What is the sound of one's heart breaking?

I think it sounds like a low, steady roar.  That's what I heard in my head yesterday, a roar that started off as a pesky and pervasive annoyance, then gradually became overbearing, painful, even tortuous.   

Sometime in the late afternoon, the blessed feeling of solitude dissipated and a desperate loneliness took over.  A lump in my throat formed, my arms and legs became heavy and my stomach ached.  I knew I had to get back home.  I knew I needed familiar turf and faces.  So, I left beautiful Green Gulch Farm, a place where for years I found solace and comfort.

At first I thought a little side trip would help, so I drove over the hill to tony Stinson Beach and hippie haven Bolinas.  I looked around.  I took pictures.  But, the roaring in my head got worse and I was beginning to panic.

I drove a little too crazily on the windy, hilly road back to the farm, pulled into the parking lot in a dust cloud and raced into the courtyards and buildings looking for the monk who worked in the office.  I found him cutting black fabric very carefully on a table.  He was likely working on a new robe.

This particular monk was a gentle-giant kind of a guy with a French accent.  He wasn't at all startled or disturbed when I marched up to him with purposeful steps and stammered:

"Hi. I gotta get out of here.  I'll pay for last night and tonight, but I have to leave NOW."

He looked at me kindly and spoke with warmth and understanding:

"Yes.  I see.  Well, that won't be a problem.  And don't worry about your reservation for tomorrow night.  We'll forget that."

"Oh, really? Oh. OH! Oh, thanks. THANKS! So much! Yeah."

"May I ask, is there a problem with your room or anything else about your stay?"

I almost yelped HELL NO, but caught myself:

"No no no no no! I love this place! But, I think I better go home because my father died two weeks ago and I'm kinda flipping out and I should really be with my family.  And, my dog."

Clearly I was channeling my vulnerable inner teenager.  But, the French monk overlooked my hand wringing and said softly:

"Ahhhh, yes.  This place can bring up difficult things like grief and sorrow.  That can be good or very hard.  I'm glad you know what you need and can act on it.  Please be careful driving home.  I'll send you an email receipt for your payment.  Be well."

I shook his hand.  Rather, I pumped his hand, which is probably not a very Buddhist thing to do.

Then, I packed and fled.   

I'm quite certain the roar was not a manifestation of "voices in my head".   I kind of wish it was because there's medicine for that and, in most cases, the medicine can make it go away.  Instead, I think that I'm hurting big time, smarting from this complicated-conflicted sorrow and heartbreak. 

By the time I picked up Malcolm at the dog sitter, the roar disappeared.  But, now I'm feeling like that vulnerable, flipped-out teenager. To drive the point home, my psyche went into cahoots with my body and presented peri-menopausal me with a little tiny period, remarkable enough to produce some mild cramps.   I'll bet any second now a zit will show up on my chin. 

It's good to be home where Molly maintains a stash of feminine hygiene supplies and benzoyl peroxide.   It's good to be home with Molly.   And, it's good to be home where I can allow my heart to rest and quiet down, at least for now.

Buddah peace to you, mah dollins.

Comments

[SusieJ]

Sending peace back to you. Take care Grace.

[carmen]

Peace and love to you, wonderful Grace.

[Krob]

Oh, god, or Buddha, Grace. I want to throw my arms around you and comfort you and just be there for whatever. I think it is wise for you to be near Molly and Malcom. That is home. That is peace.

Ah...I could just feel your frenzy. Great post, but please, child, take care.

[Heidi]

Oh my goodness, I don't check in for a few days and there's all KINDS of catching up to do around here! Dorothy had it right, you know--there's no place like home. Home where it's safe, where you can feel your feet on familiar earth, and canine smooches from Malcom.

[ozma]

Beautiful, beautiful Grace. I hope your heart has quieted.

[Marilyn]

And to you, friend. I'm glad you listened to that roar and did what you needed to do.

[Mir]

Hold on tight and ride the wave, dear Grace. You'll make it through this.

[landismom]

Peace and grace to you, dear one.

[Lisa Williams]

It will go away, you know that, right? Just checking. Sometimes when I feel bad I get convinced that it's permanent.

When my own father died I did a lot of strange stuff. I felt like I had been living my whole life in a defensive crouch, not doing anything unless I could figure out a risk-free way of doing it. I experienced this weird, heedless urgency and did a bunch of stuff -- I bought some expensive Christmas gifts, I started open-ocean kayaking, and I decided to have another kid, there was more, all of a sudden I just felt this giant, Fuck It kind of feeling, and I tell you, it was in charge.

It passed, but I really don't regret anything I did or how I did it during my, "OMG, life is finite! Shit!" phase. In fact I think it was great, because at least I now have the idea that if I do something, having the worst possible outcome isn't actually *guaranteed.* Sometimes things actually work out okay even if I haven't planned them to the Nth degree, tested them, created three failsafes and completely detached from the idea of succeeding before beginning. Wow. Really? You mean sometimes things will just be fine for NO REASON?! What a bizarre and alien way of thinking it seemed to me at the time, having lived so long in my mental bunker, scanning the perimeter, checking available ammo, seeing what today's mystery MRE brings. You mean I can actually leave the bunker? The war is. Over? Seriously?

Well shit, now what do I do?

And that was the beginning of the rest of my life.

(Plus my kid is awesome. People who aren't his mother even say so).

[GingerMartini]

Let your family take care of you. You've done it for many years, it's their turn now. With love, Ginger

[Stephanie]

Grace,
I can't recall just how I stumbled upon your blog, but stumble upon it (and bookmark it) I did a couple weeks ago. Your writing is beautiful and honest, whether it's in sorrowful tones or comic ones. I'm sorry that I stumbled in here at such a difficult, sad time for you (and I've felt a bit like an intruder at times, just starting to read your blog during such a personal time for you), but know that here is yet another complete stranger sending good, healing vibes your way, from halfway across the country. :)

Best,
Stephanie

[Lin]

How cool is it that you listened to that roar? How often is it that we don't listen properly. Heal, sweetie. You'll be fine.

[Self Help Zone]

Very sorry to know what you are going to through...as Lin said I hope everything will be ok soon. Sending peace and hugs.

[meeta]

And sometimes the best solace we have in life are in those that love us. I'm sure that your wondermous husband and daughter...as well as the furry four legged child will make sure to help you through the time of bumps and sadness.

If you ever need to talk, I'm here

[Mata H]

Grace - oh my oh my -- I just came to your blog because I am writing a BlogHer article about spiritual retreat. My father died not that long ago, and so your writing here definitely got my attention. Grief for a parent is such a singular grief - not like anything else. It comes in such unexpected waves. Know that this orphaned daughter holds you in her thoughts and wishes you comfort, consolation, peace.

[Her Bad Mother]

Much peace back to you, in spades and buckets and barrels.

xo

[Moogie]

May you find some peace. Let your family wrap their arms around you and hold you close. You are in my thoughts.

[heather white]

my heart was broken three weeks ago and i definately relate. it's horrible. it does pass, but comes back and passes again. big hugs.

[jquig99]

Grace - I'm sorry for your loss. I'm glad you're surrounded by love (not just physically, but virtually - how cool is that?). I also lost my parents and know that's a hole that can't be filled. Be present.

I send you warmth and love, Tiny Dancer.