I sat with Derek, and watched him slowly spin an orange around the blade of his knife. He silently demonstrated how to make guava juice, while I watched on with reddened cheeks. His wife pottered in the next room, and the gentle company was just what my heart needed. The fluorescent bulb clinked overhead as a moth waltzed with it.
“How did she die?” Derek words cut through the silence. Hearing the same question, asked for yet another loss, felt heavy.
There is a great duality in life, that I find is often amplified by travel: beginnings and endings- a double edged sword. It can feel as though you ricochet between the two. Lately, the news of a friend passing has added weight to the losses, and I find myself missing a great number of people in my life.
I met Gudrun at the beginning of my travels, when I was in El Hierro: she picked me up hitchhiking on my way back from the mountains, and rather than taking me home, she took me in the opposite direction. We went to the beach, and returned to her place for cake and coffee. We talked for hours, and this became a regular tradition during my time on the island.
El Hierro had been particularly challenging, as I learnt to find my feet solo travelling again. For Gudrun, too- we each had our own separate struggles, that we shared over intricate cinnamon pastries and good coffee. There was a great comfort and connection in our friendship, and the conversation was always ripe with fascinating stories of her travels.
Even after I left, and Gudrun returned to Germany, we remained in contact. She was a wise friend and probably one of the most beautiful things that I discovered during my time exploring that pokey little island on the Canaries. Gudrun greatly contributed to my belief and excitement in how incredibly fascinating strangers can be, and gave me enthusiasm to step out of my comfort zone in the hopes I would meet more people like her; or who are quite lovely in their own unique ways. We spoke a lot of travelling together in the future.
So, her passing was quite saddening. It also became a trigger point for a lot of pent up grief I still hold on to. Grief feels very much like a half-read, much loved book being torn from your hands. There is no resolve, no conversation finished, and far too many ‘what if’s’ and regrets about how time played out. For me, anyway.
I spent some time allowing the messy cacophony of feelings to pool inside me- the good, the bad and the ugly. The loudest and first to appear, are often the ugliest, but they usually disintegrate once they have been given a little time and attention. Once everything settled, I began to unwrap each of my thoughts, working my way through everything I was feeling gently and lovingly.
For me, creativity plays a big role in the process, and I sat with how I felt and I thought about it softly. I went for a run, thought some more. I wrote about it, sketched, and then spoke about it to friends. Grief feels so incredibly uncomfortable to sit with, and only time passing seems to ease it. Then still, it hurts all the same to think too much about it. Or, so I have believed.
Slowly, acceptance rose like the sun on a bleak morning, and I began to see loss in a new light.
Nothing lasts. Everything comes to an end eventually, and is often painful when it does, but this makes it all the more special. Everything is temporary and grief is a stark reminder to keep soaking in every moment. Happiness doesn’t last. Sadness doesn’t last. What makes life so interesting is its sharp contrasts. To go without grief, is to go without love, and the lows in life are very much a reflection of the high.
Loss is a heart wrenching thing, don’t get me wrong, but I’m finding gratitude in my sadness. Grief means that I discovered something that is very much worth missing, and I have had the honour to have wonderful people in my life, even if it was for shorter than I had envisioned. It makes the people I still have, and the time I have with them, feel all the richer and all the more precious.
Moving forward sometimes feels like moving further away from loved ones who have passed away; forgetting details and memories can feel crushing. But, I carry each person into the future by how I live the rest of my life, with the lessons they have taught me. I carry them in the way I act and behave, and I carry them in how I love, because they have very much shaped the person I’ve become and a part of them will live with me because of that.
When I lost a very significant person in my life to suicide two years ago, I shut myself away for a long time. Moving through it, I have learnt that if we desire deep and real human connection, we need to be deep and real people. That means sharing not only the happy parts of ourselves, but the aching parts too- and allowing ourselves to experience both.
So, I’ll sit with Derek while he makes guava juice, and play guitar with his wife and share my loss, because it’s a common thing for us all. I’ll soak up the moments I share with friends, and scoop up the painful goodbyes gently. I’ll take the time I need to sit under the clouds of grief, and in a bittersweet way, appreciate the view. The darkest clouds are outlined with the most fantastically glowing rays of sunshine- rippling with reminders that I have had the honour of sharing life with some very beautiful folks.
This weeks blog has been one of rest and reflection for myself. I am human, and these are the things that I’ve been carrying. It’s time to be real, and this is what I have spent time working on this week significantly, and so it’s what I’ll share. The danger of putting my life on social media so often, is the risk of omitting the tough details and giving a false perception of myself and my recovery. So, here is a small conversation about some of the more difficult days I’ve experienced this week, and what I’ve learnt.
Thankyou for being here,
-Becky