Much Ado About Nothing:
“Every one can master a grief but he that has it.”
(Act III, Scene II, Line 26)
I have been away from the blog. It wasn’t for lack of ideas. It’s a hard thing, this grief. We all experience it and and there is no easy way except to hunker down, take it and go through it. There is no short cut, no clear, straightforward road. You just take it and hack out your own route. I don’t think we are given a clear path to the other side of grief.
About three months after her, my Aunt’s, passing, things were settled and grief finally cracked that thin veneer of focus. There came a day when I wanted to call but couldn’t and that was the final blow, actually, it was just a tap, of the quarryman’s hammer. My mental armor cracked and fell away from the cliff face leaving the grief exposed.
Photos piled up but I was at a loss for what to write. I was not and am not depressed. I get out. I’m still curious. I’m still very active. Actually I’ve been unusually active for my ADHD-addled self. I have been driven. It’s been kinda horrible, this mania (But, boy howdy, did I get stuff done!). The minute I stopped moving I would think, and thinking was misery. Teddy Roosevelt said it best, “Black care rarely sits behind a rider whose pace is fast enough.”
To write is to think and I didn’t want to think, she was always there, in my thoughts. Even worse, I passed the 30th anniversary of the last time I saw my brother. As a matter of fact, it got worse in that every time I turned around I seemed to come up hard against the memory of someone I’d lost, of everyone I’ve ever lost. That was not fun. That was grief. God, please, let that be the depth of my grief. Now I’ve just got to bear the length of it.
Eh, I also read, a reading mind has someone else’s thoughts to escape to. One of the books I read was Virginia Wolf’s To The Lighthouse. It is about an English family and in it a main character dies. Virginia, was just so, so…my, her words cut to the heart of things. Some artists work make you a better artist in turn, whatever medium you choose, their work sets a fire in your soul. You are impelled to new worlds. Maybe it was the timing because that didn’t work with this book. After reading To The Lighthouse I felt I couldn’t write, what was the point? I had no words because Virginia Wolf had used them all, every one, and there was nothing left. There was no way I could arrange them into semblance of thought. I think some poet astutely said Virginia Wolf took all the words, put them like stones in her pockets and took them away.
Yeah. I got over that word thing. Myself got the upper hand, “Girl, you are too old to be so Emo.” Grief? Eh. Not so much. I’m not over it, no. The photo, ‘After the Storm’, I took it in August. It looks like I felt. There were things that I loved to do, I did them, I made myself do them, but their full experience, their full joy was just there, out of reach, on the other side of my grief.
The woman who raised me: