AUGUST 9
I tell you hopeless grief is passionless.
—ELIZABETH BARRETT
BROWNINGOne of the many moods of grief is a kind of numbness, a
despair so deep and pervasive that nothing seems able to
ripple its surface. This is perhaps a benign form of anes-
thesia, giving our senses time to rest a bit before we reenter
the whirlpool of torn lives, of shattered dreams, of anguished
tears.
As with all other moods of grief, it will pass. Something
else—perhaps easier to bear, perhaps harder—will take its
place.
To know this is more than just a stoic acceptance of what
is. It is to be reminded that there are seasons of griev-
ing—and like a plunge into frost after some balmy days of
spring, or like a day of Indian summer, these mini-seasons
are not predictable. But they will pass, and they have their
own inner logic. Sometimes the best we can do is say, “Okay.
That’s how it is today. What can I do that is most compatible
with this mood?” and go on about whatever business—or
lack of it—the day calls forth. As for tomorrow—who
knows?
Unless I bind it to me, hopelessness doesn’t last forever.