There's always a small part of me that indulges in a touch of melancholy on the longest day of the year knowing the next day will be shorter, if only by seconds. This year there has been more than a touch of melancholy. The weight feels more like grief. I don't like Grief. I resent that it just sits there, expressionless, waiting for me to exhaust myself, trying in vain to get away. And how the moment I am still, it appears next to me and proceeds to remind me of what I have lost. It picks up the pieces I try to leave behind and brings them back to me. It decides when I get to move on.
Sometimes the list is short, but lately it has been long. There is new loss in the wake of the pandemic and in the process of making room, I seemed to have disturbed old wounds. Wounds, I thought were healed, but apparently not. They have merely been blending in, waiting for an opening to reintroduce themselves. I am doing my best to increase capacity, but I can feel the resistance... judgement of what I think is worthy of consideration. Holding onto the fantasy that I can limit the sadness, but Grief just sits there, demanding more.
The solstice coincided with a new moon this year. As if the moon was offering up it's place to create more space for Grief. And when it returned last night barely visible and mostly hidden behind clouds, it seemed to be offering a visual representation of what my experience of Grief feels like... reducing me to a sliver or blocking my light altogether. But it's also a beautiful example of showing up even when you only have a fraction of yourself to offer and a reminder that this too shall pass. A moment to be grateful for what is there, rather that focusing on what is missing.