Potential Flow

I can feel my grief starting to soften. I think it comes from practice after years of enduring and moving through grief I thought I could not bear. Grief can be ice hard and immovable. It can build up in your heart, layer upon layer, as you realize all you have lost. When grief resides within you, it doesn’t leave much room for anything else. Time, tears, energy, and grace can begin to soften it.

It’s a fickle time of year. Last weekend’s warmth melted the majority of our snow, but cooler temps on Tuesday brought more snow and substantial wind chills. Thursday was a Spring-is-here day with warm sun, temps in the high 40’s, and those wonderful, wispy Spring clouds. I walked, or rather, slogged through slush at Mississippi River County Park. It takes longer to melt ice from the rivers and even longer from most of the lakes once the snow has disappeared. The River that was a road in the heart of Winter was now impassable by any means. It contained all states of aqua—ice, snow, slush, water, and vapor rising in the heat of the sun. It had all softened and some had melted, and in a few places, water was actually flowing.

The trail was snowy and slushy in most places with mud and standing water in others. It was slippery and sloshy walking, but man, did it feel good to be out there! The unveiled moss was the only hint of the lush green that was to come.

At the boat ramp, water pooled over ice along the bank, and dirty, gravely snow and sludgy water melted and trickled. Everything was still constrained, but the potential for flow could be felt and seen.

Across the River, Red-twigged Dogwood fired up the bank with color, and an immature Bald Eagle perched on a high branch.

The River observer saw me before I saw him. He was two or three years old, not solid brown like a juvenile yearling, but not yet ‘balded’ with white head feathers and a white tail. His beak was still brown, but the yellowing of it had started at his cheeks. I wondered if he was in some stage of molting since his wing feathers looked sparse and his mottled chest disheveled. He sat in a wreath of swelling leaf buds—another sign of the impending Spring.

A flurry of hoarse honks drew my attention farther down the River to a line-up of Canadian Geese on an ice edge. Most were sleeping with their heads tucked along their backs; some had one foot drawn up to their bodies—a supreme yoga balancing act.

Perhaps it is their tree pose of balance, calm, and strength—feeling rooted while dreaming of flying in the sky.

An unexpected death can knock a person off balance—as can an unexpected natural disaster, diagnosis, or war. The impact on our bodies and minds can be devastating, particularly for those who have experienced trauma in other forms or at other times. We have a natural, innate system to protect us at the time—fight, flight, or freeze—which way depends on our experiences, circumstances, and personalities. Grief tends to be the ‘aftershock’ of the traumatic or unexpected event and is often immobilizing, like a river of ice. It freezes our ability to function in an open-hearted way. It takes an extraordinary amount of energy just to process grief, so it’s no wonder the ‘normal’ things in life get neglected. But ice and grief can soften. It can get messy in the half and half stage. But pretty soon, there is a loosening, and there is movement over and under the hard places. Finally, the frozen grief is melted and integrated into the flow of our lives—not forgotten, but transformed to a new state. It helps to be an observer of our own selves and the process. It helps to remember what fires us up, warms us, opens us. And it helps to practice coming back to balance and calm in whatever way works, be it yoga, meditation, or qigong. We find our equilibrium again—like a tree—steadily rooted and reaching high into the sky.