I have lost my compass

I am a very focused person. I make lists. I write agendas. I put plans in place well in advance. I am always early. And I have a great sense of direction.

Grief put me in a daze.  Strangely enough, I was fully functioning. I was taking action. And to anyone observing me, I was more than capable. But I felt foggy. My sense of time felt warped. I was even showing up late for things. This surprised me. Time, dates, plans – that’s how I roll. If you know me, you know that. It’s just something you expect from me.

Three months into this fog, I realized that I had lost my compass. I couldn’t find North. I am here, but lost. I am present, but can be pulled backwards, sideways, or forward, without notice.

The person who knew me best was gone. The inside jokes, the shared language, the like-mindedness, the memories, the knowing without saying. No one to notice me and my actions or even to know when I have “arrived.”

Sitting in quiet at the Japanese Garden at Denver Botanic in early September, I had a realization about how often I looked at Tim. In the same way you might look at a compass or a map. I had ridden my bike to the garden, and I know that if he had been with me, I would have turned to look at him many, many times during the ride. As independently as Tim and I lived even when together, I realized how often I would look at his face to register his feelings and thoughts.

Tim had a “big personality” as someone we once met put it. This actually became a running joke between Tim and me. He didn’t see himself that way at all. In some way, I feel like he wanted to start living up to that impression. But, he did have a big personality. It didn’t come in the way we may typically think. It wasn’t from being showy or verbose. It came from his mind. His big ideas! And that, in part, certainly steered our lives.

Was Tim my True North?

When you lose a spouse, you are told to not make any major decisions or changes for a year. We’ve all heard this before, but I finally understood it. One day, I was thinking how comfortable and exciting Denver was. I was certain I would make a permanent home there. And the next day, I wanted to run from it. Decision making, even the most minute kind, was very challenging. Multi-tasking, which I was good at, felt more like spinning than doing. 

This directionless feeling was certainly new to me. It surprised me. But what surprised me even more than experiencing it, was that I was totally accepting of it. I felt like a drifter. So that’s what this is like?! There was a certain freedom here. It gave me the space to do what I had to do in this grieving process.

The life we had created together, even when imperfect, had a direction. And now, I was getting comfortable with surrendering and relaxing into the mystery. No compass required.