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1 note   -   Posted 2 days ago

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

Veronica Shoffstall, “Comes the Dawn” (via larmoyante)
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6,133 notes   -   Posted 3 days ago

It’s like hanging your clothes on the line just as a storm shows itself on the horizon. 
Or like running out of gas 2 miles outside of town.
Like planting potatoes, spending hours digging up the dirt, tending to the crop, and finding that it did not yield a single spud.

It’s like trying to breathe deep but gasping on the air.  I wonder if I, too, am having a heart attack.

It’s like missing you.


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1 note   -   Posted 4 days ago

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect the shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be “healing.” A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to “get through it,” rise to the occasion, exhibit the “strength” that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves the for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking (via samstars)
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11 notes   -   Posted 4 days ago

Relaxation in a nutshell #latergram #kayaking #summer

Relaxation in a nutshell #latergram #kayaking #summer

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1 note   -   Posted 1 week ago

Death is not easier to understand as an adult than as a child.  I still find myself grappling with the idea that once dead, you are gone forever.  I still ask myself why does it seem like good and caring and loving people are the ones that die.  I still expect to run into him at the store.

Maybe that’s why kids are sometimes found poking around dead animals; dissecting and investigating the carcass—to understand.  And adults yell for them to get away, do not touch dead animals you find.  I don’t know if it’s a fear of disease and bacteria or fear of death, or a mixture of both.


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1 note   -   Posted 2 weeks ago

The pain of surviving is sometimes so acute.  I can feel it welling up in my eyes and tightening in my chest.


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Posted 2 weeks ago

also my job title no longer has the word assistant in it.

say hello to the new online instructional support and documentation specialist.


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1 note   -   Posted 2 weeks ago

Got a $1 raise at work. Holla.  Drinks on me.


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2 notes   -   Posted 2 weeks ago

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