Mt. Sinai

"To love means to open ourselves to the negative as well as the positive - to grief, sorrow, and disappointment as well as to joy, fulfillment, and an intensity of consciousness we did not know was possible before." -- Rollo May

I find this quote to be entirely too true. I have had a jumble of feelings during the past week that have been hard to sort through. They run the gamut from deep grief and sadness, to fear, to glowing love, to complete and utter confusion. It is a strange thing to be human and caught up in the whole idea of who we are and what we are doing. My sister and I always joke that we can't go a week without discussing and analyzing every relationship in our lives. It is a joke that is somehow true. Gladys, my grief counselor and Stephen Minister, has helped me put to words on several occasions the occurrence in grief of re-processing. As she puts it, "it seems there are a certain amount of revolutions through your mind that each event has to go through." Some weeks I am reprocessing my good times with Kevin, the laughter and love, the deep respect and commitment, and all that was bright and beautiful about him. Other weeks I reprocess the darker places, the times that I was so scared for him, the ways in which he changed that I just couldn't understand, and of course the terror of losing him and not knowing how to live life without him by my side. The past few weeks I have primarily been reliving the good parts. I had a fantastic dream in which I was able to hold him, to tell him how much I love him, and to assure him (and myself) of how thankful I am to have had him in my life. I have probably said this before, but the entire time I knew Kevin there was a sense of urgent need to be with him. It scared me at times, because the feeling was the most intense thing I have ever experienced, a part from my connection to God. There was something about needing to be near each other that catapulted our affection to full grown love and admiration. Although it may seem strange to others, I still feel that connection when I am near our grave. It is something I can't describe, other than to say that it is the most base human physical pull to the space where I know his body is. I feel the connection when I stop to hold his things - his leather jacket, his wallet, his watch, his t-shirts and his daughter - but it isn't the same as being near him. Perhaps it is the same magnetism I feel towards God - to be in a sanctuary or out deep in the wilderness alone is a different kind of connection than being at home with my Bible reading or praying. There are parts of life that just feel sacred and a little "closer" to God, like Moses on Mt Sinai, where you almost have to shield your face upon your return for fear the glow of God will blind others.