Joy and Grief Don’t Take Turns

This morning, my intention for the day was joy.

I’ve been thinking about that word because I’m discovering something I hadn’t really considered before.

Joy didn’t disappear when grief arrived.

They coexist.

And perhaps that’s easier for me to recognize because, even in the midst of grief, I know that I am okay.

I’ve been thinking about what I actually mean when I say that.

Okay doesn’t mean unaffected. It means grounded.

Most of the time, I’m squarely on my feet. Some moments can feel like an emotional roller coaster, but I know the ride will come to a stop.

I may be afraid. I may fret about finances. I may question what I’m doing or where I’m going. I may miss Doug so much that tears come without warning.

None of those things means I’m not okay.

Being okay doesn’t mean I’m steady every moment.

It means I trust the ground is still there when I’m not.

And I trust myself to find my feet again.

That’s what I’m okay means to me right now.

And joy is here too.

Some of that joy is actually joy returning.

Feeding people has always been one of my love languages.

I used to love to cook. I loved deciding what to make, playing with ingredients and putting something wonderful in front of someone I cared about.

But during the last several years, I came to detest almost everything about meals.

I was working more than 60 hours a week, caring for Doug and running our home. As dementia changed what he would eat, vegetables and salads eventually disappeared from his diet. If I wanted to eat differently, to eat the healthier foods I wanted for myself, that often meant planning, shopping for, preparing and cleaning up after two separate meals.

At the same time, I had gained 40 pounds. I didn’t feel good about that, and I didn’t love what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Yet taking better care of myself seemed to require even more time and energy when both were already in short supply.

Something I had once loved became one more responsibility.

I didn’t stop loving to cook. I stopped loving what cooking had become.

And now I’m finding my way back to it.

I’m wandering the farmers market or Trader Joe’s looking at beautiful tomatoes and fresh figs and wondering what I could make with them. I’m trying new recipes, experimenting with flavors and finding enormous pleasure in putting something delicious in front of people again.

And I’m doing something else.

I’m cooking that way for myself.

I’m making the beautiful plate even when nobody else is sitting at the table.

I’m choosing healthier foods again, but now eating well doesn’t feel like one more job piled onto an already impossible list. I’m enjoying choosing the ingredients, preparing them and making something that is both good for me and genuinely delicious.

Taking care of myself through food feels good.

The joy came back.

Sometimes joy isn’t something new waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes it’s something you loved once, waiting to be found again.

But some of the joy I’m finding is new.

Meditation certainly wasn’t something I expected to become part of my life.

Sitting still has never exactly been my superpower. Give me something to do, organize, solve or accomplish and I’m all in.

But lately, I’ve been beginning my mornings differently.

I go into my healing room. I sit. I breathe. Sometimes it's guided meditation. I’m learning to be still without feeling as though I should be doing something else.

Sometimes what shows up is grief.

Sometimes gratitude.

Sometimes my mind wanders all over the damn place and I bring it back again.

And sometimes it is simply quiet.

I’m discovering there is joy in that too.

The joy of being present in my own life.

Then there is the joy of looking forward to something.

My first overseas adventure on my own is out there waiting for me.

I can already imagine standing in the airport with my suitcase thinking, What the hell am I doing?

There will be excitement. There will be a little fear. And I know there will be melancholy too.

For 33 years, Doug was the person I traveled with. There is something bittersweet about imagining an adventure without him physically beside me.

This time, I’ll carry the person I’ve traveled with for 33 years in my heart instead of holding his hand.

I wish he could be there with me.

And I can still be excited about going.

Both can be true.

For years, looking ahead had a different weight to it.

Dementia created a constant uncertainty about our future. What change was next? What would Doug need? What would I need to prepare for? What decision might be waiting around the corner?

It took me years to realize how much time I was spending trying to anticipate a disease I had absolutely no control over.

I thought if I could understand what might be coming, I could somehow be better prepared for it. But in constantly looking ahead, trying to figure out what dementia might take next, I was missing some of what we still had right then.

Once I understood that, staying in the present became a conscious practice. I still had to plan, dementia didn't give me the luxury of ignoring the future but I stopped trying to live there.

I couldn't control what tomorrow would bring. But I could choose not to let tomorrow steal today.

And now, when I look ahead, I'm beginning to notice something different.

There are things in my future I’m simply looking forward to.

What I’m beginning to understand is that joy doesn’t require grief to leave first.

And that’s a good thing, because I don’t believe grief is going anywhere.

I also know grief waits for you.

I could fill my calendar. Throw myself into work. Start projects. Take care of everyone else. Keep moving.

Grief would still be there when I finally stopped.

That’s one of the reasons I gave myself 30 days after Doug died with permission to simply be.

It wasn’t 30 days to grieve.

It certainly wasn’t 30 days to “get over it.”

I intentionally stepped away from much of my normal life and chose a great deal of solitude.

I wanted the quiet.

I wanted enough stillness to hear my heart. To hear my grief. To hear myself. And to hear Doug.

I needed that quiet.

I wanted to understand what this new grief felt like without drowning it out with busyness.

Because I knew grief would wait for me.

Eventually I would step more fully back into my life. There would be work and travel and friends and dinners and plans and all the ordinary things that make up a life.

And when I did, grief would be coming with me.

Those 30 days weren’t about learning how to leave grief behind.

They were about becoming grounded enough to live with it.

To know that when something knocks me off balance, the ground is still there.

And to trust myself to find my feet again.

Perhaps that’s part of why I can recognize joy without being afraid of what it means.

I’m not asking grief to leave before I let joy in.

I can miss Doug and be delighted by something I’ve made in the kitchen.

I can enter meditation carrying sadness and also experience peace.

I can wish he were beside me and still be genuinely excited about an adventure that belongs to me.

I can cry and laugh until my stomach hurts in the next breath.

Neither makes the other less true.

Joy and grief don’t take turns.

One doesn’t politely leave the room so the other can have its moment.

Sometimes they sit right beside each other.

Sometimes they’re tangled together so completely that I couldn’t separate them if I tried.

And maybe I don’t need to.

Joy isn’t a betrayal of grief. And grief isn’t a barrier to joy.

Joy doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it’s a beautiful meal.

A dog doing something ridiculous.

Music playing while I’m cooking.

Sunshine on my face.

A conversation with someone I love.

A quiet room.

A belly laugh.

The twinge of fear that comes with doing something I’ve never done before.

A moment when I realize I’m looking forward to something.

Small moments when something inside me simply says:

This is good.

I don’t need to examine that feeling or wonder whether it’s too soon. I don’t need to measure it against my grief or decide which emotion gets to occupy the moment.

I can just let it be good.

This morning, my intention was joy.

Perhaps that isn’t about creating more of it.

Maybe it’s simply about being present enough to notice when it’s already there.

Because grief is here.

And so is joy.

Neither has to wait its turn.