Grief

Death is so putrid and difficult. I cannot hold it nor soothe it, and I suppose I should find beauty in it. After all, with death the sufferings of this life end. They close and a new door opens. What you believe drastically impacts your perception of what's next, and I believe in an eternity free of the sufferings of this life. It gives me hope and something beautiful to dwell on in the face of loss. But, loss weighs heavy on me still.

What they don't tell you when you're little and blundering through the world climbing trees and bruising your knees is that with each passing year of age, you will become more acquainted with death. With your own approaching end, and with the gradual loss of everyone you love who proceeded you. And, sometimes those who came after you and should have outlived you will depart too soon and leave you with a horrid wound.

The real curse of growing up is watching those who raised you grow old and leave. I was at the funeral for my grandfather recently. The funeral for a man who played a pivotal role in blessing my childhood with joy and curiosity. He played a similar role in my nephew's life, and crying, my nephew asked me a question I struggled to answer. Nine year old's can be quite keen with the hard questions, and as an avid thinker, he is certainly no exception. With his hand nestled in mine as we walked to the river at my grandparents' house, he said,

"What will Grandma do now?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. There were so many directions he could take that question.

"She's all alone here now. What will she do? She will be lonely." He explained it all with a deep furrow in his brow.

With me moving thousands of miles away and our regular visits becoming phone calls and letters, he has had to come to terms with missing people and loneliness in the last year. The hardest part of moving has been watching him learn to process his feelings around it, and knowing I am not just a quick car ride away from his tiny arms. Quite rapidly, he has learned all about what it is to be lonely. His worry for Grandma was sweet, but also coming from a place of painful empathy.

I believe in honesty with children. Naturally, tailored to a language level that is both understandable and appropriate for their age. So all I had to give him was honesty, as tragic as it sometimes is. Life can be hurtful, clearly he was feeling pain, and denying it or covering it up with sunshine would only teach him not to process difficult emotions.

"She will be alright," I soothed. "She will fill the empty space with things. With walks in the woods, with painting, with music, with tending to plans, or whatever you enjoy. And, over time it becomes easier to cope and you find yourself in the quiet that settles. It doesn't always make it hurt less, but you can find healing in it. And, Grandma loves art and music, she will find healing there. Plus, she has her family, they will help her through it."

He seemed satisficed with the answer and added, "She can play video games?" I agreed, knowing he was connecting it to what he would do. Grandma could play video games, but I doubt she would know how.

And, just like that the topic was gone. We had reached the riverbank and some of his younger second cousins. He was quick to dash off to play, and I was quick to start greeting older cousins I had not seen myself in a while. Funerals have a morbid way of drawing everyone in to fill the empty space. To soothe the lonely, and find comfort in the company of shared pain and memories.

As I have to cope more and more with the aging of my relatives, I return to that advise. I try to have earnest and engaging conversations with people when they are here. And, when they are gone, I try to fill the painful ache in my heart with something healing. With long mountain hikes, with kayaking across the lake in early morning, with dwelling on good memories about them, with writing. With living my own life. With something other than letting the dark knowledge of pain consume me. Life hurts, and it hurts more as we get older. It presses in like a wet blanket of damp mold to grow over us and encase us with decay. But, I fight back, ever so slowly against it. I fight back with each inhaled breath in beautiful sunshine. Right now, I'm alive and so are many people I hold dear. And, I suppose the most any of us can do with that is enjoy it while it blooms.