Dancing with a banged-up heart

Today marks the three-month anniversary of my mom’s passing. I suspect the 17th of every month will hold this new significance for me from now on…and with an intensity through this first year.

It’s good to know, in the midst of grief, that while mine is certainly unique to me, it is not unique to the human experience. I am grateful that I grieve the loss of my mother, that we loved each other so deeply, that this love is not buried with her ashes, but lives on in my heart and my dreams. I dream about her often, and when I wake up thinking of her, I remember her telling me how she dreamed about her mother, even 30 years after she died.

And life goes on, and you learn to laugh through (and in spite of) the tears.

“I have survived so much loss, as all of us have by our forties—my parents, dear friends, my pets. Rubble is the ground on which our deepest friendships are built. If you haven’t already, you will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and you never completely get over the loss of a deeply beloved person. But this is also good news. The person lives forever, in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through, and you learn to dance with the banged-up heart. You dance to the absurdities of life; you dance to the minuet of old friendships.” —Anne Lamott (“untitled,” p. 174, Plan B: further thoughts on faith)

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