Nikolaos Stamos 1920-1998
motivation. I am left without the power
to continue moving; I can hardly imagine the strength even to stand in place.
I want only to give in to my exhaustion,
to sleep and sleep until I can wake up
to another, less evil reality.
grieving? It is wherever we are
surrounded by the darkness. And where
does the healing begin? Huddled in the dark, listening to long-lost voices, not
yet searching for the light.
of the unfinished. By how things might
have been. If only I possessed the magic power to give us a second chance. But
I am no wizard; the trick I must perform
is to accept what is.
of the daily...
Your clothes came back from the
cleaners. Your dentist appointment is
still tacked onto my refrigerator. The
spaces in my calendar are full not only of the things we have done, but the
things we still have to do. How could I
have been so fooled? When I noted
each event on the page, I had thought
its certainty to be assured.
As I touch again and again the still warm
body of the life we had, I torture
myself with longing for the lost reality.
Yet I endure each pain patiently,
believing somehow that a new, more
gracious reality awaits me.
ensnared me. Denial, anger, guilt,
despair, acceptance. One does not
end for another to begin, rather the
emotions tumble about and crash
together just beyond control, and
without regard for my wounded,
weeping heart.
I am waiting to become
disentangled. I want to separate one
color from another, so that I might
see more clearly what assaults me.
I want to address the fullness of my
tears one feeling at a time.
fullness of the day, has become just
another difficult task.
I first avoid my bed knowing that if
I stop moving, memories will sneak
into my fading consciousness and
force a sob up into my throat.
Other nights I lie awake for hours
feeling nothing, but still unable to
capture sleep. Or I wake in the
pre-dawn darkness, hoping desperately
that the clock has moved toward
morning.
I was not prepared for sleep to be
an enemy. What I need now is a
friend, and a way to rest my weary
spirit.
yourself time, just sit for a while. But
that doesn't work. They tell me to keep
busy, go on a trip, take up something
new. That doesn't work either. To do
nothing, to do everything. Nothing
works. Nothing works.
the future; faith is dancing to it
today.
grief. And I know now that I will not
die from it, because I choose not to.
I may run, or shake wildly or lie
paralyzed on the ground for a while,
but I will not ultimately succumb.
grieving.
They say that my pain begs to be
shared; yet I seem to be pulling away,
separating from everyone. Only
by avoiding feelings can I come
close to another. Only by avoiding
others can I bear to feel.
The way back to intimacy requires
crossing a killing field of emotion. I will
risk it eventually, and perhaps those who
wait for me on the other side will
find returning to them a less
fearful, more trusting spirit.
silent or still long enough to let it in. But
the fullness of existence is facing both
life and death, and taking the risks
involved in the confrontation.
To have loved you is to have opened
up to a willingness to feel your loss. This
is the time of reckoning. I must stop to
feel my sorrow.
unfulfilled, all that could have been,
never can be again. On this forlorn
night walk, the path to new promises is
still beyond the horizon, awaiting the
hazy, yet inevitable future.
to stop mourning the past. I too want
to sing of love and of its magic. I too
want to celebrate the sun, and the
dawn that heralds the sun.
betrays the need to accept what has
happened. Yet I am also afraid to
accept. Acquiescence might suggest that
I have given in to fate and to the
injustice of your being taken from me.
Despite the taboo on anger, I sense
that I have that right, even thought
fury will not alter the facts. It is not
"I understand, but I am furious." It is
"I understand and I am furious."
For now, to survive, I choose both
acceptance and indignation. Then even
thought your loss will never be okay,
someday I will be.
imprisoment. We give over our freedom
and lock ourselves up inside, with
nothing to do but dwell on the event
that has condemned us.
This confinement will not last; the
weapons of the human spirit,
reflection and imagination, will
eventually demand our release. Our
yearning for the old life will yield to
our imagining of the new, and the
anguish that has to bound us will
gently fall away.
you into finding something to live for,
great enought to die for.
us who are mourning, a quiet, safe
place of solace where emotion is sacred
and the continual falling of tears
generates the energy for our healing.
We need a grieving room with thick
walls to keep despair outside and hope
secure within, and, on the floor,
comfortable pillows to remind us
to rest.
whe the other person is gone, is the
self. This may be an ending, but is
not the end.
