It hurts to grieve.

Walking my guitar across the campus lawn, after having howled for hours to nobody in the echoing chapel, I enjoyed the long view of the drop into the valley, full of joy and strength and dreams. I had no reason to think that anything would suppress them.

My happy youth allowed me to enjoy drama, even the morose (especially and deliciously the morose!). I filled up books about things I didn’t understand, and people who did understand, who had experienced heartbreak and even horror (amazingly) found solace. It actually occurred to me during that time that I would write less when I had aged more. That my Way was not walked and my Truth was not trusted and my Life was not threatened.

The losses I inevitably encountered became a gag. The same way that a drowning man might keep from expressing his predicament, in isolation and panic and fear that the water will come rushing down his throat, I kept quiet, distracted, and busy flailing my creative limbs. It hurts to grieve. And it takes courage to be still enough to think and feel.

Yet when I pick up the pen (well, that’s what we used to do), I find that expression is ready to console, if not to save, and to be a friend in the middle of the drowning. I imagine that the Who who listens is more ready to hear than I am to speak.

One of my friends wrote that we perceive grief as a beast, but that when we submit to it, we find its claws all velvet and quick to embrace us. Well, it was something to that affect. I find that to be the case…

2 Replies to “It hurts to grieve.”

  1. You have plenty of courage and wisdom. Maybe it isn’t your season for stillness. It will come, for sure, in your crone years. You are so wise to be aware of the Who who listens. She will speak in time.

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