Journey to Your Deepest Self


by Kathleen MacGregor On Thanksgiving, when we all come together, gathering up our stories and our stances in our arms, like crops from the field; When we come bearing insistent separateness, proud individuality, spilling our armloads clumsily all over each other, because we have come with more than we can carry, there is a grief. The grief pours down from the middle of us and pools on the ground at our feet. We are standing in it. The grief is dammed. Held at bay, it never makes it to our hearts, our throats, our eyes. Our eyes stay dry. Just because we think we can’t cry here. We can’t show what we feel. Can’t be real. Walking across the room to my niece, to help her with her jacket, I splash through grief. I wade. I swim. She is growing more distant, unreachable. The tide has taken me out. I sink. I watch myself drowning. Drowning in grief suppressed. I watch. And it isn’t until the car pulls away and heads back down the road, gravel crunching dryly, that I reach down into that warm ocean of grief. And save myself, gasping for breath, finally sobbing, ocean meeting ocean, love meeting grief, thanking life for...
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