Originally posted March 11, 2021

Thursday was not my father’s 71st birthday. I had rough plans for how I wanted to honor the day. And yet I got distracted by a writing project, and then making cookies, and at noon I thought “oh, I’m totally fine, I haven’t felt much grief at all”. And of course, I promptly lost it over the deli not picking up the phone so I could order and pick up a sandwich and at Sam for not magically taking time off without being asked, but at least had presence of mind enough to say to Sam, “I’m really angry with you but really I’m angry my dad is dead.”

I finally went off on the solo hike I had planned and listened to lots of podcasts (one on Living and Dying Well, one with poet Naomi Shihab Nye, Griefcast with Amanda Palmer (again), one with poet Gregory Orr, and one reciting and reflecting on passages from Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart). I chose instinctively, based on whose voice felt soothing and what content resonated – some were new to me and some I’ve listened to several times. And I sat and admired the clouds and the colors and thought about the mundane bravery of letting grief flow through. A classic day, really.