Capture Your Grief, Day 1 – Sunrise

Here we are, friends. As promised, my next series of prompted writing begins today. There is a reason that I am starting today, of all days. You see, today is Clara’s due date.
                                                                                     *deep breath*
Today is a hard day. It is hard right now, at least. It is a milestone, though. One that I hope will bring some calm on the other side. Today marks the end of the time that I was supposed to be pregnant, but it also marks the beginning of the time that I was supposed to have her in my arms. So, does it signify the beginning of a healing period? Honestly, I don’t know, but it is the closing of a chapter and the opening of another, without a doubt. I think that counts for something. Capture Your Grief is a 31 day, mindful healing, photography and journaling prompt series that is usually held during the month of October, to honor Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. However, I felt like it was a very fitting way for me to honor Clara’s due date, while also exploring my own grief, by starting this series today. So, without further ado, on to the first post.

Capture Your Grief, Day 1 – Sunrise

This morning, I snuck into the library while everyone was getting ready for their day (I took the day off to allow myself the space to grieve), and watched the sunrise from the little green arm chair by the window. It is cold here, in our little corner of the Midwest, and the sunrise felt strangely crisp, since one typically associates the sun with warmth. I dug my toes deeply into the soft, furry blanket that we keep draped over the library armchair and let myself watch the sun climb through the bare branches behind our house. The library is Her room. I know we gave it a new identity by turning it into The Library, but I think it will always feel a little bit like Her room to me. It isn’t a sad feeling, though. There is no regret or pain in that association. Her room is now a place for us to congregate. It is a place to house the friends we make between the covers of a book and we, delightfully, have so many books, and thus, so many fictional friends. It is the place that my husband goes to play guitar, sitting on the edge of the green ottoman, feet buried somewhere in the ridiculously shaggy, grey rug that I dreamed about owning and ecstatically bought for the room. Sometimes, I imagine that he is playing for Her.

All of this, it doesn’t make me sad. People talk about the beauty of grief and, for a long time I believed them to be just completely and entirely mad. How could grief be beautiful? How could it be pure? I think I understand, now. In these moments, sitting in the library, or listening to my husband strum his guitar, my heart is near to her, and it is not sad. It is grief, yes, but it is a serene sort of pain. It is beautiful. A cold and crisp sunrise may not hold the warmth and drama of a summer sun, rising over the horizon in a show of pink and purple glory. It is more reserved. Almost tentative. Although shy, it is lovely, and holds the promise of day, all the same.

May you find peace today, friends.

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