is grief like a dormant bud, just waiting for spring? (not really, no.)

On occasional, I share a personal post, something from my own early years of grief. You know why I do this? Why I post such raw, painful things?

I don’t live in early grief anymore. I no longer stare down the endless minutes of every day, willing bedtime to come. I am no longer thrown to the floor with choking sobs, heaving and retching in pain. Early grief is no longer my reality.

But early grief is a present reality for many of you.

Many of you are there, in those early days, when so very little out there in the world of grief support sounds like you. 

Writing without the deeply personal is not the whole story of grief. To give the whole story, to give as many handholds as possible in the steep climb of grief, we need to hear personal stories.

We need to hear ourselves reflected in those words.

So sometimes, I post something from my own experience of grief and love. It’s an inside look at love, at grief, at life.

Today’s post comes from Year Two. It’s not my current reality, but gives a great picture from those early days: 

I woke up this morning arguing with the imaginary person I often argue with who suggests I am dormant, like a winter bulb.

Imaginary botanical analogies must be corrected.

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There is a difference
between dormancy and death.
A tulip is prepared.
A field of daffodils in snow
knows winter is just that.

I am an orchard of fruit trees
clear-cut in mid July,
the ground heavily salted beneath me.

Not all green things grow back.

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How about you? What are the metaphors you hear in your grief now, and what’s your returning argument against them? Let us know in the comments, especially if you’ve found a metaphor that feels more true.