The Trinity.

It never hits me immediately. And that's probably just as well, since I'm not wiping away tears as I hug him goodbye. Usually the pain takes about an hour to build up, and another half hour before it bears me down. I'll catch myself snapping at someone, or rushing onto the bus without my gym clothes, as I did this morning, before I'll figure out what the problem is.

It rushed over me like a tidal wave this morning. I was on the bus, reading the newspaper, or trying to, and finally just put my sunglasses on and dwelled in it. Okay, let's just see what's going on in my body, I said to myself. There was a hard pulling-up sensation at the back of my throat, and a tightness in my chest. I was breathing shallowly and quickly, almost as though I were afraid. I felt anxiety. But what for? Naming the feeling, I said "sorrow, loss, sadness, loss, emptiness, bleakness." Look around. Here I am on the bus. It is not crowded, for once. And it is a beautiful day. I felt like crying. I wanted to go home, throw myself on the bed, and cry. I straighted up on the seat and gritted my teeth. But it hurt so much. "Learn from this." I allowed myself to experience the loss, and realized that this is how it had been for years. Brendan returning back to his father and his "real" room, back to the life he lives there without me. Me heading into work, down to the Cathedral of Learning, that stone tower, tower of loneliness and frustration and unappreciated labor.

What difference would it make, I wanted to know, in my day, if I simply acknowledged the pain, took note of it, and said, as Tara Brach has taught me to say, "this, too." How might I go through the rest of my day in a more conscious fashion. Could I be more present in my work if I accepted what I was feeling now, if I named it (or tried to), instead of repressing it. Would I be more awake, better able to focus on the tasks ahead of me? I found my mind wandering away, towards the classes I had to teach, plans for getting some exercise later, to phone calls I had to make, the lunch I had forgotten, and gently brought myself back to the present.

I even took a sacred pause on the grass, crossing from Forbes and Bellefield up the slopes to the Cathedral. I stopped in the fresh Spring sunshine to see the chapel's graceful spires, and the imposing tower itself, all white surfaces rising upwards to the sun against the cool blue sky. Not a cloud.

How have I done this, year after year. How have I carried this pain, this wrenching sorrow, this aching loss. Every time like a limb cut off.

The odd thing was that, on the bus, thinking about my heart, feeling my heart, and feeling grateful for the opportunity to shower him with love for three days, as I did, I started to cry. This was my heart being my compassionate, loving heart. This was me recognizing myself, feeling my love for my child, loving myself and loving him, and this was also my mother, crying for me. I was at that moment mother, mother, and child.