Grief is a gift. Don't pretend it isn't there.
Written upon the three year anniversary of my mother's passing.
Grief is a thief.
It sneaks into our minds and robs us of joy. No, wait. We put our blame on Grief when it should be Death who bears the wrath of our anguished cries. It is to the doughy body of Death that we should lay our rage fists. Grief is simply first on the scene, picking up clues and logging them into evidence. Don’t get mad at Grief. It is Death who leaves fingerprints—Grief just applies the dust so you can see the crime.
Grief is a troll.
It pops up in our life feeds and says things to us that we don’t want to hear. Remember when you did this to them? Remember when you didn’t help them with that? Why were these the last words you spoke? Why weren’t you kinder? Replayed interactions that cancel us. “Too late now,” says Grief. “I have the receipts.” You will be forever playing Grief whack-a-troll. The longer your life, the more worn your mallet.
Grief will try to drown you.
I say put on your best swim togs and start treading water. Let it soak you and get in your lungs. Let it muss your hair and clog up your ears as it moves through you. Let it dump you in the shore break foam. The experience will pull the sand from your beach, but the beach is still there. Yes, lifeguards are on beach patrol, but no one can save you from the churn. The undertow. The undertaker. When you’re caught in the rip, swim sideways.1
Grief plays games.
While it is a solid five-letter starting word for Wordle, you will most likely get more than six goes at Grief. Six would be a blessing, but most of us know more than six people. You perhaps love them to different degrees, but the size of the pain is relative, and who’s keeping score anyway. Grief is a constant reset and there’s always a new game—all squares are green. By winning, you will have lost.
Grief is a gift.
Hear me out. Grief gives us the gift of random access memory to granular love. To believe this, you must also accept that love is a broad term that encompasses both good and bad. And now, brace yourself, for I am about to quote a line from the Marvel universe:
“What is grief if not love persevering?”
This line is apparently controversial, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why.2 I believe there is truth in it, and in that truth I find comfort. So what if you think it’s too earnest and cheesy?3 Grief IS cheese. It is love and all manifestations of how that love of that person—good, bad, or random—came out during your time together. It makes you sad. It makes you angry. It makes you cry in the shower and comfort eat. Grief is so cliché I could vomit. Own that vomit. Own your expression of your grief, even if it is unsightly and has a $50 clean-up fee. It is yours to witness.
It is a gift.
“Wait,” you say, “How is the physical absence of a person, and the stolen ability to hold them in our arms, a gift?”
“Wait,” I say, “In the emptiness of the arms is the fullness of the heart.” The shape of them holds in your mind. The absence of is also the presence of. This is what it means to be human. To accept the invisible frailty of it. We’d prefer to live without Death and its sidekick, Grief, sure, but living with it is what makes us whole. If you’re in the middle of it right now (Is there a middle? There seems to be no end.), reading this will seem dumb. Small. Insulting and hurtful, even. Grief is the most awful experience, I know. But because of it, my heart is planet-sized and grief is gathered at the core of it. It is in my lava, along with all my other life lessons. The heat of this amalgamation forges my foundation. You can build cathedrals that’ll last 10,000 years on this shit.
“Bullshit,” says Grief. “You’re so full of it. I suck.”
Oh, there it is again.
You don’t have to make room for Grief. It just barges on in and makes space for itself whenever it pleases. It doesn’t care what you’ve got on, or if you’ve cleaned the kitchen. It just appears and puts its feet up on your pouf and expects to be acknowledged and served without delay. We look at it. Find it rude. It stirs up emotions inside of us and makes us look those emotions directly in the face. It makes us question who we are, who they were, and what we’re going to do with that emotion. I agree it sucks, but…
It all must come out. Whether it comes out in some form in your art or simply refines the art of being you—doesn’t matter. But don’t keep it in. It must be processed. Grief allows us to access our internal machinations. Draw on it. Access the raw. Make it mean something. Not the grief incident itself—that is your own—but retain the ability to tap into it and be real. To be in your emotion while not being a slave to it. Grief teaches how to express, connect, and appreciate the brevity of life and that connection.
And I guess I’m saying that’s the gift. The realness of it makes us vulnerable, and through the vulnerability of our art and life, we can plug into the truth of ourselves.
We write, we create, we fade away. People come, people go. We who are left behind will go too and if we’re lucky, we will have made enough of an impact—spiritually, creatively, or just living-ly—that someone will mourn our passing.
Today4 marks three years since Mum decided to go watch the cricket in another room and I sure do miss her. She used to leave answering machine messages that began: “Hi, it’s only me.” and even though I saved none of those messages, I can still hear her saying that, clear as day.
And Grief gives me that.
Yours in tiny thought,
Janeen
This week’s amends…
“I begin by telling the truth, by remembering real people, relatives, and friends. The landscape detail is pretty good, but the people aren’t quite interesting enough—they don’t have quite enough to do with one another; of course, what unsettles me and bores me is the absence of plot. There’s no story to my life! And so I find a little something that I exaggerate, a little; gradually, I have an autobiography on its way to becoming a lie. The lie, of course, is more interesting. I become much more interested in the part of the story I’m making up, in the “relative” I never had. And then I begin to think of a novel; that’s the end of the diary. I promise I’ll start another one as soon as I finish the novel. Then the same thing happens; the lies become much more interesting—always.”– John Irving
From the Paris Review: The Art of Fiction No. 93
On Rotation: Songs: Ohai “Didn’t it Rain
This record arrived in the mail this week. It was the perfect ‘listen to in a beanbag on a dying Saturday afternoon” record. Not sure what song to highlight. Just go listen to the whole thing.
Goodness me, this was lovely. It’s called “Your Mountain is Waiting.” Trust your gut and follow foxes. :) Read more about it at It’s Nice That
Director: Hannah Jacobs
Writer/Lead Animator: Harriet Gillian
Full credits here.
Via It’s Nice That
Did any of this spark a tiny thought of your own?
Everyone will have advice. There are many books on grief. Absorb as much or as little as you want from these sources because this is your grief. Handle it the way you handle it—there is no right or wrong way. If you are overwhelmed by it, reach out. Some people find counseling to be very helpful. If you know someone who is grieving, reach out to them. Does doing that make you uncomfortable? It’s not about you.
I think it is the new (oldish) nature of nerd culture to create controversy where there is none just to have something to say. My two cents—let people enjoy stuff even if it doesn’t speak to you.
From my brief bored skim of the ‘controversy’, this seems to be the issue?
In Australia. February 1st.
Really wonderful post, Janeen. "The absence of is also the presence of." Oof — right in the gut. Needed this one today. Thank you.