Grief I
In conversation with someone recently, I was asked what would it take for me to put behind me former sorrows? That question made me think since I did not realize that I was carrying them and carrying them so openly. It came to me that I had not allowed myself to grieve over anything severe that had happened in my life. I feel as if I was not allowed to grieve having to be mature and strong all the time. I've also had no one with whom to grieve; no one to hold me while I wailed over my losses and so help me survive.
Do any of us really grieve? Do any of us, especially those of us reared in the ideology of the Western thought take the time to wail over our losses? Do we take the time to remove the pain from our hearts and minds or do we just through another layer of toughness over our grief? Perhaps that is why we have so many brokenness in our lives? In the Bible, Job wailed and his friends held him. But these are not Biblical times, so we pay psychologists and psychiatrists or listen to the advice from the television or radio. Many of us unknowingly keep our bewilderment of the things of life inside ourselves and too many times we see it bubbling up as this morning's headline news.
I woke up after a night's sleep that brought no rest and wailed by writing. Since I have no one to hold me while I wail, I hope you will hold my writings and help me to survive.
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The cool breeze entering through the decorative blocks near the ceiling brought a chill which made her snuggle under her sheets and stirred the memory. Christmas breeze she thought, laying next to her husband, her love, feeling the warmth of his body as her own body formed into a curve around his. He held her hand in his sleep. Her mind roamed to the myriad of things that had to be done during this period, when the Christmas breeze was blowing. She had fruits to put to soak in rum and brandy, the walls would have to be painted; the house would have to be refreshed from top to bottom to welcome guests over this Christmas breeze season, her work in the office would be tightly scheduled to ensure its completion but also to give time for extended lunch periods that allowed for shopping. She and her colleagues would chatter over the selection of material for curtains, the new furniture or little ornaments that were just right for that special place in the house. But right now, she would make practice making babies as the Christmas breeze was blowing.
Memories conjured up by a cool wind in the early morning had awakened her. Reality was a lot different. This cool wind made her realize that the sheets had grown thin as had her life. Next to her now lay pillows to give comfort. There was no job, no place to live, no friends to welcome as she packed up her life and removed it from this house she had made into her home for twenty-six years. So this is what it is life after you die, she thought. All your life is put in boxes and bags and laid by the roadside for others to pick through and eventually dump in the La Basse. It was the only way she could continue with this task, to pretend that she was dead, so the pain of no future hurt just a little less. Hopefully, her life as seen in the material things could help someone. The sheets never used, the crystal vases and bowls, gifts to herself whenever that rare bonus had come, the books, o’ her treasured books that brought such pleasure with their stories and learnings, tables and chairs and appliances looked at in the stores for many a year and bought with sacrifice and strife, prayed for and received and were destined to form part of her dream house; the house whose plans lay on the bottom shelf of the bookcase; the one that she looked at every so often to remind her of her goal. That was all gone now, in a twinkling of an eye it seemed to her. The savings slowly collected through the years always had to be used for living during lean years, for moving to yet another place with the belief that yes, here, this place, will be her prosperity; gone they were, leaving empty pockets , heart and mind. It didn’t make sense asking what happened because she did not have an answer. There was little to gain by looking back, she did not want to increase the bitterness. Looking back would not bring the job, the man, the friends, the peace of mind she had so desperately sought. She needed to complete this exercise of removing evidence of her life. Death awaited her.
Do any of us really grieve? Do any of us, especially those of us reared in the ideology of the Western thought take the time to wail over our losses? Do we take the time to remove the pain from our hearts and minds or do we just through another layer of toughness over our grief? Perhaps that is why we have so many brokenness in our lives? In the Bible, Job wailed and his friends held him. But these are not Biblical times, so we pay psychologists and psychiatrists or listen to the advice from the television or radio. Many of us unknowingly keep our bewilderment of the things of life inside ourselves and too many times we see it bubbling up as this morning's headline news.
I woke up after a night's sleep that brought no rest and wailed by writing. Since I have no one to hold me while I wail, I hope you will hold my writings and help me to survive.
_______________________________________________
The cool breeze entering through the decorative blocks near the ceiling brought a chill which made her snuggle under her sheets and stirred the memory. Christmas breeze she thought, laying next to her husband, her love, feeling the warmth of his body as her own body formed into a curve around his. He held her hand in his sleep. Her mind roamed to the myriad of things that had to be done during this period, when the Christmas breeze was blowing. She had fruits to put to soak in rum and brandy, the walls would have to be painted; the house would have to be refreshed from top to bottom to welcome guests over this Christmas breeze season, her work in the office would be tightly scheduled to ensure its completion but also to give time for extended lunch periods that allowed for shopping. She and her colleagues would chatter over the selection of material for curtains, the new furniture or little ornaments that were just right for that special place in the house. But right now, she would make practice making babies as the Christmas breeze was blowing.
Memories conjured up by a cool wind in the early morning had awakened her. Reality was a lot different. This cool wind made her realize that the sheets had grown thin as had her life. Next to her now lay pillows to give comfort. There was no job, no place to live, no friends to welcome as she packed up her life and removed it from this house she had made into her home for twenty-six years. So this is what it is life after you die, she thought. All your life is put in boxes and bags and laid by the roadside for others to pick through and eventually dump in the La Basse. It was the only way she could continue with this task, to pretend that she was dead, so the pain of no future hurt just a little less. Hopefully, her life as seen in the material things could help someone. The sheets never used, the crystal vases and bowls, gifts to herself whenever that rare bonus had come, the books, o’ her treasured books that brought such pleasure with their stories and learnings, tables and chairs and appliances looked at in the stores for many a year and bought with sacrifice and strife, prayed for and received and were destined to form part of her dream house; the house whose plans lay on the bottom shelf of the bookcase; the one that she looked at every so often to remind her of her goal. That was all gone now, in a twinkling of an eye it seemed to her. The savings slowly collected through the years always had to be used for living during lean years, for moving to yet another place with the belief that yes, here, this place, will be her prosperity; gone they were, leaving empty pockets , heart and mind. It didn’t make sense asking what happened because she did not have an answer. There was little to gain by looking back, she did not want to increase the bitterness. Looking back would not bring the job, the man, the friends, the peace of mind she had so desperately sought. She needed to complete this exercise of removing evidence of her life. Death awaited her.
Hi Jnelle:
ReplyDeleteNo one knows what is inside another's heart. As life rolls on, the plot thickens and the story gets more complicated. We have to make a choice. Pour regret on the past, and wonder where we went wrong: OR, release the past and seize the day. Think for a moment, of those people who have been hit by a tsunami, or earthquake, or some other quirk of Nature. Those of us who have been spared must continue to go on with the routine of what has often been referred to as "the daily struggle". You are right. We do not often get what we want and the things for which we planned. However, we can take what comes and weave it into our lives. While we are encouraged to share joy, we know that to publicize our sorrows make us objects of pity. Human beings are like raw metal. They have to be put in the fire and beaten into shape in order to become useful beings. It is helpful to put our plans and thoughts in writing. They can be useful to others in the future. Always remember that life is a struggle. This is not the life that I had planned for myself, but I appreciate the fact that this hand of cards is better than the ones that many folks drew out of the pack, and have learned to like them and try to play them well. Misadventures are often opportunities to make change for the better. Only after they happen do we realise that having missed the train, we got an opportunity to go on a very different journey.
Be still and let your mind dream up acceptance instead of rejection. Make an inventory of the good things you have already experienced. JB