Today Cerberus and I visited the grieving tree just outside our garden walls. A deep restlessness has settled over us as new life is rooting itself in the batten ground around us. All day we paced between the walls checking for signs the land is healing. Our obsessive checking probably doesn’t help the ground, but it is better than sitting restless in our little cottage. There are nice distractions of other family visiting outside the walls. One warrior whom I’ve had to lean on during and after many battles before has allowed me to have her near as my garden heals and new growth sprouts.
Other parts of the garden still grow green, but the heat from the battle has wilted them for now. I know they will bounce back, but for now it is as if they bow their heads in grief with me. Tonight I sit in the ashes and dirt and grieve into Cerberus fur. We slip out of the gates to the grieving tree and weep. I lean up against him as sadness and grief overwhelm me.
The greiving grounds, though, have little green buds of leaves peaking through the ground. Grief grows quickly The grieving tree is growing slowly though because, I think, the grief we carry takes years and years to to truly put down roots. The water of the river of tears is a small trickle now, but I know as I grieve it will grow to perhaps a raging river. The warmth of Cerberus’ fur comforts me. There are others who have come and comforted me–some already have a lush grieving ground and rushing river of the process of their own grief. Others are at nearly similar places as I. Their songs over my grief comfort me. The pain eases for tonight. I end my day the same as I began: exhausted and in my bed with my cats around me. The land draws her energy from me–especially during these first sprouting stages. I rest. I feel a little guilty but then I remember the land is healing. I need rest to give it my energy for another day. So I rest, Cerberus, the cats, and me.