Tag: Grief

Lost

Lost is an attempt at a dialogue. It’s the dialogue we need to have with ourselves – regularly.

“I’m lost.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re here!”

“But where’s here?”

“Why does it matter? Where do you want to be?”

“That’s the point. I don’t know where here is; and I don’t know where I . . . Well, actually, I do know where I want to be, and I’m not there.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. That’s what’s so confusing. I’m not sure I can really explain it.

“You see, I look around and I’m in a jungle between lots of trees with a dense fog, all around. There’s no clear path out. I can’t even work out how I got here. Yet I’m also not sure that I don’t want to be here. I mean, it could be said that I’m here by choice, couldn’t it. So, if I’m here by choice, I probably want to be here. But why would I want to be here?”

“Why do you think you want to be here?”

“I don’t know. Am I hiding from something? Or someone? Who? I feel like I’m hiding from . . . myself! Why would I do that? Am I trying to deceive myself? Why? There’s something I need to do and . . . and I’m afraid to do it; somewhere I have to go, but I’m afraid to go there.”

“Where do you have to go? And what do you have to do?”

“I have no idea.

“Well, actually, that’s not quite true. I have to go inside and search.”

“Inside? Inside what?”

“Not what? Who? I have to go inside myself. And that’s scary.”

“Not many people can do that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Too many people go off to ‘find themselves’ and never come back. No wonder it’s scary.

“Yet, really, I know where I am. I’m here; wherever here is. I’m not really lost. I know where I am; I’m here. I just don’t know where here is.”

“If you did know where ‘here’ is, what would you do with that information? After all, you said there are no visible paths. So it would not matter which direction you go in.”

“True. But at least . . . at least if I’m moving, it would be easier to turn.”

“Interesting.”

“And I’ll never find my way unless I can see where I’m headed for.

“I suppose the real question is where I want to be headed for. If I’m searching for myself, and I know I’m here, then haven’t I already found myself? Haven’t I already reached my destination?

“No. That’s not quite true. The idea of a destination suggests that the journey will end. Yet the journey never ends, does it. Life goes on and the journey doesn’t end. After all, once we reach our destination we look around for somewhere else to go. The journey never ends. And, since I know that I’m here, this is just a stopping off point on my journey.

“So why can I not see which way to go? Because I have no clear direction? Where do I want to be? No. Why do I want to be here?”

“Good question. Why do you want to be here?”

“Because I need a rest. I need some time without the demands of other people tugging at my resources. Yet I also don’t want to ignore the needs of those who matter to me. That’s why I’m afraid to search for myself – I don’t want to lose those I care about.”

“And yet you know where you are.”

“So I don’t need to search! I’m here.

“And the mist is clearing. Mist? Fog? What’s the difference? It’s clearing. There is always a path between the trees. It may not be a well-worn path, but it’s still a path. It’s a path I have to make for myself. It’s my life; my journey; my path.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means I know where I am. And I know where I’m going.

“I’m here, and I’m going to keep going. I’m simply going to walk between two trees and keep going.

“That’s strange.”

“What is?”

“Where did that path come from? Did I just make that path? Yes. It’s my path.”

“Where does it lead?”

“Wherever I want it to lead. I am in control of my life. I can choose to stay here or I can choose to move on. It’s my choice.”

“And what have you chosen?”

“To move on.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever my journey takes me . . . No . . . Wherever I want to go. And I want to go and look after those I care about; which includes myself. After all, I’m actually in a clearing between trees.

“Now, look between those two trees. What do you see?”

“It’s not about what I see. It’s about what you see. But I see a path.”

“Of course you do. It may not be much of a path, but it’s my path. It’s my way forward. Thanks for listening.

“So. Are you coming?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

As the Seasons Change

Pen y Fan

She looks just the same.
Or do I imagine it?
Are we getting old?

Many years have passed.
Still surprising each other,
Ev’ry now and then.

Love that once was new,
Strengthened through each day and year,
Knows each other’s thoughts.

Eyesight may grow dim,
Hearing faded more each day.
Still a sense of awe.

Radiant is her smile,
Though the years have taken toll
On her aching limbs.

What, then, have I done
To deserve such blessed joy?
Worthy of her care?

Flame of love grows strong.
Waters cannot put it out.
She and I still here.

Though they said we’d fail;
Though we struggled now and then;
Still our thoughts are one.

As the years go by,
Love will guide our troubled lives,
As the seasons change.

There is a Way

Way Marker, St. Illtyd’s Way, Aberdare

Grief can make you feel like all the roads are blocked, all the exits are barred. It can feel as if you have no direction, nowhere to go, nowhere to be but here, thinking of everything and thinking of nothing.

At such times, we need a way marker. We need a direction. We need to find a way through the barricades.

But only in our own time. When grief strikes, stop. Let it wash over you. Accept it for what it is. It’s an expression of love for the person we’ve lost. Take your time. Let no one rush you. Don’t kisten to those who would tell you that you should be over your grief, by now. There is no time limit.

Peace will come in your time, when you are ready.

Meanwhile, look for the signs. Look for the markers that say, “This is the way to your future.” They will appear. Sometimes, they’ve been there all along but our tears haven’t allowed us to see them. Sometimes they come along when we least expect it.

Eventually, though, we all have to make our own map. It’s not a map out of grief. It’s a map that acknowledges our grief, a map overlayed with grief. But like a landscape, shrouded in mist in which, little by little, the mist dissipates, very slowly, over time, as we keep putting one foot in front of the other, the grief, too, dissipates.

Maybe our grief will never go away. But it will fade, just enough for us to see the way forward.