Grief, An Excruciating Holiness

Grief is an excruciating holiness—the deep dark muck, that primordial ooze, that houses every essential component of life.

I feel both completely detached and inextricably connected to the world.

The chaos of conflict between opposing edges of reality is a friction that can’t be escaped, but eyes can be closed, and heads can be turned away on a typical day.

In seasons of grief, my head is strapped down, eyelids ripped off, and I’m forced to stare feel the enormous, inescapable friction of existence.


If only this moment is real, and every contradicting truth exists here, every pain and every joy, what do I have to search for? I simply am.
Me, this moment, this decision, this breath, this action.

I am.
And I grieve.

Me—an individual aspect of some universal intelligence inhabiting a body made of material that has been recycled through time.
My body—a mass that can be still yet is always in motion, that is living and dying with every single breath of air which has been breathed by every person and every living thing since the atmosphere formed.

Grief gives perspective.
It makes everything clear in its confusion. It zooms me out and in simultaneously.
I’m seasick—griefsick. I feel both more and less human.
As I grieve, I see and feel the full spectrum of Being within and around me.

I grieve.
And I am.