I have published these two fragments together as the second would not have been possible without the first.
An embarrassment of grief
I know I am only lightly touched; no forensics could detect this. Just an absence: not much to negotiate. No cataclysm doled out here. A little static as afterfeather brushes skin. I am the same in all but everything; I kept my name.
I don’t tell anyone or try to explain; it is too small a thing. And no conversation would be long enough.
But I am not responsible for this quid pro quo, this measuring and weighing: the illogical commerce of grief. Sometimes iridium is traded for feathers. I have no say.
Grief is or is not; there are no gradations, and this is still heavier than lead-heavy. And like a broken umbrella in high wind, impossible to martial: all shreds and skeletal angles and poking elbows.
And me saturated still, even now.
Abdication
I abdicated. From everything and all I had become. To relinquish power is to gain it. And sometimes to be alone.
Now I am queen of the reclamation yard. I am not sure what I will find or what I have to exchange (guilt being no currency): just small things, I expect, of little value. I potter.
I trip up and trip over. I stub my toe against the fragile realisation that I am neither too late nor too out of practice. I can uncover and reassemble and gather in. I can use spit and elbow grease and polish; I can discard, or glaze in amber, or be dazzled by something that is pristine still, even now, after all this mothballed time. I can sort over this puzzlement of long-accumulated bric-a-brac and slowly solve and salve.
I abdicated. This little achievement, this small trifle, and suddenly I am beyond the all of everything, and more joyful.
Hi BH
This is very beautiful, and sad, but the last part is full of hope, the awareness that life went on and that is a start for the new. Your words again have so much meaning in every sentence!
Thank you, Ina. Yes, I felt I couldn’t post the first piece without the second. I’m glad you liked them both; your comments are always so generous, and I always appreciate them.
As always, your words are beautifully measured and judged and give the reader so much opportunity to think.
I relished that declaration “Now I am queen of the reclamation yard” – it introduces some fertile imagery.
But also, there are two verbs here that I noticed. First, “I abdicated” – twice – which tells us of a decision, an achievement – not an accident like “I trip”. And then the all-important “I can” – four times (and more times implied). That’s important, isn’t it?
Thank you, John. You already know how much I appreciate your thoughts on my writing. Yes, although ‘abdication’ can have negative connotations, I sort of hijacked it to make it positive and powerful. I did want it to be an affirmative piece, and the ‘I cans’- as you say – are meant to reinforce that too. Thanks again, I’m so pleased you like these two pieces.
It’s hard to know what to say about your writing…it really speaks so well for itself…
Exactly what you have said is more than enough; thank you so much.
” the illogical commerce of grief. Sometimes iridium is traded for feathers. I have no say.”
xpb
xdb
I found myself lifted by reading these pieces.
They are not so much about grief as about journey, about process and about the steps we need to take if we are to journey.
I love the affirmation in “I am queen of the reclamation yard.” – a real statement of taking control and of being proud of your achievement.
Thank you for posting this
David
Thank you, David. I’m so pleased to hear your positive response. You are exactly right: they are about a process and a journey. I’m glad, too, that you liked the ‘reclamation yard’ line. It sums up many things to me, so it’s good to know that it communicates something to others too. Many thanks again.
–Your writing is a like a prayer…
Xxx
Thank you. I’m so touched and moved by your response. It means a great deal to me.x
So many ‘thoughts’ that curl in on themselves but somehow reach out profoundly, poignantly too (your writing is always so excellent at being secretive and revealing at the same time.)
I understand the sense of embarrassment in such intense and personal experiences and emotions…
‘I don’t tell anyone or try to explain; it is too small a thing. And no conversation would be long enough.’
Also, a beautiful example of how contradiction can express the inexpressible. Grief like deep love and other often invisible (‘no forensics could detect…’) transformations can seem so large and small at the same time. Such an immense part of our existence and yet somehow like a bubble dissipating into thin air when we ‘try to explain.’ There and not here.
I love your analogy of grief to a broken umbrella. You are under it but actually exposed by it, struggling with all the brokenness it seems to signify in you.
And in the second piece, expressing resolve for moving forward…
‘To relinquish power is to gain it. And sometimes to be alone.’ How this resonated with me! Wise and true even as it is never tidy to do so, perhaps because it isn’t.
And…
‘I abdicated. This little achievement, this small trifle, and suddenly I am beyond the all of everything, and more joyful.’
Which made me want to share with you something I’d recently read:
“Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.”
DH Lawrence
Hi, Diane
It’s wonderful to read your thoughts and comments; thank you so much. You are so right about the difficulty of trying to explain; there are both too many words and too few, and either way certain experiences remain inexplicable. Also, when we try to explain something so inexplicable, the words can sound silly even to ourselves (a ‘dissipating bubble’ as you so beautifully put it). Probably because the words themselves are inadequate in some way. I’m so glad the second piece resonated with you! And thank you for the striking and beautiful DHL quote. I so appreciate your careful reading and detailed response, Diane.
Letting out the grief, then abdicating control of it, then joy–a pattern shared by many of us, dear one. Bless you for such forthright and powerful and unique,fresh imagery here.
Thank you, granbee. Your words are so kind and so encouraging; I’m very touched and grateful. With kindest wishes to you.
And like a broken umbrella in high wind, impossible to martial: all shreds and skeletal angles and poking elbows.
I really like this description of grief.
Thank you so much, Anna. I really appreciate your dropping by and commenting here. It is very much appreciated.
We’ll miss you.
Thank you. It’s lovely of you to say so.