Grief and a Giant Waffle

I know I don’t have to share about grief every time I go through it. But there is something about putting the words to paper that assists in the process of learning how to hold my grief more gently.

Over a week ago, I visited NYC with many of Josh’s loved ones to honor him in a tribute concert called “I’m a Giant Waffle". The intention was to celebrate Josh.

So many musicians and artists had gathered to co-create something really special and beautiful for this person who’s absence most of us are still coming to terms with accepting, and maybe never will. But the intention was: a celebration. And so, I entered into the NYC tribute show thinking - ‘This’ll be fun!’ I had cried so many tears in the 6 months following Josh’s death. I thought, I’ll be good. Whatever good means.

It was fun. It was fun being with these other people who loved Josh. Who wanted to talk about him and share stories. And in that, it always feels like Josh is still alive. His energy is alive, at least in those moments. It was incredible to hear the songs Josh wrote, worked on, and loved. In every single one of them, his presence was right there. Filling the venue with his voice, his laugh, his creativity, and most of all, his heart.

And then I felt something familiar creeping up my spine, wrapping itself around my shoulders like a heavily weighted sandbag. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. It was that deep, pit of despair, Grief I had known so well in those early months following Josh’s death. I thought I had left her in Oregon. I thought I was beyond this.

Then began the vacillation between the celebratory occasion and an urge to throw up as I felt my insides twisting into knots. At one point my heart felt as if it was on fire - that longing for something I one thousand percent could not have (Josh being with us physically) felt as present as ever. Something I naively believed I was over. That yearning. That deep, anguish-filled longing. It hit me like a truck and pressed down heavy on my heart. My whole body felt the sudden urge to run. To get out of the venue. And I felt stuck. Like my feet could not detach from the sticky, beer-soaked floor. And while I was surrounded by so many Josh-lovers, I felt alone in my grief experience. I felt judgement for this happening again, nearly 11 months from his death.

I thought I had packed Grief up in a neat little jar and placed her on a shelf in my house back in Oregon. I thought she might show up, but in those ‘easier’ ways on this trip. Somehow though, Grief made her way into my luggage, my daily supplements, the water I drank, the food I ate, and got right into my being. Once again, there Grief was, in full force. 

I did my best. I did my best to hold her gently. I did my best to lean in and allow Grief to show up amidst the noise of the concert. The bustle of the city.

I kept telling myself “it’s ok to feel this way” - because sometimes I still need that reminder that it’s ok to grieve in public. In fact, it’s necessary. So I kept letting grief move through me the way I knew how.

What a humbling experience that I may never really get over this stuff. And that is OK. Because as I write this - the grief feels more merciful. That while sometimes it can feel like the experience of Grief won’t ever go away, when I can be fully with it, moving the grief and expressing the grief, eventually the experience will pass. I know it will return in one of many ways Grief can be experienced, but for now I enjoy with gratitude the simple moment I have. My sweet dog sleeping beside me, the tap tap of the keys, and a room temp tea waiting to be sipped.