When my beloved son passed away four months ago, I knew I would not survive if I failed to find gratitude. My drowning soul knew it was my lifeline.
The small things were suddenly no longer overlooked. Yet the enormity of loss left me wondering how these tiny, fleeting moments of gratitude might soothe a heart hollowed by grief.
But I tried. Each morning, I took my coffee, sat on the couch, and waited expectantly for the sun to enter our living room.
When a caregiver loses their loved one it disrupts life on every level. Our daily routines, our identity, and the enormity of grief are all heaped upon our already exhausted shoulders.
Finding one good thing, one ritual, one point of gratitude may not seem like much when there is nothing but a seemingly infinite emptiness.
It takes effort, but it matters. Four months later the sun entering the living room and spilling across my plants has accumulated enough tiny moments of joy that I can breathe, even if just a little, easier.
What began as an attempt to find the smallest speck of joy will never fill the space my child occupied. But it has helped me to create a new routine and to discover a beauty I had taken for granted. The shadows coexist with the sunlight. They move in tandem, ensuring the plant eventually receives the nourishment it needs without burning the leaves.
For both the sun and the darkness are temporary. Yet the plant remains.
Some days light will pour generously through the window, and on others it is hidden behind the clouds. Whether or not it illuminates the room, the sun rises faithfully every morning. Life goes on. As cruel and as benevolent as the truth can seem, somehow, so must I.
In time, even mourning learns the shape of morning.
