From the Ashes
Prompt: Read this poem and write a response.
Happiness grows back
Like saplings after a forest fire
Barren grief
No longer your primary
residence
That old hollowness
Carved out
Washed
With holy tears
An old topography of loss
You will follow
Back to life
Ugh, parts of this poem annoy the hell out of me. The idea that grief will hollow us out and then we are cleansed with “holy tears” simultaneously makes fire come out of my ears and makes me want to gag.
Look, I get it. I get that grief can be transformative. But I hate that this feeds the narrative that somehow grief is here to do something for us, that it will cleanse us somehow, that we will be washed anew.
Fuck that. I don’t need those holy tears. I don’t want to be cleansed, thank you very much. Keep your tears and your transformation and give me my sister back.
On the flip side. . . I can believe (sometimes) that happiness grows back. I do like the image of saplings growing back after a forest fire. I can imagine it, those little seedlings slowly making their way through the ashes, pushing up through all the charred soil. I imagine them taking nourishment from what was burned, soaking up the elements from the charred ground, needing all of that energy and life force to continue on and to grow.
To me it feels like taking all of the love from my sister and carrying it with me, perhaps even transforming it into something else, letting it nourish me and become integrated into whatever comes next in my life. It reminds me that there is no such thing as nothing - that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only converted. My sister’s energy and her life force cannot be destroyed. And perhaps I can play a part in helping it grow into something new.
I’m trying to think about what it means to follow “the old topography of loss” back to life. What comes to mind (and heart) for me is all the ways my sister embraced life, even when she became disabled for years and even when she knew that death was knocking on her door. She could no longer do the things that she loved, so she had to find new ways to be in the world. In the last five years of her life she could no longer work, drive, walk, hike, play music, or make art.
Happiness grows back
Like saplings after a forest fire
Barren grief
No longer your primary
residence
That old hollowness
Carved out
Washed
With holy tears
An old topography of loss
You will follow
Back to life
Ugh, parts of this poem annoy the hell out of me. The idea that grief will hollow us out and then we are cleansed with “holy tears” simultaneously makes fire come out of my ears and makes me want to gag.
Look, I get it. I get that grief can be transformative. But I hate that this feeds the narrative that somehow grief is here to do something for us, that it will cleanse us somehow, that we will be washed anew.
Fuck that. I don’t need those holy tears. I don’t want to be cleansed, thank you very much. Keep your tears and your transformation and give me my sister back.
On the flip side. . . I can believe (sometimes) that happiness grows back. I do like the image of saplings growing back after a forest fire. I can imagine it, those little seedlings slowly making their way through the ashes, pushing up through all the charred soil. I imagine them taking nourishment from what was burned, soaking up the elements from the charred ground, needing all of that energy and life force to continue on and to grow.
To me it feels like taking all of the love from my sister and carrying it with me, perhaps even transforming it into something else, letting it nourish me and become integrated into whatever comes next in my life. It reminds me that there is no such thing as nothing - that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only converted. My sister’s energy and her life force cannot be destroyed. And perhaps I can play a part in helping it grow into something new.
I’m trying to think about what it means to follow “the old topography of loss” back to life. What comes to mind (and heart) for me is all the ways my sister embraced life, even when she became disabled for years and even when she knew that death was knocking on her door. She could no longer do the things that she loved, so she had to find new ways to be in the world. In the last five years of her life she could no longer work, drive, walk, hike, play music, or make art.
But she could - and she did - speak out on things that mattered, encourage everyone around her, become a friend to many, make people laugh, and publicly share her journey and her honest and wise insights about loss, life, and death. I was floored by how many people were touched by her life, even (and especially) in those last few years when the landscape of her life changed so dramatically and tragically.
As I reflect on it now, in so many ways her own topography of loss mapped out the path for me: Here we are, Seester. Your life is no longer what you imagined it would be. The unthinkable has happened, and things have been taken from you, and you can no longer do some of the things that you loved. There is no going back to before. So tell me, what CAN you do? How are you going to embrace this life, just as it is? How can you find acceptance? How are you going to find other ways to live in this world, to create and to love and to spread kindness and to tell the truth, even in the midst of this loss?
My sister found a way to do those things when life was unimaginable. She grew new seedlings from the charred remains of her old life, found a way to move forward following loss upon loss upon loss. She suffered - so much - and yet, she found a way. I’m only realizing right now, in this very moment, that she mapped the way for me. She is teaching me how to nurture those little seedlings, how to grow something from the charred ashes. She’s reminding me that it’s possible to take that energy and transmute it into something new.
As I reflect on it now, in so many ways her own topography of loss mapped out the path for me: Here we are, Seester. Your life is no longer what you imagined it would be. The unthinkable has happened, and things have been taken from you, and you can no longer do some of the things that you loved. There is no going back to before. So tell me, what CAN you do? How are you going to embrace this life, just as it is? How can you find acceptance? How are you going to find other ways to live in this world, to create and to love and to spread kindness and to tell the truth, even in the midst of this loss?
My sister found a way to do those things when life was unimaginable. She grew new seedlings from the charred remains of her old life, found a way to move forward following loss upon loss upon loss. She suffered - so much - and yet, she found a way. I’m only realizing right now, in this very moment, that she mapped the way for me. She is teaching me how to nurture those little seedlings, how to grow something from the charred ashes. She’s reminding me that it’s possible to take that energy and transmute it into something new.