Sitting with My Thoughts

I’ve been doing this practice for a few months now, and what I’ve found is that it’s helped me notice a few thoughts that seem to come up again and again. Fear and doubt.

My practice is simple. I sit for ten minutes in quiet. I grab my coffee, sit up in bed, and just let my thoughts go. Sometimes I have to reel them back in when I start to drift toward “do” thoughts. Oh, I need to do such and such. But each time I notice that, I come back to my breath and my body.

This morning, after a full weekend celebrating my son’s birthday with family, I sat quietly again. My mind wandered to the last night of Lew’s life. That happens often. This time, instead of telling myself, “That doesn’t serve you Gina,” I let it be there. I let the sadness and fear of being alone sit beside me. I noticed how they made my body feel. I noticed how present they were, almost like they had taken a seat right next to me.

Then I said aloud, “Okay, so you two are here today. What will my intention be with you. Will I entertain you as my truth.”

As I continued to sit, I noticed something shift. Those thoughts, the fear, the sadness, began to step back. Not disappear, but settle. Almost like I had tamed them a bit, the way a lion tamer handles the untamed. They were still there, but not as big or bold as before. My breath was steady. Not forced, just steady.

It wasn’t that the thoughts vanished, but rather that I was calmer in the midst of them.

When I think of Lew’s last night, sadness, regret, and love all rise to the surface. But because I didn’t push them away this time, they didn’t take over. Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s the practice. Maybe it’s simply the act of allowing them to be seen, and giving them a seat where I choose.

As widows, I wonder if we’re not as controlled by our grief as we think. In the beginning, grief consumes everything. There’s no escaping it. The pain is undeniable. But over time, as we continue navigating this rough terrain, we gain the ability to be intentional.

That’s what this ten-minute practice has shown me. At first, it felt impossible. Ten minutes in silence. My thoughts were everywhere. But that too was just another thought. The truth is, we are not powerless to our minds. Neuroscience tells us our brains are constantly changing, adapting, healing, even through trauma. Losing our person changes us, yes, but maybe it also opens a door to healing in a deeper way, when we stop pushing the pain down and start allowing it to be witnessed.

This weekend, I was reminded of this again while hiking the alpine slope of Mount Shasta. We started at Bunny Flat, about 6,950 elevation, and climbed to Horse Camp, which sits around 7,880 elevation. My son said from the parking lot to the top we probably gained around a hundred feet or more, and I believe him. The trail wasn’t too hard, but it was a steady climb. The air felt thinner, and every step seemed to ask something more of me. I made the mistake of wearing a heavy parka, thinking it would be cold. It felt like carrying a weighted vest. Between the altitude and the weight, my breath was short.

At one point my son said, “Hey, why don’t we just take that coat and shove it behind this tree. We can grab it on the way back.”
I laughed and said, “Yes please.”

The moment I took it off, I felt lighter. My strides were easier, my breath fuller. When we reached the top, after climbing almost 1000 ft….I sat on a bench near a small spring of fresh water, feeling the sun warm my skin. I thought about how much that coat had held me down, and how much lighter I felt without it.

And then I thought of us. The widows walking uphill, carrying so much. Maybe it’s time to take off what’s weighing us down. Maybe we can set it behind a tree for a while, knowing it will still be there if we need it again. Or maybe, like me, we’ll have someone help carry it back down the mountain for us.

What heavy coat are you still carrying as you climb your own mountain, and what would it feel like to set it down, even for a moment.

Sometimes healing doesn’t come from doing more. It comes from sitting quietly with what already is. From noticing what shows up, and choosing how to meet it. Maybe that’s what healing looks like now. Not in pushing through, but in allowing the moment to breathe with you.

If you want to join us for Grief and Me the link is here in this blog. Hope to see you this week.

As Always… My love to you as a friend and a widow!

Hugs Gina