Let me tell you something we do not talk about enough.
As we age, our circle grows smaller. It is just true. The phone
rings less often. The holiday card list shrinks. The chairs around the table
that used to be full now have empty spaces where laughter used to sit.
And if you are like me, you have started attending a different
kind of gathering. Celebrations of life. Memorials. Whatever name we give them,
they are the same thing. A room full of people who all loved the same person,
standing around trying to remember the good jokes and pretending not to notice
the empty chair at the front.
It is hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise has not lived long
enough.
But here is what I have learned after nearly eight decades of
watching people come and go. Death is not the opposite of living. It is part of
living. And if we spend all our time mourning the circle growing smaller, we
miss the chance to Love the people who are still in it.
Here is a strange truth. You already know how to heal. You
already know how to rebound, restore, and prevail. It is not something you need
to learn. It is something you need to remember.
Think about it. Every time you have fallen, you have gotten back
up. Every time you have lost someone, you have kept going. Not because you are
special. Because you are human, and humans are built to survive loss. It is
stitched into us like the hem on a favourite coat.
The problem is that we forget. We get so caught up in the pain
of the moment that we cannot see past it. We think the Grief will last forever
because it feels like it will last forever.
But it does not. It softens. It changes. It becomes something
you carry rather than something that carries you.
And that is not a betrayal of the person you lost. That is
exactly what they would want.
Here is where we get ourselves into trouble.
We let the wrong things define us. Our spouse. Our best friend.
Our Health. Our ability to drive. Our garden. Our weekly coffee group. All of
it precious. All of it dear. And all of it, eventually, subject to change.
The problem is not that we love these things. The problem is
that we allow them to become the walls of our identity instead of just the
furniture inside.
When your spouse of fifty years dies, you do not just lose a
person. You lose the person who knew you best. The one who remembered your
stories because they were in them. The one who laughed at your jokes because
they heard them first. The one who defined you, in part, simply by being there.
And that loss is real. It is sometimes unbearable. It is the
kind of pain that makes you want to crawl into a cave and never come out.
But here is what I want you to hear. You are not just half of a
couple. You are not just someone’s spouse or someone’s parent or someone’s
friend. You are you. And you are still here.
The love does not disappear. It just changes shape.
Spirit Will Emerge. And So Will Your Wings.
I love that phrase. I am going to say it again.
Let logic stand aside. Have no fear. Spirit will
emerge. And so will your wings.
Logic tells you that when your circle grows smaller, you should
be sad. Logic tells you that when you lose someone you love, you should grieve
forever. Logic tells you that the empty chair will always be empty.
But spirit tells you something else. Spirit tells you that the
love you shared is still with you. Spirit tells you that you are allowed to
laugh again. Spirit tells you that the best way to honour someone who died is
to keep living.
And your wings? Your wings are the things you still have. The
friends who are still here. The grandchildren who need your stories. The garden
that needs tending. The volunteer shift that needs filling. The coffee that
still tastes good in the morning.
You do not need to figure out how to fly. You just need to
remember that you already have wings.
I am going to say something that might sound strange. I have
started to see Celebrations of Life differently.
Yes, they are sad. Yes, I would rather have the person back. But
here is what else they are. They are reunions. They are history lessons. They
are the only time you will hear your cousin tell the story about the time your
uncle tried to fix the roof and fell into the rose bushes.
They are also a reminder. A reminder that you are still here.
That the circle, though smaller, still holds. That the people in that room love
you and are glad you came.
So, go. Eat the finger sandwiches. Tell the embarrassing
stories. Cry if you need to. Laugh when you can. And when you leave, take a
moment to be grateful that you got to be there at all.
Not everyone does.
Here is something the young people in your life do not know yet.
They think death is something that happens to other people. They think they
have all the time in the world. They think the circle will always be full.
You know better. And you can teach them.
Not by lecturing. By example.
When they see you grieve and keep going, they learn resilience.
When they see you laugh at a funeral, they learn that joy and sorrow can
coexist.
When they see you show up, week after week, even when it is hard, they learn
what it means to be an adult.
You are not just living your life. You are teaching them how to
live theirs.
I know that look. The one you have right now. The one that says,
“Royce, this is all very nice, but you do not know how much it
hurts.”
You are right. I do not know your specific pain. I have my own,
and I suspect you have yours.
But here is what I do know. You deserve to be happy. Not
someday. Not when the grief passes. Now. Always.
Not because the loss is not real. Because the love is also real.
And love, when you let it, has a funny way of outlasting everything else.
So go ahead. Feel sad when you need to. Mope when you must. But
do not build a house there.
Because your wings are waiting. And there is still so much to
waltz for.
Love that look on your face right now. You deserve
to be happy. Always.
Originally Published on https://boomersnotsenior.blogspot.com/
