Last September, I was standing outside of the airport in Albany waiting for my ride that would take me further into upstate New York for my cousin’s wedding. I began talking to another woman who was standing outside trying to figure out how to work her new cell phone. A third woman came outside for a smoke break and we became a brief trio of strangers brought together by small coincidences of time and place. We chatted, the subject matter unimportant and now forgotten, and the third woman finished her cigarette. As she went inside, she said words that I would never forget and which would seem prophetic after the next days of my life would unravel in a way that I could have never seen coming.
“Have a nice life, ladies,” she said before she disappeared through the swoosh of automatic doors.
I smiled a little bit then. That phrase I had only heard used in this sort of bitter sense. I never want to see you again, have a nice life. But no. This lady knew that the small coincidences that had brought us together were coming to an end and that we would never, ever cross paths again with nameless strangers that we passed ten minutes of our existence with. I will never see you again so my hope for you is that you have a nice life.
It was just hours later that I received news that would shape my existence from that moment on. It was a loss, it was a heartbreak, it was the swoosh of automatic doors that dropped the bottom out from under me. It was grief stepping up to my side and telling me that we had to dance together once more. Two days later I remembered that stranger’s words and I wondered how to have a nice life with this current dancing partner who was stepping on my toes and putting his hands where they weren’t supposed to be.
The thing about each new dance with grief is that it tends to remind us of all the other songs that played before; even way back to the first one when we weren’t even certain our feet would move in that sort of way. And, sure, the steps get learned. But they never get easier. And our feet tire from dancing. And sometimes that song plays in the trickiest of moments.
I’m not even going to pretend that this part of life is supposed to be nice. It’s not. But, nevertheless, it is life in the most, purest, unabashed form that life has to offer of itself.
And as this cursor sits blinking even now, I’m not quite sure why I’m writing this, on this day as the rain falls outside and my dog sleeps quietly at my feet. Except that last night, my friend gave me the advice that I need to start embracing the unknown. And that last night, I went to sleep and asked my dreams to give me guidance and I woke up feeling disoriented. And then I listened to a podcast in which Elizabeth Gilbert spoke of grief. And as that song started playing in my head, it was right next to those words. Have a nice life, ladies. And I was right back to being that lady outside of an airport on a crisp day that just whispered of fall who had no idea what was going to roll into her path on the hours and days and months that would unfold in front of her.
Because what would I have done? Would I have run back into the airport and bought a one-way ticket to some tropical island while ditching my phone in a toilet so that life couldn’t contact me there? If I had done that, I would have missed one of the worst nights of my life. But I would have also missed the next day, where I got to see one of the most important people in my life marry a man that loved her so endlessly and completely. I would have missed the heartbreak that consumed my springtime but I would have also missed the falling in love of the winter months.
The word that Elizabeth Gilbert kept using today when describing the dealing with, the handling of , the survival of grief is mercy. Mercy is the compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm. It is the dance we do with ourselves, day in and day out. It is a plea that our soul speaks to our heart and our crazy, whirring minds, to just simply be gentle. Be gentle with this moment, with this situation, with this loss and with these gifts. Be gentle with this chasm of space that exists between what is known in this moment right here as your eyes sweep over these words and the moments that will appear to you as this day and this life unfold.
My ex-husband always told me that I was a terrible person to dance with because I refuse to be led. I always found it funny. And I still do. But now I think of the spins that I take with grief and loss and wonder if I would get my toes stepped on a little less if I simply granted my partner the mercy of being present.
And when the song ends, I thank this partner for his time and his lessons. I gently remove his hands from the small of my back and allow myself to breathe normally again. I leave the dance floor, in a whoosh of automatic doors. It’s not a tropical island on the other side, but it is life. And I know it will be a nice one again.