In the days that followed I thought about grief; how nothing and nobody can prepare you for it. People tell you their stories but until you experience it for yourself you can’t possibly understand. There’s no going around it. Or under or over it. You’ve got to go through it. It will hit you in waves so enormous that you are smacked against the shore. It will permeate the very fabric of your life, so that everything you do is stained by it; every moment, good or bad, is steeped in sadness for a while. Even the nice moments, the achievements and successes, are tinged with the knowledge that someone or something is missing. And the first time that you smile or laugh, you catch yourself, because happiness feels so unfamiliar.
Hazel Hayes, Out of Love
How do you confront Grief and win? You don’t. You let Grief speak. You listen to his words and take in his lessons. You heed his warning as you wait for better days. There is no asset more valuable than retrospect, and retrospect is Grief’s gift to you. Grief is the messenger without whom there is no growth, no wisdom, no acceptance of what was and no hope for new beginnings.
And maybe, once Grief has etched his message into the skin of your soul, it’s really you who’s won.
Not a glorified or sensational victory — but a victory nevertheless. A victory whose wisdom eludes the masses but is indispensable to you. A quiet, dignified victory that tells you it’s okay to go on and shows you how. So sit with Grief. Talk to him. Learn his patterns and remember his story. Look upon his presence as a blessing and his visit as a soothing salve for your wounds.
What a beautiful way to put it in words! I would like you to see this.
-Dushka Zapata.
This is so utterly beautiful. I’d like to believe that the understanding brings with it, a gradual acceptance; as your body tries to accomodate and grow around the part of you that’s irrevocably lost. And when you start living again, seeing the world through the bleary eyes of your grief, another lesson awaits you.
It calls to mind, this snippet from A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara:
Or maybe he is closer still: maybe he is that gray cat that has begun to sit outside our neighbor’s house, purring when I reach out my hand to it; maybe he is that new puppy I see tugging at the end of my other neighbor’s leash; maybe he is that toddler I saw running through the square a few months ago, shrieking with joy, his parents huffing after him; maybe he is that flower that suddenly bloomed on the rhododendron bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. It isn’t only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing. And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.
