The Reward is the Journey

I wake up.  It's Saturday.  And she's not here to share the weekend that has yet to happen. This is now a familiar tape that has been playing out most weekends since September.  There have, of course, been exceptions.  The weekends that I've been away.  Those weekends on which I've had work commitments which have taken me out of London.  The break I spent on the other side of the world over New Year.  These times have felt different.  Saturday mornings in London don't yet feel quite right. Something occurs to me.  I think to call her.  I reach for my phone, but before I do, I remember.  Again.  And again.  Her number is no longer available.   I am briefly and repeatedly disorientated.  It feels unfair.  It isn't.  Life isn't.   I am adjusting.  Grief is a process.  A process that is unfolding.  Sometimes quickly.  Often slowly.  I have no say as to its pace...

And so, she is gone.  We have said goodbye to one another in this life.  Sitting beside her in hospital with lines trailing from both her hands, I realised that all that needed to be said had been said.   Death gives clarity to life.  Suddenly all is so wonderfully clear.  Meaning, purpose and passion are everything. Charlotte has always shown me what it is that really matters.  These are the lessons I get to keep for life:  Do what matters.  Every day.  Forget everything else. Life's too short to rush through it.  Pause awhile to stand in the awe of its beauty and get to know those spirits who make the world a beautiful place. I have had the great privilege of getting to know one such woman. Hours after she passed away, swimming came naturally.  Her effortless grace got me to the poolside far earlier that morning than normal.  The water was peaceful and calm.  Those within it, perhaps less so. ...

There is a sudden surreal realisation that life has gone on  with little notice of how your life has been forever altered. John Pete Time moves, and passes.  Things settle, and change.  I feel as though the change has been taking place somewhere deep within me.  I have a shifted outlook.  My reality has altered.  Profoundly.  And with it, my perspective is somehow different. The capacity to grieve is as much a part of us as the capacity to love. These changes are hard to pinpoint.  They are intangible, yet perceptible each and every moment that I choose to 'tune in'.  I have a different 'take' on the loss.  It is somehow no longer so immediate, or raw, yet always close by. Each person's grief journey is as individual as a fingerprint or a snowflake.   Earl Grollman I carry it with me, but have found a way of holding it close without feeling consumed or restricted by it.  Like the many little t...