What can I say? Thank god it’s over? Not really. I can’t just put the year in a bottle and send it off to sea. But I guess I can try that fermentation, or marination thing, which I believe is what I am doing. “Sitting with it”, as some would say. Sitting with my losses, with grief, being in it, under it, present to it, slave to it. Master? Ha! I would never be so cocky, as grief would shut me right down, and “clown slap” me, as my husband would say.
No one can “master” grief. Grief is an ever-changing process, the elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, a slippery bag of snakes.