Meet grief half-way

Step one: prepare a quiet room.

Let the walls hold nothing but stillness,

the floor clear of distractions,

the air heavy with patience.

Step two: sit. Do not rush.

Fold your hands loosely in your lap.

Breathe slowly, as if your chest were

a small cage you had forgotten to open.

Step three: call it by name.

Whisper it softly,

let the sound roll across your tongue

before it rests in your ears.

Do not flinch when it answers.

Step four: notice its shape.

Is it a stone lodged in your ribs,

a shadow brushing the back of your neck,

or the quiet hum beneath your skull?

Do not try to change it—simply trace it

with gentle fingertips of thought.

Step five: offer it space.

Place a chair beside you and imagine it sitting there.

Do not insist it speak,

do not insist it leave.

Invite it into the room,

then return to your own breathing.

Step six: move slowly.

Trace your fingers along the edge of a table,

listen to the tick of the clock,

let your eyes wander

without seeking escape.

Sorrow likes attention,

but not command.

Step seven: write, if you wish.

A line, a word, a fragment of sound.

Do not judge.

Sorrow does not care for beauty;

it only asks that you notice.

Step eight: release carefully.

Rise from your seat,

shake your hands gently,

open the window just enough

to let a sliver of light touch the floor.

Sorrow does not vanish entirely,

but it will bend toward the edges,

like smoke leaving a room.

Step nine: repeat.

Do not hurry.

Do not scold.

This is not a race, but a ritual.

Sorrow is patient,

and so must you be.