With less than a week left, it's mighty inconvenient that I have the flu for the first time in several years. So much to do, so little time. Still not enough energy to do anything physical. When I do, my cough doubles me over and zaps me of all life force.
I thought I must have the flu due to my first time home buyer stress whittling down my immune system. I thought I must not have been handling it as brilliantly as I thought I was. But yesterday a friend reminded me of that body/mind connection of lung issues. Lungs represent grief. I remember being quite conscious of this when my father was battling three different lung ailments in the last years of his life. It was true for him. My dad bore the weight of many losses - his own and his friends' and family's. He was a very sensitive man. His beautiful blue eyes even when sparkling with joy or excitement would belie the sadness underneath.
We aren't taught in school how to process grief. That would be a handy class. I might not have the flu now if I had taken it, because I didn't realize until my friend pointed it out that I too am grieving the loss of my current house, a most magical rental that I have been in for almost 4 years. A lot of amazing things happened in my life while I was here: I wrote my book, ran the marathon, made a lot of new wonderful friends, started creative projects that will hopefully come to fruition in the next couple years. It was a fruitful, miracle-making house for me.
I moved here just a year and a half after my dad passed away. I lived here when I experienced harrowing dramas with my dad's business, where I really grieved his loss, and developed a new relationship with him, where I lived when I spread his ashes finally.
His portrait is in the center of the house so I see it multiple times a day. And the house is surrounded by birds and squirrels, both of which my dad taught me about when I was a tiny little girl. We would pour over his many books on birds when I was little and he would tell me about each one. I wish I had retained any of the knowledge, but the most important thing was that it daddy time where I got to share his passion.
The birds seem to know change is coming. They greet me at every entrance and exit a little more dramatically than usual. And one sits just outside the patio door, perched on the firewood cart, between sessions of banging repeatedly into the window. No, he's not trying to get in, because the door is wide open. When not there, he is about 25 feet away outside another window sitting on a table looking into a mirror, at intervals, repeatedly flying into the mirror as if attacking his mirror image. It's not violent looking. Here is a snippet, from the end of one of his rounds. Excuse the through-the-screen bad quality!
This little bird has never exhibited this behavior before this week. I think he was trying to tell me something about my grief. As my friends have all reminded me, it's OK to be sad about leaving one magical house for another. And this place will always have a place in my heart.
And now I know one of the first things I will do is plant two trees like the ones just outside the patio door - jacaranda and bottle brush-- in my dad's honor. The birds and squirrels adore these trees. That plan even eases the grief a little bit.
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