Tag: grief

22

Today would have been my brother’s 22nd birthday. He would be graduating college in the spring. Maybe he would have a girlfriend, or even a fiancée. Who knows what could have been.

Happy Birthday, brother. I miss you.

~~~

It has been 5 long years and a half,

And still my grief is near,

Hiding just behind a laugh

As smile turns to tear.

 

Some days I feel almost whole:

I am in control.

And other days my raining eyes

Take me by surprise.

 

It has been 5 long years and a half,

And still my grief is near.

In 5 more years and another half

Will it still be here?

Giving Thanks

This time of year is always hard for my family. 6 years ago on the day before Thanksgiving we lost someone unexpectedly. I was thousands of miles away at college with my brother, and we rushed home, desperate to be with our family. The next 2 weeks were a whirlwind filled with tears and impossible decisions. Funeral and burial arrangements had to be made, and worldviews had to be adjusted.

The whole ordeal  has left me a little jaded on the subject of Thanksgiving. I still have so much to be thankful for, I am not denying that in any way. But there are so many sad memories surrounding the day for me now.

They say time heals all wounds. I don’t think the wounds heal so much as we get used to the pain.

Paris

I was shocked and saddened this morning when I heard about the Paris attacks. My heart goes out to all who were affected and all who are still being affected. It is so sad that this is what our world has come to. We live in such a global age that anything that affects one nation or area has huge ripple effects on the rest of the world.

When will the fighting stop? Is any disagreement worth a human life?

This poem by Paul Verlaine speaks of grief and sadness. Verlaine laments that he has no reason for his sorrow, but we have real cause for grief.

Il Pleure dans mon Coeur 

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville.
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénêtre mon coeur ?

O bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un coeur qui s’ennuie,
O le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s’écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi,
Sans amour et sans haine,
Mon coeur a tant de peine.

It Rains in My Heart 

It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town,
What languor so dark
That it soaks to my heart?

Oh sweet sound of the rain
On the earth and the roofs!
For the dull heart again,
Oh the song of the rain!

It rains for no reason
In this heart that lacks heart.
What? And no treason?
It’s grief without reason.

By far the worst pain,
Without hatred, or love,
Is no way to explain
Why my heart feels such pain!

When the Veil is Removed

In most cities in the U.S. “downtown” refers to the bad part of town, the part you don’t venture into after dark if you can at all help it. I am blessed to live in a city where downtown is a cultural center. The River waterfalls gently, and a park has been carved out around it. Small shops and restaurants abound. I love downtown. I go whenever I can. Yesterday I found myself walking downtown, only to be pleasantly surprised to see that this month local artists are opening their studios to the public. I love art of all sorts, whether it be a well-written book, an exquisitely performed sonata, or a marvelous painting. I could not pass this opportunity by not only to view art, but to talk with its creators! May I just remark as an aside that artists are often tagged as a bit bizarre, and while some may warrant this, most are simply lovely people.

The first studio I entered showcased the works of two artists – a husband/wife team. Only here disaster had struck. The husband had died earlier this year. The art was beautiful, and I really enjoyed talking with the Widow. She told me the stories of the paintings. I continued on to her studio-mate’s area. The three of us started talking about art, and somehow I ended up telling them my dreams of being an opera singer. Well, of course, they asked me to sing, and I obliged. Compliments ensued, but then something transpired that doesn’t usually happen for me: the Widow ducked into her studio and came back with a gift. She gave me a print of a painting of a girl. She is standing in a room, hiding behind a checkered blanket. “She reminds me of you,” the Widow said, “when she comes out from behind the blanket.”

I am honoured by the Widow’s gift. I, too, have experienced loss. I hope that I brought her some joy in her world that has turned upside-down. I pray for her to be comforted.