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Honey For Healing

Mending Trauma and Grief

By Danielle NajjarPublished 4 years ago 3 min read
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We were everywhere except where we are supposed to be.

7/10

Last week I was preparing an article about sustainability. I was starting my own business. I was thinking about what colors we would paint the rooms in our new house, but a lot can happen in a week. Your life can change in the amount of time it takes for a pair of sneakers to get delivered to your house. It can change in the time it takes for someone to dial your phone number and in the milliseconds between two objects colliding. These things, tiny in their weight, are significant in changing my life.  

Time has inked milky thoughts all over trauma. Days feel like months and last week feels like a lifetime ago. There is the before and the after. As I sit in an oversized hospital chair, I chew over the tough and tender. I mourn the memories of trauma as they are sourly encrypted in my brain. The sound of hissing machines lulls me into flashes of… 

Blue tubes

Brain 

Bike 

Helmet 

Yellow Mask

Chaplin

Chopper

Traumatic

Hospital, hospital, hospital.

These images flash through me like shuffling cards or the spaces between subway cars. Over and over again, so fast and repetitive. I wonder If this will last forever. My reel is suddenly spliced by a nurse with a latex glove on my hand. “Excuse me, you must be Danielle?” 

I realize, I must be.

7/12 

July evenings in Colorado are magical. The heat melts as the mountains host sorbet sunsets. The hummingbirds dance around the tall bushes on every corner and the moon flowers open their sleepy pedals. Everything buzzes in a symbiotic chorus. I was walking my dogs with my mom and passed a neighbor watering his flowers. He does this most evenings at dusk.  I always failed to introduce myself. I finally ask his name and I complimented him on his beautiful garden. I do not fail to notice him tending to the brown speckles in his pristine grass, the culprits, most likely my own dogs. We exchange a few words, mostly about how I had just moved down the block. He left me with one small sentence. “Life is changing”. I wonder if he had sensed my life had just changed. More than moving to a new house or changing careers. My life had been spinning like a pottery wheel, crafting something beautiful with my own hands. Now, the machine mute, and I am left salvaging the half-made vase. 

In the blur of days that follow, with more time on my hands then I thought a single day had, I think of my neighbor tending his garden. He religiously waters his lawn and tucks in his flowers. He nurtures soil, trusting that beautiful things will grow. He provides them a foundation to whisper healing. His callous hands cater to the grounds most delicate fabric.  

My new normal will be slow. I will have to trust that I am planting fruitful seeds and have faith in healing I cannot see. Our bodies are so strong, they do not need our permission to regenerate. Our brains are miraculous. I envision cells healing at a microscopic level, like seeds settling into their beds.  My dear neighbor, you have one of the most vibrant gardens on the block. I wonder what is to grow in our garden if we slow down too.  

grief
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