After Danny died, two friends gave me the book: The Unfolding by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. She is an accomplished poet who lives in Colorado who lost her son, Finn, to suicide in 2021. She credits her daily poetry-writing practice with helping her survive the loss. It’s no surprise that her words speak to me. As does the idea of writing through grief.
Here’s something I wrote yesterday after listening to a podcast interview.*
I used to think
I used to think
peeling away layers improved the self — releasing defenses, say, allowing greater authenticity. Now
the removal of any layer of any kind leads to more grief — grief that was pooling, swelling, hiding, and waiting, apparently, for me to trip and fall into it.
I don’t know whether to wish for armor — shiny, hard, and impenetrable — or for a sudden and violent removal of all layers, as if ripping off a bandaid. Under the bandaid I would find a tiny wound and the exposure to air would help it form a scab. Heal.
Hush. Don’t say anything. I already know. Shiny garb left the wardrobe the day he died. And now tiny wounds are beneath notice given the chasm caused by grief.
I can only twist and turn in sorrow’s ambush, holding my hands over my heart, (mostly) hoping to survive.
* The Calming Ground Podcast, Writing through Grief: Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer on Poetry, Loss, and the Wonderment of Being Alive
❤️🩹
Thinking about how grief is more of an infection rather than just a wound
System-wide. Yes
I hate to imagine how much harder this time would be for you without the many distractions you’re able to find that get you through each new day. Missing Danny will be with you always but being able to fill your days with your talents and tasks I’m praying 🙏 will bring you peace.
Yes it is true that I am lucky in that way. These grief experts who say, “find a hobby,” are out of their minds.
Dee~ Ah, but any armor also prevents worldly interactions with other loved ones – even though we still wish for it (I know I have)…and for when the bandaid comes off, I find many wounds of varied sizes, in various states of healing. A real catch 22, damned if you do…damned if you don’t.
I’m thinking about the way you are moving through/within and respect you so much to live with each feeling as they arise. Things to do, things to focus on, places to reach out to…
Gentle hugs to your broken heart Dee.
Yeah armor is no good. I heard one of the poet’s pieces about grief where she talks about falling. Falling and falling and somehow the bottom never rises up. And how that came to be okay after a while.
Those words “sorrow’s ambush”…
This is Beth. (still having trouble commenting, hope you know I check-in.)
So sorry about that. If I had a little more bandwidth I’d see if there’s anything I can do to fix it.
Ha, so anonymous worked. Signing in to WordPress doesn’t seem to. Don’t worry about it. I haven’t had anything wonderfully insightful to add, although I wish I did, wanted you to know I’m here.