A few days ago some strange fungi popped up in our back yard. While I was stooping down to snap some pictures with my iPhone, I thought about how they sort of represented the bizarre recovery from grief that I’ve been experiencing.
Six months ago yesterday, I held her hand while my mother died. It was the start of an emotional drought of sorts. I’m not saying that I haven’t experienced emotions in the past six months. In fact, with the announcement of our pregnancy, Goobie’s first birthday and Katie starting her sophomore year of high school, there have been some very joyful moments—but its been an emotional drought just the same.
Yesterday the remnants of hurricane Isaac floated into central Indiana in the form of a sopping-wet rain shower that’s supposed to last for a few days and, for all intents and purposes, bring the end to the worst draught in fifty years. In addition to greener grass, sweeter smells and a general improvement in the mood in the Wingler home, some strange toadstools have erupted in our back yard.
Over the past couple of days I’ve been reading about letting your grief do its work in your life—simply being with your grief and letting it serve its purpose. All the best scholars will tell you that grief has a purpose. They will tell you that after you suffer extreme periods of sadness or drought, that you will come out the other side changed—hopefully for the better, but changed nonetheless. I think that rain after a long drought is like tears after your mom dies. It makes strange but beautiful things grow.