That is the challenge, I am finding "learning how to grieve and grow at the same time." After four years of being a widow, the grief is there and as strong as ever. I can manage life and grow, but the love and the loss will never die.
Hi Janice. Thanks so much for reading and your comment. You're right, it is a massive challenge, learning how to grieve and grow at the same time. It'll be five years for me next month and only now do I sense this new balance beginning to emerge. It takes time to figure out how to navigate life after loss. Sending love and solidarity as you grieve and grow.
yes. The pruneback is an apt description. In my bereravement it was revealed to me what I was before I met my loved one . Pruneback, then the shoots will grow again. What keeps people alive is to find a meaning, to keep on doing it whatever it is, and to derive a sense of completion and purpose from that.
The circumstances are different but what you write, so beautifully and profoundly, speaks to my heart too. 'The thunderclap' of sudden change, the imperative to keep moving, however slowly; the ongoing bittersweetness of happiness and sadness felt together.
Thank you so much for sharing. It helps more than you know. And I will be adding 'Still Life' to my reading list. This last month, I have found myself able to read again, to lose myself in someone else's story for a short while. It feels precious.
Thank you so much for your beautiful words, Sarah. I'm so glad what I've written speaks to your heart.
I'm glad you're able to read again. I remember grief robbed me of my ability to read too. It took many months to return. It was an audiobook, the first Outlander novel, that led me back into reading. I hope you enjoy Still Life when you get to it. It's such a beautiful novel, full of love and hope. A joy to read.
This is lovely and so timely. I particularly appreciate the term "hard prune." What I'm taking away from your writing is that a hard prune is more than a personal decluttering, letting go of worries and unproductive ideas. It's painful and harsh, but it's survivable, and that gives me hope.
Thanks for your comment, Sarah. I’m so glad to know “hard prune” resonates with you.
Last year, a winter storm tore at my forsythia, a glorious mature shrub that festooned my early spring garden in bright yellow, and left brutal gashes in its woody stems.
I had no option but to “hard prune”. I sawed her back to six inches from the ground. Sap ran from the cuts like tears, soaking my hands as I held her and wept too. For many months, she lay dormant, in shock. I worried it was too much to survive. I would visit my shrub and lay my hands on her and remember her glorious yellow of previous years.
Now, she is bushy with vibrant, young green stems, swaying in the wind. She is a different shape from before, but in February, she will bloom yellow again.
She shows me how to believe in growth after loss, how to keep hoping when all seems dormant.
With solidarity as you walk your path. Keep hoping and believing x
Beautiful Jackie. Everything you say resonates.
Your honesty is sad but so very engaging 🙏❤️
Thank you so much x
Wonderful inspiration fr9m deep pain. Your writing always resonates and is a joy to read. It offers hope and healing to others. X
Thank you so much, Julie
Magical, lyrical, poetic. I love how you weave stillness to movement, and how you remind me that life is a series of movements. Thank you.
Thank you so much, Julie. I really appreciate your beautiful words.
That is the challenge, I am finding "learning how to grieve and grow at the same time." After four years of being a widow, the grief is there and as strong as ever. I can manage life and grow, but the love and the loss will never die.
Hi Janice. Thanks so much for reading and your comment. You're right, it is a massive challenge, learning how to grieve and grow at the same time. It'll be five years for me next month and only now do I sense this new balance beginning to emerge. It takes time to figure out how to navigate life after loss. Sending love and solidarity as you grieve and grow.
My breaks with the poignancy of your grief Jackie. I am only glad that you are finding your way through the smithereens.
Thank you so much, Anne xx
yes. The pruneback is an apt description. In my bereravement it was revealed to me what I was before I met my loved one . Pruneback, then the shoots will grow again. What keeps people alive is to find a meaning, to keep on doing it whatever it is, and to derive a sense of completion and purpose from that.
Thanks, Stuart. I'm glad the pruneback metaphor resonates for you in your own experience of loss.
I love what you say about the importance of finding meaning and a sense of purpose - I agree wholeheartedly.
Wishing you new shoots in this chapter of your life.
The circumstances are different but what you write, so beautifully and profoundly, speaks to my heart too. 'The thunderclap' of sudden change, the imperative to keep moving, however slowly; the ongoing bittersweetness of happiness and sadness felt together.
Thank you so much for sharing. It helps more than you know. And I will be adding 'Still Life' to my reading list. This last month, I have found myself able to read again, to lose myself in someone else's story for a short while. It feels precious.
Thank you so much for your beautiful words, Sarah. I'm so glad what I've written speaks to your heart.
I'm glad you're able to read again. I remember grief robbed me of my ability to read too. It took many months to return. It was an audiobook, the first Outlander novel, that led me back into reading. I hope you enjoy Still Life when you get to it. It's such a beautiful novel, full of love and hope. A joy to read.
Sending love to you and Phil x
Beautiful as always. So happy for you to be starting a new chapter x
Thank you so much, Sarah. Me too! x
This is lovely and so timely. I particularly appreciate the term "hard prune." What I'm taking away from your writing is that a hard prune is more than a personal decluttering, letting go of worries and unproductive ideas. It's painful and harsh, but it's survivable, and that gives me hope.
Thanks for your comment, Sarah. I’m so glad to know “hard prune” resonates with you.
Last year, a winter storm tore at my forsythia, a glorious mature shrub that festooned my early spring garden in bright yellow, and left brutal gashes in its woody stems.
I had no option but to “hard prune”. I sawed her back to six inches from the ground. Sap ran from the cuts like tears, soaking my hands as I held her and wept too. For many months, she lay dormant, in shock. I worried it was too much to survive. I would visit my shrub and lay my hands on her and remember her glorious yellow of previous years.
Now, she is bushy with vibrant, young green stems, swaying in the wind. She is a different shape from before, but in February, she will bloom yellow again.
She shows me how to believe in growth after loss, how to keep hoping when all seems dormant.
With solidarity as you walk your path. Keep hoping and believing x