Actually, I was anxious about crying at the cemetery on Sunday. I can't really say I'm private about grief when I write a blog about it, but I am certainly private about crying. I even write a bit about it in my own journal, but I don't expect you will see any of that here. During perhaps the hardest part of our little ceremony on Sunday, when Thalia sang, I sat with the little guy who told me part way through, with great concern, that the head was falling off his little wooden toy. So once again, as at the funeral and as in life, my grieving was distracted by the need to attend to my children. Thank goodness for that. At home I do find times to grieve properly of course, but they are the reason why I have to dig my way out of the hole.
I did cry a little on Sunday. I also made some conversation, enjoyed the antics of my kids, got a job done (planting a plant for Kent) and was held by some of my friends. It occurred to me that this is what my life is. A great big package of grief that travels alongside of me as I live out the other parts of my life.
The small sense of calm that this idea brought me was exploded in the following days as both devastation and anger hit in waves higher than I have ever seen. But I suppose that's the point. The waves went out to the horizon for a bit, I still cooked dinner and changed nappies and got out of bed every morning, and so the co-habitation of these two parts of my life continues.