Deer in the Headlights: A Wake-Up Call
grief, presence, and the art of slowing down
This weekend, I decided to experiment with time. In the aftermath of loss and trauma, I had no choice but to yield to the present—to notice the birds, the slow wag of my dog’s tail, the pain nestled right alongside the joy. After the acuteness of the pain wore off, my pace steadily increased. Just like the muscle memory that allows me to type these words without looking at my fingers, I reverted to filling days with success measured by what I’d accomplished. My days start not with one item on the to-do list—survive—but a never-ending mundane pile—the laundry, the bills, the dishwasher.
At one time in my life, I only knew the reality of “doing” but now that I’ve had a taste of what it means to let “being” lead, I’ve felt increasingly off-kilter and unaligned. Yet, the idea of slowing down, and tending to my internal world so I could more fully appreciate and participate in the external world, seemed inconvenient. I doubted the necessity of slow mornings that start with reading, wandering, or writing—instead opting to start each day checking off the first item on the to-do list taped to the hedonic treadmill. I walked right past the books of poetry crying out, “Pick me” and soothing them with a “Let me just finish this first” and never returning. Why was I avoiding this thing I knew was good for the thing that makes me feel more alive? To my credit, I didn’t spend much time on the why. The why tends to be a breeding ground for shame and self-flagellation, but I noted my observation and kept plugging along.
I’ve been seeing deer all summer. Each time I paused to appreciate their mystical attention to the here and now, however, repeatedly declined to accept their invitation to do the same. Then on a foggy night this week, the universe decided to drive its point home by placing a deer directly in the path of my driver’s side bumper. As death always does, I was reminded of my priorities.
Not wanting any more wildlife to pay the price for my lack of bravery, this weekend I decided to take full advantage of ideal meteorological conditions for presence (sunny, high 70s to mid-80s, low humidity, a light sea breeze), and play with time. I started yesterday by reading while enjoying a good breakfast. I walked the dogs. I wrote—somehow all before noon! I listened to poetry. I sat on the beach with friends and watched the afternoon dissolve into evening. It was still possible! I’d slowed the ticking of the clock and went to bed nourished.
This morning I set out on a quest to do the same. Halfway through my frittata, I discovered the reason for my hesitation to heed this call toward presence. For me, right there next to the glistening water and hungry robin is grief. As much as I have leaned into grief, going as far as to describe it as a living thing within me, I’ve realized that I have not enveloped it under the circus tent that contains all the other parts of me. I’ve treated it as if it is an animal outside the tent that people toss peanuts to now and again.
Being in the now, with what is, requires me to notice grief the same way I notice anxiety. My logical mind, my ego, does not fully endorse this notion. My neural pathways wish grief would slide along them off the main stage to resume its role as an understudy. This realization was nurtured in partnership with the book I slowed down and read this weekend. It was given to me by my neighbor–the type of rare soul that knows what someone’s heart needs slightly before its owner does. I can recognize this gift because it’s one of my own as well. It’s one that I have great reverence for because it’s hard-earned. In the book, Let’s Take the Long Way Home, author Gail Caldwell writes,
“The heart breaks open,” a friend said to me upon Clementine’s death. I know now that we never get over great losses; we absorb them, and they carve us into different, often kinder, creatures. Sometimes I think that the pain is what yields the solution. Grief and memory create their own narrative: This is the shining truth at the heart of Freud and Neruda and every war story ever told.”
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