Caution: the following is a metaphor for the state of my marriage at the moment. My house did not, in fact, burn down. Offers of clothing and furniture are appreciated but unnecessary.
Imagine that your house has burned down.
You stand there and watch as the flames destroy your home. You think about all the memories that were wrapped up in that home -- all the Christmases, all the dinner parties, all the quiet evenings with your baby in your arms. Watch it all crumble down to nothing. You're safe and your family is safe and your pets are safe -- at least physically. People are all around you, some of them telling you that you can rebuild, some of them saying you should just doze the place and move on. You can see their lips moving and you know they mean well but all you feel is shock. Everything you knew feels gone with one careless flicker of the wind.
Maybe you go back a couple of days later. The fire marshall says you can try to save some things. You find a few salvageable items -- part of a photo album, some of your Great-Grandmother's silverware. You start to look at the shell of the house and you wonder if you can rebuild it. You start to think about your options. Rebuild it as it was? Call the bulldozer and move on?
Then you start to think about how the roof needed replacing anyway, how the house needed a paint job and how you had always wished the deck was enclosed. And you wonder if you can rebuild -- but not the old one, build a new one. One that is stronger, one without the cracks in the door that whistle when the wind blows. Maybe the new one will be even better. Maybe for everything that you've lost -- and make no mistake, everything you thought you had is just an illusion now and there is heavy grieving ahead -- maybe this is a chance to start all over.
So you decide that you don't have to decide now. You can just sit in the middle of what was, looking around at the rubble, feeling sad for a while. Sometimes just sitting still in the feelings is the best you can do.