Grief is like a shipwreck
Hello,
I've been thinking over the last couple of days about what to share with you. And my thoughts have returned to a text that has been helpful to me, particularly over the last year and a bit. This time it is not scripture. Here it is slightly altered. The original text refers to the loss of a loved one; it has been my experience that grief is not limited to the loss of a person which is why I haven't been completely faithful to the original quote.
'All right, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbours, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents on loss.
I wish I could say you get used to loss. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever I experience loss, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to 'not matter.' I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love I had, and the relationship [with that person]. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. All you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph.
Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash over you and wipe you out.
But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything... and the wave comes crashing. But in between the waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.
And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. You'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.'
I don't know who wrote this originally, it is always attributed to 'some old guy.' The waves were high and the wind was strong this year, but for me, finally, this storm is subsiding and there is life again, and I can breathe again.
Bless you for reading,
in His Grace, Deborah
I've been thinking over the last couple of days about what to share with you. And my thoughts have returned to a text that has been helpful to me, particularly over the last year and a bit. This time it is not scripture. Here it is slightly altered. The original text refers to the loss of a loved one; it has been my experience that grief is not limited to the loss of a person which is why I haven't been completely faithful to the original quote.
'All right, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbours, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents on loss.
I wish I could say you get used to loss. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever I experience loss, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to 'not matter.' I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love I had, and the relationship [with that person]. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.
Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. All you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph.
Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash over you and wipe you out.
But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything... and the wave comes crashing. But in between the waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.
And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. You'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.'
I don't know who wrote this originally, it is always attributed to 'some old guy.' The waves were high and the wind was strong this year, but for me, finally, this storm is subsiding and there is life again, and I can breathe again.
Bless you for reading,
in His Grace, Deborah
I just found your words as I search for a way to explain my pain. I'm doggy paddling in the midst of hundred feet waves in the middle of an ocean that feels endless. But somehow it makes sense and I long for the smaller and more distant waves ahead.
ReplyDelete