Sanctuary

My dear friend is in the early months of widowhood. When we spoke this weekend she mentioned how relieved she was to get home after work. She turns on the television to something mindless and watches, but not the screen, the hours pass. It's her relief.

I wanted to say it would get better, but for me it hasn't. It's been nearly seven years since Al died and I have a full, busy life, but I still need my solitary and, yes, mindless hours. I wish I could say that I use the time to meditate or reflect, but it isn't that. It's more like needing a recharge for my run-down battery.

I can't speak for my friend, but for me one of the reasons for this need for sanctuary might be an intimate knowledge of  bereavement. As the years go by I tend to forget that most of the people I spend my days with are innocents. They haven't had their minds and spirits altered by the early death of a partner or child. We all look the same and carry out the same tasks at work, but we aren't. We're sure of different things. We're influenced by different beliefs. Living along side those invisible differences takes a lot out of a person.

And there's the high alert state that preceded our loved one's death and which never fully dissipated after he died. I long for refuge from that. I still find myself agitated by the most petty events, those I believe I can control and those I can't. Will the Time Warner cable guy stand me up again and waste another day of my life? Will the melting mountain of snow at the top of the driveway flood my basement? Will I accomplish the week's tasks (the ones Al used to do plus the ones I always did) that need doing and which I forgot to write down? Which ones are critical? Which ones are not? I can't always seem to distinguish between the two. They can all feel like issues of life and death to me.

Not everyone copes with bereavement in the same way. Some keep super busy, finding forgetfulness in ultra multi-tasking. Some take to drink, drugs, or the internet. Some are quick to superimpose new loves or child substitutes over the ones they lost.  But I only see their activities from the outside and can't know if they serve to satisfy,  distract, or further sicken the spirit.

It's a lousy position to be in, anyway. Whatever gets us through our dark night or decade of the soul is what our instincts lead us to do. My self-imposed inactivity is no better or worse. No, I can't tell my friend that it will pass. It lessens, but then sometimes it reappears in its full force, brought on by who knows what? Anniversaries. Holidays. Memories. Dreams.