There were no big tears today, no extraordinary sadness, no heavy sighs. Off and on I thought about the date, the numbers 2 and 9 nestled next to each other on the calendar page. I am 10 months from the day he died, with a year right around the corner. I daydream of the party I want to throw – a celebration to thank all those who’ve helped us through this emotional labyrinth – and I wonder if I can do it, or if those days will weigh too heavily to be absorbed in party planning and making sure there are enough deviled eggs on the tray.

The to-do list in front of me is a mile long. There are a thousand “should’s” running through my mind. If I have learned anything these last months, it’s that my heart, my soul, and my body come first. When I listen closely, what I hear tonight is, Light a candle, say a prayer, sleep.

With a heart full of love and gratitude, that is what I will do.

Time heals all wounds.

You’ll feel better in time.

Eventually the pain will lessen.

The first 3 months…the first 6 months…the first year is the hardest.

These are all true, though they offer thin comfort. They add to the illusion that every day is better than the last, that every month is easier than its predecessor, that once you’re through the worst of it, the worst of it is gone. Which might be true but likely is not. Grief is not linear. It could be any other shape – a circle, a spiral, a wave, a triangle even but it is not a straight line.

I seem to feel a shift every few months. There was a lightening at 3 months, then again at 6, and at 9 months, I was feeling able to move forward in my life in a different way. But 2 months ago, I was thrown back to the beginning, to the intensity of daily, sometimes hourly, waves washing over me, demanding that I sob or rage or both. The news of a close friend’s pregnancy – her third child – with the same timing as mine with Ben, brought to the surface feelings that needed to see the light.  It has not been easy on either of us – joy dampened by sadness, a friendship strained as we struggle to understand each other.

I have felt through this entire journey that while I have been mourning my son, other hidden pain has shown up to be healed. There were times I would sob and wonder why the pain seemed old. I would get angry and as I took myself away to hurl rocks at the earth, it was as though a part of my brain closed since childhood was opening. I can’t tell you what I was angry about and I don’t care. I know that it needed – and found – release.

When I heard the news of my friend’s pregnancy, I felt as though I’d been hurtled back into time, back to those first months. I found myself wondering why, even as I knew the answer – grief is not linear. The worst has passed, for now, but I am not sure what will pull me under again. As long as I stop fighting and let myself float, I trust that I will resurface, a little less sad, a little more whole.

Wondering which ball to drop…

I am exhausted.

I am finally taking everything I’ve been and done in my life, and tying it into one cohesive whole. I am moving toward a future that involves me contributing to the world in a bigger way. I thought I would have a newborn in my arms. I thought I would be consumed by the newness of parenting two children. Instead I was handed the pain and gifts of grief, and the flames of transformation have burned brightly. This has been the hardest time of my life and yet…and yet…

Early on after Ben died, as I struggled to find my feet, the glorious Julie Daley shared her time, experience and healing energy with me. I remember a moment in one of our conversations where I realized that my capacity to hold space for difficult emotions would be part of my contribution to the world. Julie gave me permission to allow it to unfold – to know that I didn’t need to get specific or make decisions yet. She reminded me that I needed to hold myself as gently as I hold my daughter and cry. That process has brought me to this moment and as I work to make dreams reality, I am watching a new unfolding. I am seeing old habits resurface and, with new eyes, I am making room for more growth.

A friend of Steve’s asked him a question the other night, as they sat together at a baseball game. He wondered if my working on something new was getting in the way of my blog and my grieving process. In a sense it is getting in the way of my writing here. Over the last months I’ve gone from writing daily, to every other day and now to three days a week. There are times when it feels like too much. But I am writing elsewhere and much of it will end up here so the answer there is yes, and no. This is still the place where I show up to remind myself of the grief and grace of loss.

Is it getting in the way of my grieving process? No. I shed tears on a regular basis. The fact that July 29, 2011 is in sight is a shock to me. As I close in on a full year since Ben’s death, my grief continues to change – as I imagine it will for the rest of my life. There is no getting over great losses. There is a lightening, a release, a freedom from the weight of it all, but there is no forgetting. That is as it should be. Relationships do not end because a body dies. Love does not turn to ashes with flesh. There can be an end to suffering though, an end to pain. Each of us has our own path there, if we choose it.