Gratitude and Confessions

Those of you who frequent this page (thank you!) know that I am a regular meditator. You’ve also read what happens when I let that habit slide, and why I am well motivated to never allow that to happen again. While I inevitably miss an occasional day, My current streak is 102 straight days without missing. Yes, even the day Jacquelynn passed found me in meditation both in the morning before and late in the night afterward.

I try to ensure that at least a few moments of that time each and every day is spent focusing on gratitude. Very often, this can be quite difficult, as I get so wrapped up in my grief that finding the strength to say “thank you” is all but impossible, as is admitting how very much I do truly have to be grateful for. Last week, I added one more very significant thing to that list.

It has taken me ten days to write this. In fits and starts, I struggled with how to say something I feel very much needs to be said without casting it in the wrong light. In turns, it seemed like a great cry for help or an even greater shout from the ego to “LOOK AT HOW STRONG I AM”. Please believe that it is neither of those. What it is, is an essential, watershed moment for me; a true shifting of my paradigm. What my great, late mentor Dr. Dyer called a “Quantum Moment”:

Last week, on the night of Tuesday, January 14th, one month and one day after Jacquelynn passed peacefully from this life, for the first time in longer than I can accurately remember, I went to bed WITHOUT thinking “Maybe this will finally be the time I don’t wake up.”

I can not overstate the significance of this milestone. For the first time in a very, very long time, tomorrow was not more terrifying than oblivion. And it persists. I have not had a similar thought since.

Yes, I still grieve. I still cry when I hear a particular song or come across a love poem or old Valentine’s Day card. I always will. But I will be here for it. I will be in that moment until it passes and I will move into the next moment. I will not linger and cling and rot in that instant of fear and loneliness indefinitely.

I will no longer line up all the old, full prescription bottles on the kitchen island and research how many of which ones I would have to take to make something terrible and final happen.

I am more thankful for this than I can possibly express.  Please join me in that grateful space.

I have much to do. I have a rescue shelter to build, after all. In her name, I will fulfill our dream.

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