learn to let go gracefully

I know I’ve sometimes used this goal to talk about missing friends and family, but it’s always been mostly about Jay, about finding a balance between cherishing his memory and letting go of the loss. I’ve been thinking a lot about this since his anniversary a couple weeks ago, and I’ve come to the conclusion that letting go doesn’t mean forgetting, or acting or feeling as if it never happened; to me it’s about acceptance, about not grieving in a way that’s no longer healthy and not hankering after might-have-beens.

On his anniversary I went through all the letters and photos and the little things of his I’ve kept. I cried some, smiled some, laughed once or twice. The love we had for each other, and the fun we had together, shines so brightly from those letters, and it felt good to immerse myself in it for a little while; it felt even better to realise that I was acknowledging his memory’s place in my life without longing to go back to that time. It didn’t feel like my life is any less than it might have been, just different.

And, of course, I got the tattoo I’ve been wanting for years, copied from his, and it felt absolutely right. It’s meaningful in three different ways: as a permanent memento of him and of the profound effect that both loving and losing him had on my life; as a reminder of the person I was then, ready to follow my heart and count the world well lost for love; and as a symbol of overcoming grief and integrating the remembered happiness and the lessons I’ve learned into the person I am now.

Tonight I’m going to the Remembrance Ceremony I attend every year, and taking this mindset with me – not to grieve but just to remember and share that remembrance with others who’ve experienced something similar. It’s a good place to be.

I came across a wonderful word a couple days ago. Saudade is an untranslateable Portuguese word meaning “a yearning so intense for those who are missing, or for vanished times or places, that absence is the most profound presence in one’s life; a state of being, rather than merely a sentiment.” (In Other Words, Christopher J. Moore)

Reading that made me stop and think. I am well acquainted with that “state of being”; I spent months in it after Jay died, after the initial shock and grief had passed and there was just this vast hollow emptiness in my soul where he should have been. I thought about how far I’ve come since then. I knew, of course, that I’d moved on from there – I still get occasional bouts of yearning for might-have-beens, but it’s certainly no longer the defining feature of my life; more interesting and surprising was realising how far I’ve come in just the last year or two, after I would have thought most of the healing was already done.

I thought of the discussion last week when he came up in the course of conversation and my first reaction was to say it’s ok, I’m ok, it doesn’t hurt anymore. I was surprised to find even as I wrote it that it was true. That night I took out my favourite picture of Jay and willed myself to grieve for him, and I couldn’t; no tears, no pain, just a deep, faintly nostalgic affection and an answering grin to the mischievious smile in his eyes. For a little while I was afraid I was forgetting him and that was why it no longer hurt, but I know I’m not. Of course some things are made hazy with time, but I’ll never forget that smile, or the tenderness in his voice when he called me his angel (or his “little rat” when I’d exasperated him :o) ), or the feel of his arms around me.

What I’m learning now is that it’s ok to be ok again. I guess I thought, after slowly putting my life back together, that that was as good as it was going to get, and that it would always be painful even when the sharp edges were dulled; I thought I’d permanently lost some vital spark, that I’d be forever a diminished version of myself. As time goes on, though, I’m discovering that that spark was only temporarily dimmed, not quenched, and I’m regaining more and more of it. Only recently, I’m beginning to recognise again in myself the girl that Jay fell in love with. I’ve grown a great deal since then – the breaking open of your heart allows all sorts of new and terrifying and wonderful things to happen – but that crazy, romantic, passionate girl is still in there somewhere. I think – I believe – that Jay would be proud of the woman I’ve become.

I hate parting from people I care about. It upsets me way out of proportion. At least this time I was aware of it, though – it didn’t make me feel any better, but a little part of my brain was aware that I was over-reacting and it wasn’t actually the end of the world. So maybe that’s progress…?

I’ve changed this from “learn to cope with loss” to “learn to let go gracefully”. There’s a big difference between simply ‘coping’ and letting go, I think. All sorts of unhealthy attitudes and behaviours can be coping mechanisms; letting go, to me, involves at least some level of mindful consideration and release, which can only be a good thing. And I add ‘gracefully’ because to do it right, it has to be a voluntary and peaceful process.

Last night I cried for Jay – four years on I still can’t talk about him without crying – and in some strange way it felt good. The tears actually brought relief, not the horrible knotted pain that used to accompany them. It kinda felt like the crying was an acceptance of sadness rather than an expression of despair, if that makes sense.

Last night I attended this event for the second time – it’s held annually as part of the Dublin Pride Festival. Last year there were only half a dozen people there and it was very informal – we just sat around and chatted, sometimes about the people we’d lost, sometimes not. (The picture on the poster for this year’s event, above, is actually my hands holding my candle at last year’s ceremony – the photographer showed it to me as soon as he’d taken it, and that’s exactly how it came out, no photoshopping.)

This year there were about twenty people and it was a bit more structured. Candles were lit around a wreath where some people had placed pictures of their loved ones. Candles were passed among the group too – some in holders and some, like mine, allowed to drip molten wax over fingers; by the end of the ceremony my candle was almost burnt out, but had a long stalactite of wax drippings hanging beneath the base :o)

Several people came to the front to speak about their departed loved ones. One woman sang a song, another played a piece of accordion music. Everyone’s stories were sad, but the most heart-wrenching was the organiser, P., who lost his 17-year-old son to suicide just five weeks ago. I could feel a silent current of sympathy and love being extended by everyone to everyone else, and my heart went out to each one of them.

One of the songs P. played for his son was Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters, and it brought tears to my eyes because that was one of Jay’s songs, too. After his funeral I listened to that song over and over the whole day. If I could have picked a song to play for Jay, that would probably have been it. At the end of the ceremony I went to P. and hugged him, and told him that song was meaningful to me, too.

Afterwards, we all repaired to a nearby hotel for a quiet drink. I sat with P. and T., the man I’d been standing beside at the ceremony. We spoke about grieving, and about how hard it is that even when you’ve experienced bereavement yourself, there is nothing you can say to ease someone else’s pain. But I think the people who’ve had a similar experience are the only people who can empathise, and you can feel that empathy even when there are no words.

There’s a unique bond created when you share something like this with strangers, skipping all the social niceties. I’ll probably meet these people again at other Festival events this week, and I know that even if we never mention the subject again, we’ll feel that bond and know we have something in common.

Another aunt and two cousins set off for Australia yesterday. More than half my mom’s side of the family are now in Perth. I was particularly sad to see them go because it’s only in the last few months that I’ve really started spending time with them – outside of the family gatherings that used to be our only contact – and it’s such a pity that we didn’t make the effort years ago to see more of each other.

I think this might be a little progress, though, cos while I was still sad, I didn’t feel as bereft as I expected. Partly that was due to their excitement and obvious delight to be moving – how could I begrudge them that out of a selfish desire to have them around for me? But I was also able to see it in a slightly more positive light and remind myself that we’ll stay in touch, and who knows, maybe I’ll be able to go over to visit someday!

Could it be any harder to say goodbye, live without you
Could it be any harder to watch you go, and face what’s true

If I only had one more day….

I’d jump at the chance
We’d drink and we’d dance
And I’d listen close to your every word
As if it’s your last
And I know it’s your last
Cos today… you’re gone

Could it be any harder to say goodbye, live without you
Could it be any harder to watch you go, and face what’s true

Like sand on my feet
The smell of sweet perfume
You’ll stick to me forever baby
I wish you didn’t go, I wish you didn’t go
I wish you didn’t go away

Touch me again
With life in your hands…
Couldn’t be any harder

(from “Could It Be Any Harder”, The Calling)

Today is Jay’s anniversary. Four years ago today I lost the best thing that had ever come into my life. It still surprises me how violently the pain hits me when I give it an opening. I’m terribly afraid that that means I haven’t really dealt with it at all.

It’s going to be a strange day. Work as normal, then I’m going for a couple drinks with my work friends afterwards. To be honest I’d planned that before I realised what date today was, but I’m kinda glad not to be going straight home on my own. I’m tempted to ask D. to come over for the evening, cos I’m scared of how intense my emotions can get when I’m alone and have no-one to act as a damper. Maybe I need to just go through that and get it over with, but I’m not sure I can.

My little cousin goes back to Australia today. She’s only been here three weeks, but it’s amazing how close we were – even more so because we hadn’t seen each other for four years before that. We’ve both grown and changed a lot in that time, but after about ten minutes in her company I felt like we’d been friends forever. I’ve really enjoyed spending so much time with her.

When we said goodbye this morning we made all the usual promises to keep in touch better and visit next summer and all that, but we both know it’ll probably be another four years of sporadic emails. It’s just so difficult to maintain a relationship across half the planet and completely different lifestyles, no matter how well you get on with someone.

I hate it when people have to go away.