I bury comfrey leaves in the dusty soil under the holly and next to a hellebore. It is an act of faith, but also a ritual informed by grief for look how dry and pale the soil is, even after a weekend of rain.
And, as if such a calculation mattered, I wonder which is bigger, my grief at all the injuries to the natural world or my grief at the passing of my younger son.
Does one grief nest inside the other like two Russian dolls? It can’t possibly be that neat. More like the two griefs permeate the air, the yard, and my body in undulating waves that cannot be measured or even separated one from the other.
I listened earlier to the parents of a young man stolen on October 7 and murdered some 300 days later and though the circumstances of our boys’ deaths have nothing in common, our sorrow is the same.
“I am broken,” says the mother. “And I will be broken for the rest of my life.” They feel their son near. The father says he thinks of him every minute of every day.
I too am broken. I too think of my son constantly – more, in fact, than when he was alive, which is some contorted form of irony.
I have regrets they will never have. That is one of my burdens. The regrets come and go like the sadness: unbidden, unwelcome, excruciating,
Why didn’t I talk to you more in those last two weeks? Why didn’t I ask you to tell me why you thought life wasn’t worth living anymore? I picture myself patting the couch saying sit for a minute and putting my arm around him for what could’ve been the last time.
The nitrogen–uptake capacity of the comfrey makes it ideal for composting. You can make salves and teas and poultices as well, but this year I plan only to bury its leaves in the garden beds.
Is there anything I can bury near the barren patch of my being that might at some later date afford growth?
Today, I doubt it.
But I will gather chive, thyme, and rosemary from their pots and chop them up to make herb butter. Lemon zest, salt, and garlic for extra flavor. The act signals belief in sustenance ahead. There will be tasty dinners down the road and some above average snacks. That there is a reason to harvest aromatic herbs even when swimming in grief offers me a droplet of satisfaction. No more. No less.
“Above average snacks ”
“Grief is a badge of love.”
These two bits jump out and grab me.
Above average snacks speaks to life, doesn’t it?
And permeating the world of grief commentary, there is this helpful notion that grief is love with nowhere to go, or grief is a sign that you loved deeply. It’s not a silver lining. I think it’s an accurate way to describe it, don’t you?
You put into words what we imagine the unimaginable to be …
I love “grief is a love with nowhere to go”, and it swirls in and out differently for each of us. I have come to expect to be sideswiped, time and again by odd “triggers”: completely unanticipated conversations, certain objects, circumstances, voices, gusts of wind or specific types of trees. I can be blasted into a place of grief – as these losses age, I might just “mark it” because I’m driving the car or whatever. For example today, I needed my older sister’s voice and she will never be there again. I now am touched by my love for her and have to go “pound sand” and get back to the present world alone. But, she was a sister, not my child. And, Dee, losing a child (on top that to suicide) has got to be the most penetrating and relentlessly deep grief there is. If any mom were to lose track of such grief I think she would fear losing track of her love for that child? or something like that?
Gusts of wind! Yes. I like the idea that grief is love with nowhere to go as well. I’m also operating under this notion that death doesn’t end relationships. It alters them. This will take more time to fully appreciate.