Stay in the Shadow
When my dad died I was an absolute mess. Despite our occasional tiffs, he was the one and only constant in my life. His exuberant, “Hey DD!” (short for “darling daughter”) would ring out from his end of the line when I phoned. On my birthday every year, I always looked forward to his ritual singing. The year he died I wished my birthday away because, with him gone, who would jubilantly sing Happy Birthday to me?
Some things about my dad’s life had always perplexed me. Cleaning out his condo and going through his papers opened many chapters to his life. Learning about his deep emotional pain broke me.
For two weeks I was so consumed with grief that I couldn’t will myself off the couch. I managed to feed my dog and, somehow, myself. Then I began to worry. Was this normal to be a non-functioning human for so long while grieving? Shouldn’t I be able to hit the reset button and get back to a “normal” life?
I knew there was an upcoming total lunar eclipse, but I was in such a state that I didn’t care. But an inner guidance firmly and unequivocally instructed me that I was not to miss it.
On the night of the eclipse I rolled off the couch every few minutes to peek at the moon’s progress. “This is taking forever,” I mumbled to myself, flopping back on the couch. Moments later, the inner guidance cried out, “Look NOW!” Compelled to get up, I went and gazed out the sliding glass door to see the moon totally eclipsed by the earth’s shadow. That same inner voice said, “See? Stay in the shadow! Stay in the shadow! And then you will shine again.” With tears streaming, I stood watching the earth’s shadow slip away until I stood, bathed in the moon’s glow.
There was nothing wrong with me. Be it inner wisdom, or my dad, I had been granted permission to stay in the shadow of grief.
This gave me pause to be filled with compassion for my dad instead of helplessly lost in pain. I began to feel the moon’s shimmer in my heart and reentered my life with baby steps.
Grief is a profound master teacher. Our vulnerability and messiness is a continuation of the love story with the one who has died. It needs expression.
And my birthday that year? My dear friend, Leslie, unaware of my dad’s ritual, and for the first time ever, called and belted out Happy Birthday. Thanks, Dad! Love you!