual.
I simply sat and let myself remember deeply. I cried. I laughed. I recalled my dear departed friends and relations one by one. I told the stories out loud to myself and the cats (who merely slept and occasionally looked up to see what was wrong with me.) And I cried myself to sleep. This morning I woke feeling freshly renewed.
But it is still raining.