Loss. I just lost my dear friend Tim.
only a few words
I have just lost a dear friend. One of my closest. My dearest.
We wrestled through so much together. He saw my eternity. And my finiteness. He presented me with the most convincing arguments for preserving both when I didn’t believe I could or should. He convinced me to have faith so I could be faith.
He saw my grubby mitts. He saw to it that I kept the camera rolling.
Now, the friend who kept me here - pulled me in from brinks - is gone.
I don’t have so many words for now. I’ve not begun any stages of grief. But connecting feels right.
Some of you might also be grieving (for the same reason or for another). I write of grief in This One Wild and Precious Life. I’ve often turned to the particular way poet David Whyte described the necessary course of grief to me years ago:
David says that grief is like falling in love. You
fall and you fall. You fall toward something, toward the thing
you’re grieving, the thing that is no longer there. Eventually
after you’ve fallen and fallen and fallen, after you’ve lived
through – or wailed through – the grieving, you land. And
instead of landing at the loved one or loved thing that used to
hold you there, you land at yourself.
Sarah xx
Some precious words from Nick Cave which helped me negotiate my own grief. "It seems to me, that if we love, we grieve. That’s the deal. That’s the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is non-negotiable. There is a vastness to grief that overwhelms our minuscule selves. We are tiny, trembling clusters of atoms subsumed within grief’s awesome presence. It occupies the core of our being and extends through our fingers to the limits of the universe.
I like David’s take on falling until you fall into yourself. Grief is like an ocean to me with waves that duck you under, spin you about and leave you gasping as you hit the surface once more.
Initially it’s like a stormy sea and the duckings are frequent and relentless. Over time the ocean calms but suddenly out of nowhere, a song, a smell, a photo, a something is a wave the ducks you under.
6 years on from my husbands passing and I still get the occasional ducking.
Your life is so unsettled right now, you really didn’t need this. Neither did you friend who passed. Hope you have someone over there to anchor you while you weather this storm.
Go gently. 😔