Fallow

It was in the months after Waverly died. Sitting in the living room of a friend's home, I was attempting to find a word to define the period of time in which I found myself. She said it. Fallow. The time of rest given to a plot of land to rest and be still. 

I struggled to find a purpose beyond grief and anticipating more grief. I felt ashamed at my inability to be productive. Over time, I was able to scrape up the energy required to relish the time I had with Oliver. Matt and I made lists of new places to go, things to do and special memories to make. We indulged. And then, as his death was imminent, another surge of energy sprang forth. This one pure adrenaline and a mother's instinct. Our focus was narrowed and the only job we needed to do was to make Oliver's death as peaceful and dignified as we were able.

After his death, my grief intensified. After Waverly died, in an effort to protect and reserve, my mourning for her was only able to move so deep. Now there was nothing before me and I could allow myself to fully feel the weight of my loss. Crushed by the burden, yet free to explore all of the dark and beautiful places within lament.

Grief has no timeline, no stages, no completion; but rather swirls, dead ends, entrapments, ups and downs, pits, and mountaintops. And it can be fallow. Still. Uncultivated. Left alone.