Free Flowing with the Go by Elena Stowell

could not accept that my daughter was gone. Every day I had to decide whether or not I had the courage to face the day and thinking that I might be overwhelmed by emptiness and give up. For a long time, I was far from grounded. Time is the enemy of grief, and I eventually learned to live with the feelings of uncertainty grief left for me. I can’t say that I embraced those feelings or anything that enlightened, but I did learn to carry them with me as if they were a wild animal in a small cage. I felt empowered that I could bring them under my control, knowing that at any given moment, I had the power to release them. That release would only happen when I allowed it, when I felt equipped to face those feelings, brave enough to retrain my response to fear so that its hold on me was not as strong and crippling.
    Will we ever become allies, grief and I? I think it’s possible we may have a commensal coexistence, like tolerant roommates. Do I respect the power of grief? Absolutely. But that does not mean I have to play the subservient role. I also do not have to define my grief and fear as good or bad, and instead simply see them as they are. I don’t have to try to escape from them. In the past, when I tried to escape from my grief, I sought comfort externally. (Cue the choirboys singing “Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places.” ) If I ate, drank, bought, watched, or read “this,” I would feel better. I was my own worst counselor, thinking that all of these external things would make me feel better, but instead made me feel worse. The affirmation I sought was short-lived, and I would suffer from an “emotional hangover.” These hangovers left me drained, cloudy-headed, irritable, bloated, angry, and steeped in pathos. I was disconnected from the Earth.
    Like an addiction, I kept participating in these disconnecting behaviors. You know how, when you were little, you would come home and say “Mom, my [body part] hurts when I do this . . .” And Mom, gifted with maternal wisdom, would say, “Then don’t do that.” That’s how self-destruction tortures you. You engage in the self-destructive behavior because there is a period of time where you don’t see your behavior as self-destructive; you see it as comforting and a portal to a better time. Then comes a time when you know your behavior is self-destructive. You then have to decide if you are going to engage in that behavior. Sometimes you do engage, because you feel like you deserve to feel shitty. Other times, you can resist and tell yourself that, maybe if you don’t feel shitty about yourself, you can feel better about everything else . . . like being able to see Carly’s picture or walk past her room, and to respond with memories that make me smile and give me a sense of thankfulness for what I had with her, not what I am missing now.

    That’s my journey. I’m not there. But I do feel like I’m on my way. Sort of like Dorothy and her yellow brick road. Hers was not an easy road to follow. There were flying monkeys, intoxicating flowers, and an evil witch trying to keep her down. But Dorothy was resilient, wasn’t she? I’m not going to braid my hair and wear a pinafore, but like Dorothy, I am going to surround myself with friends who can help me stay on the road. I am going to fight back. I may not get what I want the first time—remember how Dorothy got turned away at the gate?—but I am integrating the strength and tools I need to live fully my life as it is now. I will stay connected to the Earth.
    â€œAnd the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
    â€” Anais Nin

19
Biochemistry
    I f part of groundedness involves taking care of your physical, inside self, then I was a wreck. Sure, I was getting exercise now; I had integrated back into society, work, friends, etc., but physically I felt terribly