I am re-reading Travelling Mercies by Anne Lamott, borrowed from Marianne, who is my sister in this whole deal. It's a memoir of her journey to faith (and I use the term "faith" intentionally. I've noticed that people who do not believe in God call faith "religion". But that's inaccurate). Anyway, you should read this book, even if you have no intention of becoming a Christian, for its entertainment value alone. Anne Lamott writes the way I would like to write if I could write. It's stirring up lots in me.

I came across this passage:

"Grief, as I read somewhere once, is a lazy Susan. One day it is heavy and underwater, and the next day it spins and stops at loud and rageful, and the next day at wounded keening, and the next day numbness, silence. I was hoarse for the first six weeks after Pammy died and my romance ended, from shouting in the car and crying, and I had blisters on the palm of one hand from hitting the bed with my tennis racket, bellowing in pain and anger. But on the first morning in Mexico, the lazy Susan stopped at feelings of homesickness, like when my parents sold the house where I grew up."

I've never seen it captured like that. It feels... substantial, like it justifies. I had read lots of lofty, spiritual descriptions of grief, about grief's purpose, about the eventual end of grief, but no one seemed to get it at the "now" of grief. Like in those months following my mom's death, when grief paralyzed my vocal chords and numbed my neuro-transmitters and threatened never, ever to subside. Though it did, of course. One day I woke up and it wasn't so suffocating; the next day, even less so. Eventually, I could talk again, even laugh without feeling guilty or like I was forcing it. Finally, it came to pass that I could speak about my mother's death without walling off or going through involuntary shut-down. One day, it stopped being this huge, overbearing monster blocking the door, and I came back to life. What's more, I came back to a version of life way better than anything it had been before.

So then, maybe there is actually a purpose in grief. Maybe it reminds us, once it lessens its grip, to cherish, to value, to stop wasting time and finally get off our asses.

Tonight, on the way home, standing on the corner of Despair and No Way Out, in the rain, in the dark, shivering and wishing the streetcar would hurry the hell up, I had a brief visit with that old sense of disconnect. We glanced at each other. We flirted. It asked me, "Who the fuck are you, anyway?" and for one second, I wanted to wail, "I don't know! I don't knowwwwwwwwwww.... I'm no one!" but instead, I got it together and I snapped right back, "You shut up. I know exactly who I am".