The mud

Weeks have passed since my life defining moment, the birth of the widow.  Time and I are building a road to the future and it grows longer by the day. 

This road is starting to feel firm beneath my feet – I find myself walking back and forth on it as I lay new stones, it’s a slow process. Often the stone I need is hiding somewhere behind me and I have to revisit the past to find it.

Some days I don’t get much work done, I get stuck in the past. There is a real muddy section back there, a sink hole, and it draws me in. It is a nasty place to visit. The need to build a bridge over the mud is great, but for now my focus is on the path in front of me and coping as best I can with the mud.

The mud has become part of this grieving process, dealing with it is a challenge. When I look at the mud I see my imperfections, my anger, my regrets. It is sloppy with tears, soupy with second guesses and misunderstandings. I hate the mud and yet there it sits in all its yucky glory. It’s as much a part of this road as the stones I’m placing. 

The mud is part of me, it’s my dark side. I suppose we all have one, but I wish I didn’t.  I haven’t always been a picnic to live with – in fact I’m finally willing to admit that I may even have been a challenge. I am head strong, opinionated and passionate – decent qualities if your using them for good, a real problem if you’re not. 

I was looking at the mud today and beneath the murky reflection of all my flaws I saw something else.  There, mixed with my dark side, I noticed an ingredient so familiar I was surprised I hadn’t recognized it before. It was his dark side settled in the muck around mine.  It made sense, the more I thought about it – we did always bring out the best and the worst of each other. 

I began to ponder the mud and the mixture.  Contained in that mud is every argument, every disagreement and every fight we ever had.  I squirmed a little thinking about them but then I had an epiphany. We always walked out of that mud together.  We always walked out closer and stronger. The mud strengthened our relationship. 

If I’m willing to place him in all the happy moments, the delightful memories, then I should be equally willing to place him in that mud. He wasn’t always a picnic to live with either. He is as much a part of that sink hole as I am. 

Perhaps I don’t need to build a bridge over the mud after all — maybe the mud is the mortar that will help make this path stronger, more honest. Perhaps the mud makes it real.