The hallmark of a human
life is loss, it seems. And the body is a vessel for grief.
That is not an if, but when. When is loss gonna hit?
And then it is how. How do you carry it? All that grief. And don't even ask why. Why is not a question that grief ever answers.
I only know this because I have my own grief. I am not looking for more, but it keeps coming anyway. It makes me feel like I'm getting nowhere sometimes, and yet closer to something at the same time.
Maybe that's because loss doesn't just take. It gives, too. Like a trade.
I'm going to take this from you but give this to you instead; more space, cleansing tears, better questions, compassion, pathways to the center, maps to deeper wells, less distractions, blankets of darkness, little pools of light under your skin where she touched you but will never touch you again, and holes in your heart that nothing but pure love can fill.
And then, go. Go into the world and carry these things the best you can. Let them move around and make love messes and surprise you in the mass of bone and blood and skin vessel that you are. Grocery shop with them, chop vegetables with them, go to parties and smile at people with them.
Be yourself, only different now, with all that grief.
I saw one day a woman on the beach playing with her dog. I noticed as she stopped and looked at the ocean and folded her arms across herself. I saw her grief then. The way she carried it in her core. Tucked away so people might not notice.
But then it sneaked up on her, like the ocean was pulling it out of her. And she sat with it for a moment, bowed her head, maybe feeling like it was going to shatter her into a thousand grains of sand before she caught herself and tried to shake it off.
But grief isn't like that. You can't just shake it off. It doesn't ever really leave. It just changes. And it changes you. It shapes you. Your stance, your stride, your ways of loving and being and moving in the world. The things you do and don't care about anymore.
And there you are, twenty years later. Sitting in your car outside the supermarket, and all at once you're paralyzed; can't go in because a song just came on the radio that reminds you of the person you loved and lost. The grief that you thought already felt just rises up like an ocean inside you. Pummels your heart with waves and pours out your eyes like stormwater.
You think, "All this f*cking time and I still feel this grief?" And your body is saying, "Yes. Yes, you do."
You wonder what the point is, then. Wonder if you could find a way to drain those grief waters out of you for good. Only if you could take the air out of the sky and the carbon out of the stars and the forest out of the trees.
You see, we are made of grief. And we are meant to be.
It means we are here. It means we're alive, even though it can make you feel like you wish you weren't sometimes. It means you've risked. It means we've loved and lost and risen and fallen. It means we've been unlocked and held open despite ourselves.
That is not an if, but when. When is loss gonna hit?
And then it is how. How do you carry it? All that grief. And don't even ask why. Why is not a question that grief ever answers.
I only know this because I have my own grief. I am not looking for more, but it keeps coming anyway. It makes me feel like I'm getting nowhere sometimes, and yet closer to something at the same time.
Maybe that's because loss doesn't just take. It gives, too. Like a trade.
I'm going to take this from you but give this to you instead; more space, cleansing tears, better questions, compassion, pathways to the center, maps to deeper wells, less distractions, blankets of darkness, little pools of light under your skin where she touched you but will never touch you again, and holes in your heart that nothing but pure love can fill.
And then, go. Go into the world and carry these things the best you can. Let them move around and make love messes and surprise you in the mass of bone and blood and skin vessel that you are. Grocery shop with them, chop vegetables with them, go to parties and smile at people with them.
Be yourself, only different now, with all that grief.
I saw one day a woman on the beach playing with her dog. I noticed as she stopped and looked at the ocean and folded her arms across herself. I saw her grief then. The way she carried it in her core. Tucked away so people might not notice.
But then it sneaked up on her, like the ocean was pulling it out of her. And she sat with it for a moment, bowed her head, maybe feeling like it was going to shatter her into a thousand grains of sand before she caught herself and tried to shake it off.
But grief isn't like that. You can't just shake it off. It doesn't ever really leave. It just changes. And it changes you. It shapes you. Your stance, your stride, your ways of loving and being and moving in the world. The things you do and don't care about anymore.
And there you are, twenty years later. Sitting in your car outside the supermarket, and all at once you're paralyzed; can't go in because a song just came on the radio that reminds you of the person you loved and lost. The grief that you thought already felt just rises up like an ocean inside you. Pummels your heart with waves and pours out your eyes like stormwater.
You think, "All this f*cking time and I still feel this grief?" And your body is saying, "Yes. Yes, you do."
You wonder what the point is, then. Wonder if you could find a way to drain those grief waters out of you for good. Only if you could take the air out of the sky and the carbon out of the stars and the forest out of the trees.
You see, we are made of grief. And we are meant to be.
It means we are here. It means we're alive, even though it can make you feel like you wish you weren't sometimes. It means you've risked. It means we've loved and lost and risen and fallen. It means we've been unlocked and held open despite ourselves.
AND I
CAN'T THINK OF MANY BETTER REASONS THAN THAT FOR BEING HUMAN
.
I
completely adore everything about you, from the hairs on your
head, to the toes on your feet ♥
There are some times when I'm singing and I
wonder...
"Why aren't I on X Factor?"
And then there are other times when I'm singing and I know...
"That's why I'm not on X Factor."
"Why aren't I on X Factor?"
And then there are other times when I'm singing and I know...
"That's why I'm not on X Factor."
H
er forehead still up against the glass, she turned to me
and smiled. "Here's a tip: you're cute when
you're confident. And less when you're not." Before
I had a chance to say anything, her eye's went back to the
view and she started talking "Here's what's not
beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the
cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what the place really
is. You see how fake it really is. It's not hard enough to be
made out of plastic. It's a paper town. I mean look at it, Q:
look at all those cul-de-sacs, those streets that turn into
themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All
those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the
future to stay warm. All the paper kids drinking beer some bum
bought for them at the paper convenience store. Everyone demented
with the mania of of owning things. All the things paper-thin and
paper-frail. And all the people, too. I've lived here for
eighteen years and I have never once in my life come across
anyone who care's about anything that matters."
— John Green: Paper Towns
The Happy birthday cats on Witty.
You
can never fully appreciate them until you see them for
yourself.
