Somewhere deep within me, underneath the motions of a daily routine committed to muscle memory, the what’s for dinner and did you get the mail and how was your day churns a sob so thick and wide, a storm of tears that will have its time above ground and soon. I’ve been sitting on it since Wednesday, January 6 at 3:11p.m. or so, but when doesn’t really matter. All I know is I’d best let it loose, get out of its way. I heard it somewhere (don’t recall when or from whom) that one can either walk with the Creator or get dragged. Well, you know how much I like to walk. And while I appreciate the surface sentiment, I thoroughly reject as abhorrent the theological notion of any higher power that would drag its oft-times reluctant and frightened creations around. The One I understand is much more patient than that.

So I wring from that bit of limited wisdom the importance, indeed—the necessity—of giving way to the surge of emotions that carries healing with it on its rocky tides. No, it won’t feel comfortable at first, or at all, but I’ll be better for it, less burdened and afraid. Any first-year psychology student knows that what we ignore between our ears, behind our rib cages and in our guts simply bides its time until it becomes bigger than what our skin can contain. I love my friends and family and co-workers too much to let unattended rage or sorrow come splashing madly at them sideways. And I love myself enough to forego that interior damage. So there it is—a grief manifesto and playbook, all wrapped into one small paragraph. Writing it was easy; implementation will be less so. We’ve got enough Kleenex. I checked.

Maybe this is similar to how you’ve taken in the events of the past four days (as of this writing): shock, repulsion, deep deep sorrow, disbelief, anger, perhaps even rage, roiling fear, relentless anxiety and a small glinting sliver of hope that we can push through this, our arms entwined and heads up, gaze planted firmly on a horizon that wobbles but stays within sight. I’ve not slept well, have you? The couple of hot baths I’ve taken didn’t wash away anything except the day’s sweat and dust. Apples still bring comfort in their simplicity and nourishment, but my appetite is shot otherwise. I must learn to put down my phone, to strap on my hiking boots more than once a day and get out there where whatever’s stirring within me has room to spread out and maybe even dissolve in the tolerant space around me. But that rumble of a sob is still waiting for its right and proper moment. I listen and wait. Listen…and wait. What else can I do?

Well, for one, I can let you know that I’m not in that “got it all sorted” place. That I’m frightened, even when I take those recommended deep breaths for a count of four on the inhale, eight on the exhale. I felt flat and bland when I closed off my work day for the week last Friday. No relieved anticipation of the weekend like I’d usually feel. For now, I blame Wednesday and a weary spirit that has held up its hand, saying give me a minute. Give us all a minute.

But I am tired.

Tired of waiting for something to be over.

Tired of waiting for something to begin, for people to come to their better logic and senses, to choose wholeness instead of fractioned factions.

Tired of evil mislabeled as mental illness, or worse, patriotism.

Tired of the hate…the hate…the hate.

I’ll keep wearing a mask until it’s no longer necessary, but I’m tired of what it now represents.

And tired as I am, I still can’t sleep. Isn’t that odd and wrong? Just…wrong.

And yet, somehow and in almost tender defiance of my fatigue, one of my feet keeps moving forward, followed by its trusting companion. I cover ground and find myself in a different place after moments or hours or days; the view is different enough to feed my hungry curiosity and pull me forward. A blue heron, out of place and way too early for its usual spring arrival, glides gracefully past the upstairs home office window this morning as I’m hanging laundry on a retractable clothesline, and I stop to admire its beauty. Wish I could fly. Half an hour later as I’m suiting up for the morning walk and glancing out the kitchen window, I see it slowly stepping its way past a bend in the creek. I don’t think the fish have returned yet, but what do I know? Not as much as a blue heron, apparently. I let the chickens out and place my trembling ungloved hand on the rough grooved bark of a black walnut sapling along the path to the woods. Maybe the weather-guessers will be right, and the sun will come out today.

Until then, I carry that sob with me and reassure myself I’ll survive its tsunami. The creek has told me on more than one occasion that she can handle some excess water, so I’ll be ok. We will be ok. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.