the empty tub

I pulled the plug and lay in the bath, feeling the hot water drained around me. With a whirling, sucking sound it got lower and lower till the water was gone. I don’t know why I didn’t get out this time, usually pressed forward by the impending and unending task of adult life. It seemed like such a perfect metaphor for the stage of grief I am feeling my way out of.

I was still in the bathtub, but without water I could see faint lines of steam still rising from my warm skin. The next thing to do was to get out. But where would I go? What would I do next? What waited for me was a series of small, mundane responsibilities. To moisturize my skin, put on clothes, feed myself. These tasks seemed enormous in early grief, but now I move through them easily and more mindfully than I used to, impressed by the ease, somewhat in awe of it.

As the weather turns we are collectively called out of the cave of winter. For me, perhaps for many of us, I feel changed, different than before. I feel like I have awoken from a long sleep, groggy and confused, but decidedly awake. Like my hesitation at getting out of the bath, I’m unsure where to put my new self, what she wants.

Change and growth feel exciting in theory, but I have found it involves much difficulty and sorrow. The outcome, to be changed is exciting, but the process is grueling and involved much falling away. On the other side of that is uncertainty, space newly emptied and ready to be filled.