There are no borders in times of peace

There is something drone-like about the everyday existence, about routine and the familiar. It is easy to just coast along with little proactive engagement, letting life glide by like water under a bridge. For much of the time it isn't necessary to engage too deeply with surrounding stimuli- if I wish I can drift along at work, in my family, with friends. I suspect this is much the same with most people- familiarity creates a baseline upon which to rest and settle. And my grief can be a low level hum in the background, always there, mostly manageable.
There are times though when I move away from my routine- I go on holiday or stay away from home for a few days- and then everything feels different. Of course I want this, I want to feel different. I want to feel like I am away from the routine, away from day to day stress and normality. Just away. Holidays.
But at those times I am reminded of my grief and I am reminded that I remain without something, even here on holiday, even here when I am supposed to be free and without work and without responsibility. I still do not have Ruby even in this lovely place, especially in this lovely place, surrounded by trees, near the lake, sun in the sky, my wife and my son in my arms, barbecue on, gin and tonic in hand. These fleeting and simple joys that I love and value so much, stabs of happiness, remind me that there still remains a gap in our lives that should be filled with the missing member of our family, the fourth person who should be here to enjoy all this with us.
The juxtaposition of pleasure and pain has existed for the last five years but is getting stronger all the time as if any new joy sharply focuses my loss, as if I need new glasses that, along with the delight of clarifying happiness that exist, zeros in on the dirt and grime that surrounds me. Maybe my capacity for experiencing and expecting joy increases all the time and I allow myself, incrementally, to accept guiltless and comfortable happiness but I also know there is a direct connection between this odd permission for fun and the reminder that I shouldn't go too far, not too much, don't ever forget what has been lost and with whom I should be sharing this pleasure.

I was off work for a week recently for Easter. Claire, Tom and I went to a hotel for two nights (we have stayed there before. It is too expensive for us, truth be told, but it's a once-a-year treat) and then away in our touring caravan for three night (we bought the caravan one year after Ruby died and get great pleasure from it. As my counsellor said at the time "well, that makes sense- you're too anxious to travel so you take your home with you"). As a family these are enormous pleasures for us, to be together on holiday, away from our static home, reduced stress, strolling through trees, sharing the seasonal changes, play parks and climbing frames, short jogs over hills, eating out, barbequed sausages, searching the constellations on cool cloudless nights wrapped in blankets. Our free time is precious and is experienced simply- fresh air, activity, food- and is only truly valuable when we are together. But "us" is disabled from straightforward family life because we are a body missing a limb. Although we move and we are in unison we sometimes limp and lurch awkwardly.

I have earned the right to be happy. But the cost of this right is the grief that bonds to it. The justification I am compelled to abide by forces me, during every pleasure, to be reminded of my loss.
I feel this more and more acutely as time floats by. I assume that as my grief continues to striate and blur with my wellness and with my personality I will be less sharply affected by this disparity (as is the way with grief I expect time to be the great explainer).
It has occurred to me that national borders are most clearly represented in times of war and that in times of peace and solidarity there are no demarcation lines. As I have written many times, I don't seek to rid myself of grief but instead I need to navigate this new land. There are new paths to traverse, some stony, some smooth, some have to be explored delicately barefoot, other paths can be run free and fast, barely looking in front of me, admiring the scenery. Occasionally my journey is halted abruptly by a shocking boundary too sharp and gnarled to fight through but then after consideration and weighing up I realise that the key to navigating this particular obstacle is to make peace. Confutation gets nowhere, conflict puts off the inevitable, wilful ignorance makes the pain lurk in the background and so instead I must make peace. I must compromise and understand that I may never understand, that me and my grief need to coexist. It may always remain itself within me but it is, nevertheless, just that- within me.
I will have to embrace my grief and work towards reducing those borders and maybe then I will have those "differences, together" so valued in peace negotiation. Maybe then my grief and I can live in conjunction, in a kind of peace without borders.