This is the third in a series of posts, beginning with my two posts of songs from Lunatic Soul's recent album, "Fractured." You can find them here and here.
When Ted first died, I wrote like someone possessed, as I suppose I was in a way, but what I really wanted to say wasn't making its way onto paper. And, of course, I had already been writing feverishly to a great extent prior to his death, albeit on a wider range of subject matter.
And although I wrote some good works during that time, they were still not what I was trying to say. The problem was that I was not finding a way to adequately put my feelings to words.
In September of the following year, I took an online class in Nature Writing, and found myself within a supportive and like-minded group of fellow writers with whom I, for once, felt comfortable. For our writing exercises, we were asked to critique one anothers' works, always in a constructive manner.
Most of our exercises were standard fare, and while enjoyable, were also somewhat forgettable in the long run.
Until our instructor gave us an exercise in creating metaphors, which while still a standard writing exercise, finally enabled me, within this supportive group, to say what I needed to say.
I have, on occasion, read this as a spoken word piece.
Death is like an avalanche.
This is not how I would have viewed it a short time ago, but then I had yet to learn of its true depth and volume. I would have compared it more to a river or stream, the flow encompassing death and subsequent rebirth, the continuous movement of life all around us. Through this movement I have lost many I loved over the years; great-grandmother, grandparents, father, mother-in-law.
Then I lost Ted, and the old rules no longer applied. Numb with disbelief, the rift began slowly, gaining mass and momentum as I began to realize he was truly gone. I could feel the rumbling of the frozen ground, could hear the shotgun cracking of trees and jagged ice as the torrent raced to engulf me where I stood, could feel the heart-stopping rush of cold wind as it came, knocking me off my feet and carrying me, as so much flotsam careening down the mountainside, before coming finally to rest beneath the pile, unable or unwilling to breathe. There is death, and there is Death. And with his Death, I suddenly realized why fortunes are squandered on psychics and false prophets by bereaved souls seeking one last moment, one final chance to have closure on their terms. I realized I would give anything - everything - and more, had I but the chance.
Unlike a real avalanche, mine proved not to be fatal, though I considered my heart something of a traitor for not simply stopping when Ted's did. I kept breathing, and climbing upward out of the ice and debris, though not without the lingering effects of frostbite to my heart and mind. Still, for me to give up would have hurt him deeply, even more so if he had thought himself the cause. And so I continue the cold, arduous climb, knowing that even when I am feeling most alone, his outstretched hand is there for me in spirit. As long as I live, he will always remain a part of who I am, deep within my soul.
Approx. Sept 2003
As with Mariusz Duda's experience with creating his album "Fractured," by finally getting what I had been trying to say for so long on paper, the effect was cathartic.
The piece was received well by my instructor and my fellow writers, those friends and family members to whom I showed or read it finally understood how I was really feeling, and it was the beginning of my true healing from grief.
As with any journey, there were up days and down days, and some days that swung wildly in both directions multiple times within a short period. Such is grief, and its aftermath. Just when we think we've finally healed, something mundane brings back a poignant memory, and the pain crashes back into us as though it never left.
But it does get better, and bearable, and we can ultimately become whole once more.
Every path is different, and valid, and valuable.
All words and images are my own. The photograph was taken by me of the corner of our front porch with either my Canon SX 30 iS or my LG V10 smart phone in January 2016.
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