I have been down 4 days and counting with the stomach flu. For some reason, all I kept thinking was, "Why me God." After all I've been dealing with, especially over Christmas and New Years living in a state of the utter most despair, I never knew possible, and now the flu? To top it off, our basement flooded for the second time in 2 years. The exact same damage, this time from something out of our control, but are you kidding me?!? Can we catch a break? I literally feel like I'm going to have a nervous breakdown at any moment. Riding on what little energy I have to keep me crawling into one minute to the next.

I am on the edge of grief where the sharpness feels like I'm literally bleeding internally. It is pain that is indescribable. It compresses every organ, so much that I feel like I'm slowly dying. It becomes hard to breathe and honestly, sometimes, the pain is so great, I wish God would just take me too. I don't want to leave my family and friends, and I would never purposely choose that path, but that's how excruciating it is - it cuts to the core like shards of glass. I went from being a girl, very afraid of death, to now someone who is no longer afraid, especially if it means reuniting with Aspen and my loved ones. I want to live life to the fullest while I'm here and the grief is standing in my way like the Great Wall of China. I have no energy, I have little drive or motivation even to complete small tasks like laundry, dishes and keeping the house clean. I think the flu was a set back I didn't see coming. I was already emotionally exhausted from the sadness of Aspen's Birthday and the holidays, but then to have the flu take me down on top of it, and having our basement flood in the midst of it all. It is all just too much. I am literally in the tidal wave of grief. I can feel it. The flooding of emotion that just hits you out of nowhere even when you don't have a shred of energy left. Tears flow with so much pain. I still have hope and thankfully when I'm feeling like there literally is no light at the end of my tunnel, I read an excerpt from a book, or hear from a friend and my spark reignites, although ever so faint, it's there. And I take a breath and keep going.

***

There's a metaphor that speaks to the healing borne from brokenness:

When you break a glass on the floor, you have to be careful when you clean it up. The glass is sharp, so as you pick it up, piece by piece, you have to go slowly and touch the glass cautiously. Even the slightest encounter with it can pierce your skin. The shards are harsh and the edges cut deeply.

Now imagine that those pieces of glass have been thrown into the ocean. They are at the mercy of the current. At times, the ocean roars with forceful waves, and the glass is tossed and thrown along with the rocks and sand. At other times, the ocean is gentle, and lulls the glass, another storm hits, and the glass is pushed by the force of the currents. At some point, the ocean quiets, and the flow is again soft. The waves flow, like inhalation and exhalation, as they arrive at the shore and hug the sand.

There you are on a sunny day, walking along the seashore. Just in front of you, amid pebbles and periwinkle shells, is a piece of sea glass. You bend down to pick it up, marveling at your good fortune. You hold it in your hands, feeling its smoothness and the places where it has a slight ridge. You can rub it on all sides because the edges have become smooth, and you can hold it in your hand without fear of injury. Holding it feels fortifying and strengthening.

We seek these brilliant pieces of sea glass because they echo the beauty of survival, resiliency, and hope. With tenderness and love, you hold the sea glass and learn its unique features. Once the edges were jagged and sharp, but now, through the combination of adversity and time, the edges are softly rounded. The glass is beautiful, precious and whole. 

That is how grief can change, and these are the edges of grief. When we hold pieces of sea glass, we hold what was part of something painful to touch. After glass is tossed in the ocean of life, it becomes stronger. Each piece we find tells us that we, too, are treasures. We, too, can grow stronger from our grief.

- From the book "Spark Seekers Mourning with Meaning Living with Light" written by Rabbi Baruch HaLevi