In the past couple weeks I have watched two close friends
experience the grief of unexpectedly losing a parent. Another friend is closing in on a year
without his father and the grief is still an ever-present weight in his life.
Nothing focuses our attention on what matters quite as
acutely as grief does. In those moments
we cling to whatever gives us hope, whatever gives us peace, or whatever just
feels safe. All of the other things in
our lives just recede into the background, into what life used to be like. Before.
As an outsider in this time of grief, I have watched my
friends turn different directions. One
turned to a faith in God that had been dormant for years. He wanted to experience something he hadn’t
felt in a long time. Another turned away
from God saying he couldn’t believe in an all-powerful and all-loving being
that wouldn’t give his father peace before he died. This friend sought peace in other things I won't name here.
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| I keep this photo at my desk at work as a reminder that what matters most to me can fit in a single picture. |
Life is filled with things for us to do. We stay busy with friends, hobbies, passions,
and pursuits. But when grief visits, we
suddenly find it not only easy to walk away from these things, but
necessary. These things might have felt
like a critical component of ourselves just days before.
Watching my friends struggle and watching what they
choose to do in their time of need has prodded me to consider what my response would
be. What would I turn to? What would no longer feel important? If it would not be important to me in a time of
pain, should it really be important now?
I was pondering these very questions while working in the
yard on Sunday and I quickly realized that gardening
is one of those things that could melt away if tragedy struck. The weeds would grow and I wouldn’t
care.
Tomatoes would rot on the vine but it wouldn’t matter because I wouldn’t have an appetite. The sprinklers would fall into disrepair and I would neglect them. I would absolutely stop turning the compost. But I believe that I would eventually return to gardening. I would return to it because it is a quiet way to spend a day. I would return to it because my laboring would help my body and my heart feel in tune. I would return to gardening because it allows the mind to wander. I would return to it because of the perspective that gardening provides on seasons, life and death, renewal, beauty, hope, hard work, and sustenance.
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| Grass and weeds creep in on the orange tree's territory. It is littered with last year's fruit and this year's blooms. |
Tomatoes would rot on the vine but it wouldn’t matter because I wouldn’t have an appetite. The sprinklers would fall into disrepair and I would neglect them. I would absolutely stop turning the compost. But I believe that I would eventually return to gardening. I would return to it because it is a quiet way to spend a day. I would return to it because my laboring would help my body and my heart feel in tune. I would return to gardening because it allows the mind to wander. I would return to it because of the perspective that gardening provides on seasons, life and death, renewal, beauty, hope, hard work, and sustenance.
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| Someone else could worry about feeding the birds. |
I am thankful for my garden. I am thankful for a quiet place within which
I can mull over the questions I have. I
am thankful for the peace I have and I hope that I can use that peace to share a
little comfort with my friends who need it.
Thanks, Chad, for this post and for these questions. I am inches away from tremendous grief and loss. Or maybe not so close, but it feels so heavy already. It is a personal journey, a unique journey for each of us. Thank you for reminding me of that. We find our way. And we eventually find our joy again.
ReplyDeleteLauren, I found your expression of feeling close (but maybe not so close) to grief to ring true. It's funny how we experience grief and loss in that way. In some instances, I think we can start to feel that loss before it's truly gone. I especially remember feeling that way as a child watching my father battle cancer. We lost him piece by piece way before he actually died. The grief before he died was just as real and just as hard as the grief after.
DeleteNo matter how close or how far away you are, I do hope you find your way through it and that your return to joy will happen when it needs to.
My heart goes out to your friends. I'm so sorry for their loss. I had no idea how exhausting grief is until my mom was killed in a car accident last February. My garden now sits horribly neglected by me and suffers too from extreme drought and the many freezes we had this winter. What holds my heart dearest is the way my garden nurtured me through some of my toughest grief moments and that through it all my garden still thrives; just like me. Not in the same ways as when my mom was here - I have a new normal now. I'm stronger, and more vulnerable, and more authentic and more loving with my people. And slowly I'm returning to the garden and to my blog. And thankfully, they are both there waiting for me with no expectations.
ReplyDeleteCat, I am so sorry to hear about your mother's death. I had no idea but I did notice and miss your frequent blog posts.
DeleteIt is so good to hear that through experiencing your grief you have found strength and vulnerability (which are not as opposite as we might sometimes think) and that you can be more authentic and loving "with [your] people". What a great way to phrase that, by the way!
I couldn't agree more about strength and vulnerability not being opposites. Thank you for your condolences ♥.
DeleteThis is a question I have asked myself many times over. Especially since the garden for us has always been about togetherness. If I had to do it alone, I'm not sure I'd want to continue; the memories would be overwhelming, but I do believe in time I'd go back to it again. When we lose someone we love, it seems as if the sun couldn't possibly rise in the morning and even birdsong seems like an assault on our ears. I know from experience the acute phase, as horrible as it is, will eventually pass, but the memories will always remain, as will the garden.
ReplyDeleteKaren, you and Carl and your garden seem so intertwined to me too. Most people that I know that garden do so on their own so your relationship to your garden and to Carl appears unique to me. If I were in your shoes, I'd feel exactly the same way.
DeleteBut I could see returning to the garden and your projects later on too. It could be a way to connect to your memories, to honor your past together, and to work through your grief and bring a little beauty back to your world.
I'm probably breaking proper blog etiquette by commenting on my own post, but the comments have reminded me of a John Irving quote in "A Prayer for Owen Meany" - which is a great book that I highly recommend. After losing his mother, the narrator of the story said:
ReplyDelete"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part."
This has always seemed spot on to me. And it still does. But I now find myself wondering if the process of recovery isn't the same way? Maybe we find pieces of comfort over a long period of time too. Maybe one day we remember something great about that missing person and we surprise ourselves with a good laugh. Another day we might accidentally find ourselves thankful for something they taught us. Maybe one morning we wake up and our first thought isn't "they're still gone". And gradually we accumulate these pieces and we knit them back together into what Kat so aptly named "a new normal".
I read A Prayer for Owen Meany not long after my mom's death and that quote gave expression to the thoughts and feelings I was experiencing. I hadn't thought about it from the perspective you bring. I like that idea. Perhaps we will weave memory blankets that will comfort us as we endure their absence.
DeleteJust this past week I was at a funeral for a relative who passed away from an aggressive cancer. At the funeral they gave out packets of wildflower seeds, and I thought that was such a lovely and meaningful thing to do. There is such healing to be found in nature, I think.
ReplyDeleteIndie, that is a lovely idea. I am sorry to hear about your relative. I hope you are already finding peace and comfort.
DeleteI lost my mother less than five months ago.
ReplyDeleteThe garden has been one of the few sources of comfort since then.
Sometimes the garden helps me to think, other times not to think, but just to be. I believe this is a state of consciousness that one writer has termed "Flow" http://www.amazon.com/Flow-The-Psychology-Optimal-Experience/dp/0061339202
Aaron, I hope that in the months ahead you continue to find comfort in your garden as you think (or don't think) about the time you had with your mother. It's nice to hear that someone has, indeed, found that gardening still matters to them even in their time of mourning.
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