11 september

I did go see the documentary at Muse Arts Warehouse, joined by a friend. I had questioned the host to ensure no media-frenzy pictures would be present and he assured me the film was free of such crassness. So, I stayed. And, even though I cried through almost all of it, I must attest to its truth about grief: everyone has a different way to deal with the stages and everyone has their own pace. Overall, I would recommend it for counselors everywhere as a helpful tool to show those grieving that there is more than one way to work through the pain of loss.
Truly, time is the most healing factor, provided the griever is able to give themselves permission to stop grieving. That last part is hard: to finally reach a point where you have to forgive yourself for not being there at the right time or not doing a particular thing or not saying the right words. To forgive yourself is to acknowledge your own mortality and faults. To forgive yourself and accept the loss is to give yourself permission to live again.
Afterwards, I went to my beloved beach, shedding the dress I wore and revealing the swimsuit beneath. The northern beach was lovely, sparsely populated, with a sky featuring one lone rainbow kite fluttering its tail. I walked along the shore, in and out of the surf, until I reached the rocks at the end. I sat a while in the deserted lifeguard stand, closing my eyes and letting the words of the great ocean fill my mind with reassurances and calm, then walked back down the shoreline, collecting two broken shells along my journey. Such peace!
Eventually, I returned to my Saturn, duly waiting where I had left her. I returned a call to a dear friend and we dined together, enjoying each other's company, with no talk of the day's date. Upon my return home, I called my dear cousin and told her of my day and she sent love and love and love along the telephone line into my ears and into my mind and around my heart.
She's always had a knack for that very thing...