Balance

3 months today. 

This morning I went to the chiropractor.  I treat him like a therapist.  He asks me how I'm feeling (referring to my neck or hips) and I tell him that I'm tired, that I don't feel like running, that I lack motivation.  Today he asked me what my new year's resolutions are..."to try to be happy" I said.  He is a kind man.  He listens, sometimes we talk about Jonah, and then cracks my neck in a horrifying way.  I always feel a little better emotionally and physically when I leave.  It is amazing to me how our bodies are tied to our emotions.  Right after Jonah died I found that I was so sad I couldn't eat, and I felt like throwing up all the time.  That feeling returned to me two nights ago.  I felt overwhelmed by grief, by self-pity, by the world, by the subtle reminders that in an instant my life transformed from joyful to devastated.  I felt out of control.  

Grief is full of metaphors.  Some have said its like sinking in quicksand, like bubbles coming to the surface, like a roller coaster, like climbing a mountain.  In this third month it feels to me like learning to walk a tight-rope.  Each step forward is timid, unsure.  There is fear and adrenaline.  I am constantly seeking balance.  But how do I balance remembering my sweet Jonah, while moving forward?  Each step forward seems like a step away from him, from my life with him.

I look at his picture on our fridge and stare at his beautiful blue eyes, and at the same time I feel the need to look away.  His eyes, for me, carry such intense pain and joy.  I long to remember his smile, his laugh, his hair, his dimples, the way his body rested on mine.  But when my mind drifts to these memories, they are followed by a memory of the panic I felt when his body was limp in my arms.  How do I balance remembering and forgetting? 

There are days when I cry a lot, when I search his room for his smell, when I read the journal entries of his short life, when I talk of him joyfully.  Then there are days when I shut down.  I can't talk about anything, especially Jonah.  To me these emotions feel like the rapid sway of a tight-rope under my balancing body.  My fate lies in my ability to regain my balance, to stay centered.  I try to gain control, and I fear over correcting and falling. 

I am trying to find balance in slowing down my pace and in being deliberate in my steps.  I breathe deeply, and try to focus on the things that are within my control.  I have never been to alcoholics anonymous, but the serenity prayer runs through my mind. 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

If only my heart and mind could find the balance of this prayer.   That would be beautiful, peaceful.  Instead I find myself feeling more like Frank Constanza yelling "Serenity Now!"  A little frenetic.

I guess I will have to accept the frantic sway of the tightrope until I learn to balance.  I will make subtle moves, simple steps.  Maybe someday it will become second nature to me.  Until then I will continue to miss Jonah deeply, to be blown off course by the slightest breeze of memory, to freeze momentarily in fear, and to slowly move forward.