This familiar heaviness

I have a renewed appreciation for the people who sacrificed holidays with their families to serve their country, the way these men from the 351st Field Artillery did during the First World War (and the last global pandemic). (U.S. National Archives)

This week, I’ve been having a little trouble concentrating.

I’ve been going through the familiar rituals of my daily life — the enhanced, extra-hygge version in which I keep things tidy, light candles, and make lovely cups of tea to ward off pandemic-related anxiety or ennui. It helps to an extent, but it feels like I’m back in May, when I would get to the end of the day and wonder where it went and why nothing seemed to get done. What is this? Where did it come from?

And the answer comes back: This is grief.

My grief last reached this level of intensity back in May, when The Little Middle School was unable to have our end-of-the-year events as usual. The online recognition ceremony was a pale shadow of the real thing. I spent weeks in advance wondering how I could fix it and weeks afterward trying to let go of it. It hurt.

That was the low point. Things have improved. The students are coming back to school in small groups, which is a million times better than what we had last spring. I’ve adjusted to this new reality and have learned to accept it and work within it.

However, there were still so many things I had let myself hope for. Chief among them was the possibility, now extinguished, that we could travel several states away to see our little nephew for the first time since Christmas.

I thought I could keep going, thinking about Thanksgiving as just another day among the short, cold, quiet days at home. But no — I’m aware of the loss on a soul level. The grief bided its time in the background, waiting to be consciously acknowledged.

Now it’s here, and it hurts. But there’s also relief and release. A basic okay-ness, of realizing, “Oh — that’s why I don’t feel like myself.” A gratitude for the love that can cause this kind of pain. A calm in the aftermath of tears, knowing that this is what I signed up for as a human. I can handle it.

There is also the solidarity I share with so many others who are experiencing a similar kind of suffering — and the even greater wave of grief I feel when I allow myself to consider how much worse it is for those from whom the pandemic has taken not only time spent with loved ones, but the loved ones themselves. The magnitude of loss is staggering.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has been feeling this familiar heaviness — the weight of unprocessed grief like a low-pressure system threatening to unleash a storm. The holidays can be a rough time anyway, bringing up past losses and intensifying any feelings of loneliness that are present. Let’s remind each other that it’s okay to have these feelings, to take the time to deal with them, and to talk about them with others. Let’s remind each other that we might need a little gentleness and benefit of the doubt.

This pandemic won’t last forever. There are already hopeful signs on the far-off horizon. But right now, the eleven months I’ve been away from one precious little person feels like forever. The uncertainty makes it worse. I can hope for Christmas; I can hope for someday. But today, I’m sad. I’m grieving. And allowing myself that space without trying to fix it actually makes it easier to bear.

I feel lighter already. Thanks for listening.