The Air Is Different

Soon after my husband died I remember that I kept saying, “The air is different.” In the fog of my grieving I wasn’t sure what I was sensing and why I needed to keep saying that statement until I view it this way:

When people share space, there is a unique mixture of scent, an aura, in the air from their combined presence. All of this is physical and emotional information that the brain and body use to balance and calibrate from day to day and becomes part of the consistent rhythm in a private universe. It offers stability and security.

“There was a massive void. My brain rebelled, my lungs were angry and my body felt broken.”

When my husband died his unique aura was gone.

The universe was altered.

The mixture of air that I inhaled for my survival, my life, was gone. The air physically changed. I also had to change, whether I wanted to or not, because my mind and body no longer actively sensed his unique aura. There was a massive void. My brain rebelled, my lungs were angry and my body felt broken.

Denial, sorrow, longing, adjustment, reconciliation, spiritual growth or despair, among other things, attempted to fill the void. My brain and body were trying to recalibrate and working overtime to make the transition. What it used to know was gone and that offered a mighty challenge.

So why, now, when I sensed that the air was different in those first few weeks, do I think I needed to take this more scientific approach to my grief? Most likely it was to remind myself that part of the grieving cycle is out of my control. It has its own rhythm and its own nature. My part is to remember to be patient and gentle and compassionate and kind and loving – the elements of healthy healing that are more expansive than that massive void.