Acceptance

Acceptance

I've pondered what it means to fully Accept for the past ten months. Ever since I heard an otherworldly voice charge me with this task. I thought I had accepted the death of my dearest sister Lexi, who knew my heart, who was my heart; and the death of my dearest Margaret, who knew my soul, who was my soul. But no, not good enough; still more work to be done. And I've gotten so tired of this work. I am so ready to be done with this grief slowly shredding my will to live. The crying and wondering What is my purpose now? Not caring, not wanting to continue.
So this query has nagged at me, always in the back of my mind.
What does it mean to fully Accept?

Two days before Margaret would have turned 62, on the 29th of December 2008, I believe I've solved this Koan. And it is simple, slap on the head simple (but not for one in the thick of it!).

Acceptance means to VOW to go on living. To fully embrace what is and be willing to move on.
To not stay stuck. To fully move amongst the living. To be amongst those who love me, value me, despite the fact that their love somehow doesn't seem enough; doesn't fill the void. Their love is not the totality of an 18 year relationship, cut short by death. Not the totality of a sister's knowing me from birth, and me holding her in my arms when she died. It's not the ins and outs of day to day cherishing, adoring, bickering, fighting, doing chores, talking, touching, touching, talking. It's not the totality of the whole. The totality of intimacy.

The love from family and friends is bits and pieces, fragmented, scattered and temporary as the visits and here and there conversations with them. The not so sure they heard my true intent, the shortness of the visit because we are all rushed, the failing to finish a story. The not getting back to the point, because after all, I don't see them, don't communicate with them day to day, as I did with Margaret.

I leave the son of my deceased sister and drive home alone. The beauty of his face, his clear brown eyes, the line of his hair, etched in my mind; his nose which is my father's nose; his long, elegant fingers, also my father's. He is my nephew, our love for each other is real and deep; but this love can never truly complete me, as Margaret's love did.

It is only a fragment, a bit, a piece of the love from the many, many in my life who care about me. I know they truly care about me. A piece that I must now learn to cobble together, as a mosaic, a tapestry of my reason to continue to live. A mosaic of acceptance of what is. The weaving together of a new meaning to my life, a willingness to move into the future.
A vow to go on living.