Loss is something we all face across the years of our life. The circle of life includes the end stage, Death, and we can do nothing to avoid it. We all face Death; it is profound and life-changing for many of us. Death forces us to examine our own lives every single time someone we know dies, whether that person is a casual acquaintance or dearly beloved. Whoever the dead is, we are touched somehow; we look inward despite ourselves.
Death has a texture. Sometimes it is smooth, even comforting. The Death of a loved one after a long illness can be velvet or a long breath released into the night. We are glad for them; they no longer feel pain, and they are no longer suffering. We feel all of this even as we mourn their loss and wonder about the hole in our spirit where they dwelled.
Sudden and unexpected Death leaves you shaken and raw from the inside out. This is the texture of burlap, scratchy and sometimes unyielding; breathing is sometimes forgotten between tears and screams to unhearing ears. Our mourning comes later, after anger and desolation.
As we get older ourselves, we expect Death. We have seen it, some of us more than others. We have buried parents, siblings, friends and even spouses. We have attended the funerals of loved ones and friends. We sent prayers and condolences and too often wondered why them and not us.
We whisper to God a brief prayer to care for those we love. Then we ask again, why them?
Death is the texture of maelstroms and frigid nights, with endless whys.
I am not afraid of Death; I lost that fear many years ago. I am outraged today at the texture and randomness of Death’s choices. I lost another friend this week, someone I have known for nearly fifty years. When I learned of his passing, I felt like silk ropes were choking me. My spirit excised from my body to watch another small piece of me fly even as I couldn’t breathe.
It is strange to run through rapid fire the emotions of sadness, pity, loss, and guilt. Yes, guilt. That peculiar sense of why am I still standing while my friends die around me. My friends who lived normal, even pedestrian lives, while I lived anything but that. Why are my friends dying?
There are no answers to these questions. Mourning includes the questions. Each of us approaches Death and life differently. Death has a particular texture, a feel that cannot be easily defined. Each death must be felt in its own time and given its place in our spirit so that we can mourn as we will, not as others expect of us. No one can tell us the ‘right’ way to mourn a friend’s or loved one’s passing, any more than they can tell us the texture of Death as we feel it.
We all have those days when we simply want to stay in bed, pull the covers up and hope that the world will pass by quickly. Everyone has those days. Most of us don’t give in; we put our feet on the floor and get on with it, whatever it is. We know better than to give in to the inclination to hide from the world, no matter how much we wish for a day without the noise. We roll out from our cocoon of safety and plaster on an acceptable look of interest, even a smile, at the appropriate times throughout the day. We hide behind our walls of social acceptability and apologize to others for our moments of snappishness while inside, we howl and wail.
doesn’t do a damned thing for me, and your demand is just another powerplay that I no longer give a damn about.
It would be best if you minded your business. All these people with thoughts on how others should ‘look’ really do try my patience. It is no wonder I have retreated further and further into my introversion over the years. Yes, my hair is nearly all gray now. I stopped coloring it almost three years ago during COVID. I am sixty-five years old and have earned that silver for the love of all that is holy. I am not trying to fool anyone into believing I am ten years younger. As for the rest, why? That is an honest question, why should I wake in the morning to don make-up that does not make me feel better about myself, so others are comfortable with my public face? My one concession, I have tattooed eyeliner; it saves me time. As for the rest of my tattoos, why does anyone need to express an opinion? First, I love my art; second, some of my art covers scars that I found far more offensive; finally, all of my art tells the story of my life. I have tattoos to help me heal, but it is, frankly, no one’s business. Why do people believe they can judge and speak their judgment? All I can say is mind your business, walk in my shoes, spend even a week in my life and then talk to me or just shut the fuck right up.
him, I think he cares that we speak to him at all, that we have a relationship and come with our hearts open, even when we are afraid, or angry, or hurt. I speak to God, I also pray. These are separate things and possibly misunderstood by many. When I pray, I do so in private; I pray for those I love, I pray for those who need prayer, who need healing, who need to be lifted up. I pray for patience and grace for myself because I do not have much of these things. I greatly resent those who would tell me how to speak to God or pray; you do it your way, and I will do it mine. Thus far, God has not sent a lightning bolt to smite me for my irreverence.
My silence is indicative of my battle with the blues and my aversion to making it public. Isn’t it odd, I have known for years I battle this insidious and all-encompassing emotional sea. This time, I let the waves take me further out, nearly sinking me. This time, I gave free rein to my nature and thus failed to notice as the blues silenced me and built my walls higher and stronger than they had been in years. This time, I looked out of my already well-built bubble of introspection and introversion, shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘fuck it, I am fine, I am good; I can’t care’.
on the world stage when we aren’t a diplomatic nightmare. Our politics and our politicians belittle the dream of America and turn us into a Reality TV show for the amusement of the world. We have lost our way, our demons are on the stage and we must select which one will lead us into perdition.
My silence is indicative of the blues. I understand it is easy when you combine a natural introvert with the blues it is easy to do what I have done. So now, I will try to knock the wall back down. So much of the time I feel so very much alone, so very much as if I have to do this on my own. This I think, this reluctance to open the door and let others in, let others help me, let myself be disappointed again; this is another part of the blues.
QBG_Tilted Tiara 