My closest friends know that I tend to describe life with a mixture of metaphors, analogies and similes. Whether that is a defense mechanism or just a product of my culture, those tools help me communicate how I experience the world. I find them especially helpful in defining my emotions.
As
I travel through this season of grief, I’ve struggled to find words that
adequately describe my emotional state. Adding to that difficulty is the fact those
emotions can change with little notice. Within a short walk across the room, I
can experience anger, sadness and a lingering denial of Amy’s death.
One
analogy I’ve used many times over the past months, when asked how I’m doing, is
that it’s like I’m out in a snowstorm. The snow is blowing, forcing my head
down; the clouds are low, hiding the horizon; and there is a ground fog that
casts an eerie shadow across the landscape. The footing is slippery, and I feel
as though I may fall with each step. But the scariest part is that I feel as if
I closed my eyes and turned around twice, I could no longer find my way back
home. It is an unsettling and disorienting state. Yesterday, after an overnight snow, I saw a
visual image of my analogy. Low clouds, heavy fog and 4-5 inches of snow. After
a light lunch, I determined it was time to face the fog and go for a walk.
I made my way up the drive and turned toward Bullhead Mountain. About half way up, I met my neighbor who was plowing his drive. We talked for a half hour; a long rambling conversation about grief and death and Heaven and what it’s like to move on without a loved one. Then it was on up the road, following a set of tracks to the next home until they turned down the drive. From there, there were no more tracks other than those left by me.
I planned to walk up to a pasture opening, just before the trail turns up steeply to Bullhead. I had hoped for a panoramic photo from this elevated point, but the fog closed in, limiting visibility to a few feet in each direction. As I walked across the pasture a tall, leafless tree appeared from the fog, its branches encased in snow and ice, standing alone in the field. I felt a kinship with that tree.
As I stood staring at that lone tree, the clouds seemed to thin for just a moment. The sky lightened briefly as if to remind me that there is sunshine just above and beyond those clouds, and that the snow and fog are temporal.
Winter is a strange season here at the foot of Bullhead Mountain. Bitterly cold weeks are interspersed with spring-like days. Clouds are blown away to reveal the bluest skies of the year. The snow rarely stays long before it is spirited away. Mysteriously, as time passes, there are more warm days and fewer cold ones and less snow and northern winds are replaced by southern breezes. Then, daffodils begin to bloom.
Such is life.
