This week, the garden at Groundhog Hill holds little interest for me.
The Zinnias are no longer beautiful. The Peruvian Purple Corn is no longer intriguing. The Pumpkins hold little, if any, promise for future Joy.
I feel Bereft.
The weather forecast for this week is severe thunderstorms every day, and that is perfectly fine with me.
Come, Wind. Come, Storms. Do your absolute worst.
This week, I do not wish to pick up debris, to pull any weeds, to move Forward.
The Bees may enjoy the Sunflowers to their little heart’s content if, in fact, they have hearts. As for my own, I know it’s there, but I do not feel much: Numbness. Dull aches. Lethargy.
This week, and this week only, all Feelings are for the Birds.
As for Thoughts, well, I can’t seem to stop having those. Cursed brain.
I think I’ll feel better soon. I think I’ll return to the garden once the ground dries. I think I’ve been here before…in This Place…..in Grief.
Grief is that dwelling that’s just down the hill from the towns of Anger and Denial and is not far from the village of Acceptance. However, once you arrive in Grief, your ability to see beyond the county line is diminished.
You lose your Ability To See.
In Grief, all sounds are muted. All colors are faded. All touch is unheeded.
Also, there’s nothing to eat in Grief but funeral food: Endless trays of finger sandwiches and sheet cakes. Not a salad to be had.
The population of Grief varies.
Upon arrival, it feels like a Town of One. However, there are visitors in Grief who have stayed for quite a long time, and only since my arrival, did I realize where these people whom I see every day actually dwell.
In Grief, you are isolated from another. Compassion, Empathy, and Love are powerless. Grief can trap You, ensnare You, immobilize You.
I know from past experience that the best way to get the hell out of Grief is to just sit there for a bit. To not resist. To feel what you feel.
If you are among the Lucky, time spent in Grief does not last.
Love. Love lasts.