It’s a strange old thing, grief. Which is a sort of easy phrase to start a post like this. An easy phrase that is cowardly, as it neither admits nor expresses any of the landscape it contains.
Landscape, because grief can feel like a place sometimes; a bald, clear-fell sort of a place, or a dark hinterland through which we appear to walk alone.
We are perhaps more aware of the life which once grew here, the old stanchions regular and dependable in their existence; or perhaps the ground life – constant and irreplaceable.
2019 has been a strange old landscape too, for many of us. Unexpected, for sure.
But this year has not been bald of growth. It’s just that hope feels a little outnumbered, sometimes. A few days out from midwinter, and i’m thinking about these sorts of cycles of ending and returning; about the faces of friends that I will never again see down here, nor the words of friends in the digital I will never again see on my feeds…
Grief feels like an absence, (literally ‘without sense’). There is a lack; a going-on-without; a travelling through dark places seemingly lonelier than before. I’m wondering where all that love and feeling goes. We may feel empty, but landscape tells me that nothing is lost in this world, remember. No iota of time or energy can be destroyed, just transformed.
And when I read the re-membrances and see the heartfelt prayers reaching out, I think that all that energy must be out here. That love never left. It’s been gifted, hidden, between us.
for Kaz, Ian, and Eriol, x.