The Power of Grief
So many find themselves caught up in the exhaustion of grief or despair. We might be numb or just worn out or plain depressed. I’m all for the miracle of modern medicine for those who need it, certainly, but sometimes I wonder if grief is so socially unacceptable that we call it depression. Grief comes through all kinds of loss and it’s cumulative for sure. The loss of what we had or what we thought we had or what we thought we were going to have…. It all takes a toll.
As my late husband faced multiple health crises and eventual death, I lost bits of my life little by little, my routine, my security, my freedom and so much more. But then I lost my person and everything else with him. I should have been able to see it coming—intellectually I knew the gravity of our situation, yet when it happened, I literally didn’t know he was going to die. I went into shock.
Grief was terrifying. The heaviness of it. Its all-consuming nature. The permanence. It was so incredibly powerful I instantly succumbed. Not out of some strength of character or personal growth level acceptance, no. I collapsed into it as I don’t know how anyone has the strength to do anything else. All I could do was sit in it. The intensity came in waves, but it didn’t go away. There was no reprieve. I will never be able to convey the level of exhaustion that comes with this kind of grief. I couldn’t bother to do anything in it or with it. I did the bare minimum to keep me alive, and honestly, I didn’t even do that all the time.
In our earliest days, my now husband Edwin recommended I read Hemingway’s Big Two Hearted River. The story opens with Nick Adams getting off a train only to see the town was burned down to “nothing but the rails and the burned-over country.” I instantly knew that Edwin understood the devastation of what had happened to me. There’s a quote in the book that says, “It had been a hard trip. He was very tired .... He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing could touch him. It was a good place to camp.” That resonated with me. Nothing could touch me after the greatest loss of my life. What else could even matter? The fact that Edwin communicated his understanding of this level of devastation by sharing this story with me is part of what made it possible for us to marry later.
The National Forest Foundation says “Typically, species that regenerate by re-sprouting after they've burned have an extensive root system. Dormant buds are protected underground, and nutrients stored in the root system allow quick sprouting after the fire.” That was absolutely my experience too. I had to go deep, beyond the platitudes, beyond the trite well-meaning things people say to those in grief, beyond even where my dear friends and family could journey, beyond my old life entirely, deep into the roots of who I am. I had to explore what of myself remained after such devastation, what could be salvaged. I had changed down to my DNA. I felt compelled to paint. I didn’t know it at the time, but I wanted to document the fragile little bits of myself that I slowly started to recognize as part of me. I never want to forget.
Fires are devastating. It’s hard to lose what you thought you had. If you are in a season of fire, all I can do is wish you good and deep roots. That you have the time and space to take stock in who you were and who you are now. Consider even the forests regrow in time. But it takes an excruciatingly long time. I hope you find signposts that show you where you’ve been or that help you recognize where you’re going. I hope that’s what my art is—a signpost for you. Maybe I’ve marked something in my art that resonates for you, so you know you’re not alone. You’re on a singular path, but you’re not alone.
