Grief and the Scarcity of Light
Are there ordinary years when the progression of seasons simply showcases the landscape and its parade of contrasts? When I was a child, summer seemed longest, probably because it offered a break from a schedule and invited me into a world I could explore by walking or biking. Two months became a season of adventure, solitude, the wonder of butterflies and the chalky residue of moths. I examined Japanese beetles, pricked my fingers on thorns, dodged bees, and marveled over perfect polka dots on ladybugs. I collected flat stones, mica, and pine cones and hid them behind the large buttonwood tree in my yard. I am drawn still to smooth stones, intricate shells, and cobalt blue beach glass when I am lucky enough to find them.
These days, I am unable to separate my grief at the state of the world from encroaching winter with its early darkness and monochrome vistas. As always, I long for the sea and its cacophony, a rude but welcome intrusion on darker thoughts. I do not look away but sometimes it becomes necessary to detach from events I cannot control. I’ve never been more aware of my helplessness in the wake of such conflict and disinformation. I use writing as a buffer, a habit developed as a teen scribbling in the rainbow-colored notebooks my father bought for me at an art and pottery store.
What does one do with the grief? Everyone experiences loss: divorce, death, war, relocation, natural disaster. Each day is a reminder of something we can never get back like the death of a friend or family member, the agility of our twenty-year-old self, or the excitement of first passion. I remind myself of what I’ve gained–writing, travel, acquired wisdom attained through years of study and living. How can I channel this learning into productive action? There has never been a more important time to be alert and aware but it is equally necessary to nurture and love each other.
From the young child in my life, I learn to immerse myself in the moment, making footprints on the snowy path, clapping my gloves together, welcoming constellations in early darkness. Nights are beautiful here with a veritable light show of stars. The night sky always makes me feel small and that is what I most want to be in the wake of enormous grief. Small does not mean insignificant. It is a way to put the problems of the world in perspective. Last week I saw my first sun dog, a rainbow-like phenomenon common in places like Alaska. All firsts are important because they add to my library of experience.
My great-grandmother, Annie spent occasional weekends at my childhood home. She died at 96 when I was twelve. One spring day, she walked with me, using her cane for balance. That was the day she saw her first rainbow. She must have been in her nineties at that point. I vividly remember her deeply lined face lit up with joy. At that point, I aspired to create as many good moments for her as I could because I loved her with the innocence of a child. I’d play cards with her for hours even though I’m not much of a card player. At some level I was aware that she would die but death was still abstract. I lost two other people including a friend in the same year my great-grandmother died. At that point, I viscerally knew that loved ones could disappear forever, a reality I still have trouble accepting.
Solstice is fifteen days away and I mark it as the beginning of the return of light. I also welcome it as a time of gathering in and reaching out. As much as I welcome solitude, I need connection. Like the contrast of seasons, a good conversation and a shared meal is like the first spring morning when blossoming again seems possible. We will need each other in the coming months. I pledge to reach out at least as much as I gather in. May we all hold onto hope and turn that hope into positive action.
Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor 