A beloved church member approached me after worship this morning to tell me she was going to the choir concert this afternoon. She asked if I was going. Grief smack. It wasn’t even on my radar. Sigh.
I file choir under secondary losses. While singing and participating once brought me joy, that subroutine hasn’t come back online yet. True, I sing every week during worship, but that seems to be originating from muscle memory, not the heartsong space. I’m still glitching.
After my Sunday afternoon crash, the livestream of today’s performance popped up on my YouTube feed. I clicked to watch. I half expected to cry. I spied many familiar faces. I listened and enjoyed the music. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel any urge to run back and slip right into my section next session. Sigh.
Because I overthink everything, I ask myself why I wouldn’t want to do something that I love. Am I isolating? Grief does make you want to be around people and alone at the same time. 
Or is this just another part of becoming? It’s a new season.
Over the last year, I’ve thought about returning to the choir a few times. Beyond not wanting to drive at night without a person at home to call if anything goes amiss, I reached the conclusion that it’s just too painful. We always supported each other in our musical endeavors. While choral music wasn’t one of Dennis’s favorite things, he went to every one of my performances that he could. I could always pick him out of the crowd with that silly grin on his face. Then we’d go out for a meal and enjoy time with family members that also attended. Ahhh, the afterglow.
I made it through the “first” festival church services without Dennis in the pews, so I could probably suck it up and push through a choir performance if I had to. You know what? I’ve pushed through enough. Trust me when I tell you that grieving folks are pushing through far more than you realize. I now understand why folks leave jobs, churches, communities, etc. after losing a loved one. The pain is real. You are not the same.
Widow life is not all pain and sorrow. I laugh. I cry. I ponder. I wonder. I spend time with friends and family. I have plans and things I’m looking forward to. Hope abounds. Healing happens. Here’s to all I am becoming.