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making sense of it.

liz lamoreux

Little snippets swirl in my brain as I again try to make sense of it.

A friend has the truly traumatic experience of watching her dog, her dear friend, die in the middle of the night. A seizure that lasts forty-five minutes takes the little beagle. Having lost her father almost five years ago, she knows this grief. She knows how it will bring it all back again.

A friend calls to tell me her uncle died suddenly in a car accident Monday night. I can hear her say, “it just doesn’t seem real at all.” We find our way to laughter in our conversation to give her mind and heart some space from the bewildering pain.

I catch the news this evening as I am getting ready to go and teach yoga. James Kim was found dead today in Oregon. This family has become known to everyone here in the Pacific Northwest in the last few days. An amazing blessing that Kati Kim and her daughters were found Monday. A blessing James has been found, but such a deep sadness for those who knew him and those who searched and searched hoping to bring him home safe to his family.

David Whyte read “The Hazel Wood” at the reading last Friday (a new poem you can find in his new book). Before he read it, he described the scene to us…how he was walking across the Irish countryside to meet up with a group of people and found himself suddenly in a horrific storm fearing his own safety. In the poem he describes how sometimes life is like a warm room full of people and life and security and other moments are like a raging storm where death makes a choice. A snippet from his poem,

its more like some edge we’re on, everything
sustained by an invisible thread
that’s just about to break, the storm a possible
death about to choose or not choose
one life among all other lives it sees below

I try to make sense of it. Of It. Of grief. (Of death.) I am, of course, always trying to make sense of my own grief, and I know that it is okay that it doesn’t makes any sense at all. And really, I know that I cannot make sense of it all, right now in this moment. But I will keep trying. I will keep turning the thoughts in my mind and then pause to breathe. I will keep finding moments of stillness to be open to the understanding that I will never really know. I will keep searching for a place where I can feel the space to know that what I believe is enough.