"For in grief nothing 'stays put.' One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?"
God, this is what I am about! Emerging, repeating, circles, spirals.
"Dare I hope I am on a spiral?" If I am not content to allow myself to die after a short but decent interval, I must have this hope of spiral. There must be recovery, even if I must look forward to only a wooden leg attached to the stump.