Yesterday was such a hard day for me -- in the way that grief makes everything feel impossible. I couldn't quite manage to do the things that make for a "normal" day. I just needed to "process." And for me, that means reading, talking, analyzing . . . basically, figuring out how my brain - and my heart - was going to adjust to holding and dealing with this new reality.
So I read every high-quality analysis I could get my hands-on. I talked to my sister. I talked to a good friend. I talked to Erin. I journaled. I knit. I made feeble attempts at household chores. And I thanked my lucky stars that Tom had left earlier in the day for a planned trip up north to the cottage for a few days to close things up for the season and host his annual poker game. Because Tom - who was going through his own painful grief process - grieves in a very different way from me. He turns inward. He doesn't speak. He needs to process his feelings without interference.
But then . . . I heard Hillary's most gracious speech.
And I totally lost it.
I needed to be with Tom -- even if it meant silence.
So I ran away.
I threw my knitting, a bottle of wine, and the dogs in my car -- and I headed north.
To grieve and process (in our very own ways) alongside Tom.
We sat around the fire for a couple of hours . . .
Talking some, but mostly not talking. Tom reflected. I read more analyses and opinions and updates. We pet the dogs. We drank. We processed.
We watched the sun go down and moon come up.
This morning, I'm ready to pack up and head back home. I feel a bit more . . . put together now. In my own head. Certainly more resolved. And ready to move forward. (Stay tuned.)
Running away for a day . . . was the right thing for me to do.