My boyfriend squints at me over the cards between us, trying to summon the words to explain what they are telling him. “You’re in a moment where… You know how you wet a washcloth, and then you scrunch it up to get the water out? And then you take it by the edge and sort of snap it, and then you have… not a new washcloth, it’s the same, but also it’s new now? You’re still scrunched up. That’s all.”
“I would like to be a new washcloth, please,” I drawl, looking at the cards. He lays down another and snorts, tapping it emphatically.
“Have you considered grieving? A good old mourning period? Feeling your emotions?” He spins the card, bright with marigolds, to face me. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before – what if you let yourself be sad?”
Looking at the card is easier than looking at him. “I tried,” I say. “I should be done by now.”
He chuckles and raises an eyebrow, not unkindly. “And yet.”
“I have responsibilities! Relationships to maintain.” I gesture at the rest of the reading. “What am I supposed to do, set up a sign? ‘Sorry, no offerings today, I’m too sad.’”
“You think they don’t already know?”
A fallow field [Lucyin, Wikimedia Commons, CC 4.0]
I have tried to tell myself that the work of living, mundane as it may seem, is also magical. Most of the time, I believe it. But when days of exhaustion turn to months, the guilt starts to creep over me. I watch dust settle on my spiritual life and cannot manage to reach past that guilt, past the pressing tiredness, to brush it away. It turns out being sad takes up a great deal of energy. It turns out that trying to be practical and address specific, physical needs uses up a lot of what’s left.
I need to save money, which means I need to move, which means I need to pack. I can do that one incremental step at a time, solve the logic puzzles of boxes during the day with the shallow satisfaction of tasks identified and completed as my only emotional landscape. At night, I can crawl into bed and let the grief come, examine it and acknowledge it and try to close it up again to do more work the next day.
It feels like a failing to be so alone in this. I should, I know, be reaching out for help. In odd moments, when I have the energy, I do reach out. But even the most beloved spirit cannot pack a box, and that is the only help I can imagine asking for. If I allow anything else, I know that the grief will roil out of its evening quarantine and I will get nothing done – so I pack my altars into boxes and I am satisfied at how neatly they fit.
Moving boxes [MoveON Moving, Wikimedia Commons, CC 4.0]
After the move, in my new apartment, there is not enough room. I knew that choosing to move had been a choice to downsize. My last apartment had been expansive, larger than I needed it to be, an improvident decision meant to ease a necessary transition. This one is cozy, just enough room for me to be comfortable as I plan and lay the groundwork for my next steps. It has more natural light, more access to my favorite parts of town – but less room for my guests and, I realize as I unpack, fewer spaces for altars.
I have been winnowing for years now. Five years ago my house was covered in altars, space set aside for acquaintances, spirits who I liked the idea of, family members of the spirits I held most closely. My practice was stretched thin, and weighed down with nice ideas that did not honestly resonate in my life. The process of discernment meant that whole pantheons were packed away and all but the most vital items donated or gifted. I had thought I was incisive, directing my attention to the relationships that were most valuable and making my apologies to those I had outgrown or had only included out of a sense of duty. The move shows me that I have not gone far enough.
When I open the boxes, I examine their contents and realize I do not know which I want to unpack, or how I should set them up. When did I last reach out to Aphrodite? Would Dionysos be happier with fewer items, if he were closer to his brothers? When I finally assemble the final touches of my apartment, I know they are temporary. It would take time and reflection to continue my discernment. I have neither to spare.
I lock up the apartment less than a month after I move in. The plants go to the kitchen, where they will have the most light, and I make sure my friend has a key to water them. I stop the mail, pause my subscriptions, take out the trash. I do my best to make sure everything will keep.
“I’ll deal with you when I get back,” I mutter, closing the door behind me. “Y’all be good while I’m gone.”
Locks and keys [SnapphaneJan, Wikimedia Commons, CC 4.0]
I arrive at home just in time for my brother’s harvest. “I should have rotated the tomatoes this year,” they say worriedly, poking at one of the yellowed vines. “Or maybe watered them less? There are too many things that could do this.”
“You’re getting plenty of tomatoes, still,” I say, gesturing to the bright red fruit on the nearest vine. “I mean, it’s not pretty but it doesn’t seem like a problem.”
“It could be better,” they say, frowning as they fill a bowl for our dinner.
“Don’t squash vines just do this, when they’re almost ripe? They’re pouring all of their energy into the fruit, that’s all.”
“Hm,” they say, unconvinced, and turn their attention to me. “How are you? How’s everything?”
I scratch the back of my head and turn my attention to one of their bean trellises with a shrug. “I got everything done, you know? I’m fine.”
They fix me with a doubtful look and I roll my shoulders. “I’m as fine as I can be. It feels like…” I gesture at my head. “Everything’s been sort of on hold. I’m probably not doing great.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come help,” they say, and loop an arm over my shoulder. “How can I help now?”
I try to imagine something that I could ask for, and I feel the tears start to well. “I think,” I say quietly, “that I just need to be sad.”
I let them hold me as I cry.
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