How touching and provocative, Hema's piece on writing and death. And how universal the struggle to comprehend it, come to terms with it, and somehow and in some way accept it.
On a whim, I Googled "literary obsession with death;" the search returned many hundreds of responses. One posed most of the questions we've all asked ourselves, particularly, but not exclusively, after having "lost" someone dear to us: "Why are we here? What is the point of life? Why do we die? What happens when we die? Do we cease to exist? Do we keep on living somehow? If we keep on living, what will we be doing? Will eternity be all the same? What am I supposed to be doing while I’m alive? Did I come from someplace before this life? These questions, and many more like it, have plagued [writers], as well as many others, for ages. And the body of poetry we have today that surrounds the issue has evidenced that fact."
True enough. I recall having been asked by a student years ago when I was teaching English at a Connecticut high school why writers were so obsessed by death. My response was probably inadequate, but I think now that the appropriate response might be, "Because it's one of only a handful of absolutely 'ultimate' questions." Unfortunately, the post from which I quoted above goes on to make the patently absurd assertion that Mormonism provides all the answers, or more directly THE answer. Alas, neither it, nor any other religion accomplishes that daunting task.
Writers don't either, but the variety of their approaches to it, the universality of their interest and curiosity about it, the depth of the ache invoked in them by it, and (often but not always) the height of the affirmation of life and happiness inspired by it, have helped me and seemingly many others accommodate ourselves -- which I think is all we can do -- to the reality and inevitability of it.
How beautifully and poignantly the dilemma of death and loss was put by Hopkins in the last several insightful lines of "Spring and Fall:"
Yesterday I watched the hummingbirds at the feeder, and I cried. My best friend in the whole world died from a brain tumor two years ago. I can’t see spring flowers or watch birds from my porch without thinking of her. I’d love to tell you that time takes the sting out of grief, but I think it’s more like developing a chronic illness that we learn to live with, and we do. We adapt our lives to make room for the absence. It changes us. I would especially like to tell you that you are doing great. Give yourself as much grace as you would give someone you love, your sister for instance. If she were grieving like you are, feeling a bit lost and off balance , you would love her tenderly through it. Love yourself like that. The Bible tells us that there is a season for everything, a time to rejoice and a time to grieve. This is that time. You inspired and encouraged my heart with your words. You’re doing great.
When my infant daughter died, writing helped me to mentally process and sort through my grief--I wrote hundreds and hundreds of poems, with no thoughts toward publishing them or if they were "good" or "bad"--I was just trying to figure out how to put words to it, the enormity of the grief I was feeling. It was a way through for me, and it was for me, not magazines or publishers or even other readers. There's value in that as an artist, I think, and I think you are wise not to rush yourself as you mourn your sister.
In this competitive world (Look at me; I climb mountains and wake at 4 am to write every day before going to my pilates class and raising my two perfect children), your candor about the place of writing in your life and your wordless grief is very refreshing. I think that grave losses always remain with us, and a part of the pain is knowing (or suspecting) that it will always hurt this much. It will. But slowly, life comes and populates your life again and fills in the spaces with a different kind of human material, another kind of love, so that the pain can be felt as if through a thick wall. Wall? No, not wall. As if the air thickens around you, and somehow, you learn how to breathe it. My warmest regards, stranger, in this time of pain and loss.
Thank you for sharing this, Hema. Your words are beautiful and resonate so much. I am so sorry for your loss. And I wish you lots of inspiration and good writing times.
This is such a beautiful and wise piece. Thank you so much for sharing it. I too, have had some immense losses, and recently found a card that said words to the effect of, Nothing will ever replace the person, but we can fill the space with light. That is exactly what you have done here.
When my daughter died four and a half years ago, life appeared to be in conflict with creative drive. What significance could publication possibly have in a world where a child can go from full alive to fully lifeless for no apparent reason? I felt like my wife and I were trapped, side by side, crawling through a small, dark pipe toward a distant light. There was solace to be found in our emotional proximity to one another, but also a need to push outward. My poetry has always been solemn, but now I decided to make it personal as well. The goal became twofold: re-connect to creativity, and in so doing, write with an eye to those who can’t be here to read it. To do good work in memory of someone is a way of honoring them, and in posterity, honor is sometimes the only gift we can offer, even though the hands of our loved ones can’t hold it. I also started realizing how grief, though universal, may hit us all slightly differently. Additionally, my grief process taught me how intertwined bereavement is with love, and that spurred me to create a chapbook (with Finishing Line Press) called Petit Morts: Meditations on Love and Death.
Mukund, thank you for sharing this. All these days, I've been reading your comment, and I wanted to respond, but there are no words. I am so sorry for your loss. "To do good work in memory of someone is a way of honoring them, and in posterity, honor is sometimes the only gift we can offer, even though the hands of our loved ones can’t hold it. " This line is everything, something I need to remind myself of from time to time. I will be looking out for your chapbook.
I am so sorry for the loss of your daughter, Mukund. I love what you say about doing good work as a way of honoring those whom we have lost, and it being a gift we can still offer them. The very best wishes for your creative work, going forward.
I loved this essay, because I too lost a sister--and sibling loss is like no other. I'm sure our circumstances are different, and the losses are as well, but there's still a grief about losing a sibling that isn't the same as other losses. I found myself writing my sister relationship into my novels--actually, all three of them have sibling loss in some way. By the third, I felt a lot had healed inside. When people ask how many kids are in your family, I still stumble over that.
Your piece arrived on my phone at the right time. After a stroke and breast cancer, I finally had to drop out of my MFA program this semester ( I hope to go back next semester) but, despite an assignment from my professor to write a poem a week, I have only written one or two klunkers and mostly scroll and despise myself for not getting back on the horse. My writing has been responses to posts. Maybe I can slow down and somehow have the writing I love return.
Thanks for sharing. When I lost my partner, several years ago, I needed to write about my feelings. It helped me so much. I submitted my piece as a flash fiction and it was published. I wish you well.
What beautiful words and sentiment along with your pain and longing. I'm so sorry about your sister, Hema. I know that pain intimately...I lost my sister, my best pal who was just 46 too, my older sister by three years. She had a sudden, massive stroke and lived for two days though in a coma. I was with her until the end. Even though that was almost 27 years ago, I still want to phone her when I need her and I still need her. (I lost my dad suddenly to a heart attack when he was 50 and I was 17.) As Tracie Adams said it's: "like developing a chronic illness that you learn to live with." Writing helps. It helps a lot. Everytime I sit down to write, grief and loss pours out on the pages, in one way or another. It doesn't matter how often I tell myself not to include grief, I've learned it's impossible not to slip it in there somewhere. And that's okay. Loss gets into our bones, our breaths, it molds us into who we are today. Your words are beautiful, Mena. Thank you for writing something that is not only so relatable, but also so human, so real, so honest.
What a great piece. I love your willingness to share your doubts, the negative tugs on why write at all? If you didn't ask that question, you may or may not write, but it would always be less than your best.As artists, we experience oter artsits, and to be inspired is wonderful, but to keep the balance between giving up or pushing forward takes zooming out...way out, it's your story, no one else's and those of us who have become intimate with grief are capable of producing real eye openers, compassionate stories, stories to elevate. Each emotion has two arms, two hands, one can lead you rto a dark world, a world where loneliness can go on forever, it's other hand can lead you to higher degrees of freedom and love, through forgiveness. It might sound odd, but here I am at 74, saying, take both hands, always take both hands. The win is spectacular.
This gave my hope a bigger boost. I was wishing to read something about sharing your grief with others for I am going through it after losing my dad. Thank you so much Hema ! I hope I share my grief like you did.
Oh Hema, you know I empathize with all of this, having lost my brother last month. This is beautifully written and so wise and compassionate. Thank you for writing this. Sending you continued love and strength.
How touching and provocative, Hema's piece on writing and death. And how universal the struggle to comprehend it, come to terms with it, and somehow and in some way accept it.
On a whim, I Googled "literary obsession with death;" the search returned many hundreds of responses. One posed most of the questions we've all asked ourselves, particularly, but not exclusively, after having "lost" someone dear to us: "Why are we here? What is the point of life? Why do we die? What happens when we die? Do we cease to exist? Do we keep on living somehow? If we keep on living, what will we be doing? Will eternity be all the same? What am I supposed to be doing while I’m alive? Did I come from someplace before this life? These questions, and many more like it, have plagued [writers], as well as many others, for ages. And the body of poetry we have today that surrounds the issue has evidenced that fact."
True enough. I recall having been asked by a student years ago when I was teaching English at a Connecticut high school why writers were so obsessed by death. My response was probably inadequate, but I think now that the appropriate response might be, "Because it's one of only a handful of absolutely 'ultimate' questions." Unfortunately, the post from which I quoted above goes on to make the patently absurd assertion that Mormonism provides all the answers, or more directly THE answer. Alas, neither it, nor any other religion accomplishes that daunting task.
Writers don't either, but the variety of their approaches to it, the universality of their interest and curiosity about it, the depth of the ache invoked in them by it, and (often but not always) the height of the affirmation of life and happiness inspired by it, have helped me and seemingly many others accommodate ourselves -- which I think is all we can do -- to the reality and inevitability of it.
How beautifully and poignantly the dilemma of death and loss was put by Hopkins in the last several insightful lines of "Spring and Fall:"
". . .
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for."
Yesterday I watched the hummingbirds at the feeder, and I cried. My best friend in the whole world died from a brain tumor two years ago. I can’t see spring flowers or watch birds from my porch without thinking of her. I’d love to tell you that time takes the sting out of grief, but I think it’s more like developing a chronic illness that we learn to live with, and we do. We adapt our lives to make room for the absence. It changes us. I would especially like to tell you that you are doing great. Give yourself as much grace as you would give someone you love, your sister for instance. If she were grieving like you are, feeling a bit lost and off balance , you would love her tenderly through it. Love yourself like that. The Bible tells us that there is a season for everything, a time to rejoice and a time to grieve. This is that time. You inspired and encouraged my heart with your words. You’re doing great.
Thank you, Tracie, for your beautiful words. I'm so sorry for your loss.
When my infant daughter died, writing helped me to mentally process and sort through my grief--I wrote hundreds and hundreds of poems, with no thoughts toward publishing them or if they were "good" or "bad"--I was just trying to figure out how to put words to it, the enormity of the grief I was feeling. It was a way through for me, and it was for me, not magazines or publishers or even other readers. There's value in that as an artist, I think, and I think you are wise not to rush yourself as you mourn your sister.
Oh Renee, I am so sorry. I cannot even begin to imagine how it must feel to lose a child.
In this competitive world (Look at me; I climb mountains and wake at 4 am to write every day before going to my pilates class and raising my two perfect children), your candor about the place of writing in your life and your wordless grief is very refreshing. I think that grave losses always remain with us, and a part of the pain is knowing (or suspecting) that it will always hurt this much. It will. But slowly, life comes and populates your life again and fills in the spaces with a different kind of human material, another kind of love, so that the pain can be felt as if through a thick wall. Wall? No, not wall. As if the air thickens around you, and somehow, you learn how to breathe it. My warmest regards, stranger, in this time of pain and loss.
Thank you so much. What a beautiful comment. I appreciate this.
So important! Thank you for these words. I had to restack!
Thank you for reading and restacking, Etta.
Thank you for sharing this, Hema. Your words are beautiful and resonate so much. I am so sorry for your loss. And I wish you lots of inspiration and good writing times.
Thank you, Claire.
This is such a beautiful and wise piece. Thank you so much for sharing it. I too, have had some immense losses, and recently found a card that said words to the effect of, Nothing will ever replace the person, but we can fill the space with light. That is exactly what you have done here.
"we can fill the space with light." so beautifully said. I'm trying, for her. Thank you, Mary.
When my daughter died four and a half years ago, life appeared to be in conflict with creative drive. What significance could publication possibly have in a world where a child can go from full alive to fully lifeless for no apparent reason? I felt like my wife and I were trapped, side by side, crawling through a small, dark pipe toward a distant light. There was solace to be found in our emotional proximity to one another, but also a need to push outward. My poetry has always been solemn, but now I decided to make it personal as well. The goal became twofold: re-connect to creativity, and in so doing, write with an eye to those who can’t be here to read it. To do good work in memory of someone is a way of honoring them, and in posterity, honor is sometimes the only gift we can offer, even though the hands of our loved ones can’t hold it. I also started realizing how grief, though universal, may hit us all slightly differently. Additionally, my grief process taught me how intertwined bereavement is with love, and that spurred me to create a chapbook (with Finishing Line Press) called Petit Morts: Meditations on Love and Death.
Mukund, thank you for sharing this. All these days, I've been reading your comment, and I wanted to respond, but there are no words. I am so sorry for your loss. "To do good work in memory of someone is a way of honoring them, and in posterity, honor is sometimes the only gift we can offer, even though the hands of our loved ones can’t hold it. " This line is everything, something I need to remind myself of from time to time. I will be looking out for your chapbook.
I am so sorry for the loss of your daughter, Mukund. I love what you say about doing good work as a way of honoring those whom we have lost, and it being a gift we can still offer them. The very best wishes for your creative work, going forward.
I loved this essay, because I too lost a sister--and sibling loss is like no other. I'm sure our circumstances are different, and the losses are as well, but there's still a grief about losing a sibling that isn't the same as other losses. I found myself writing my sister relationship into my novels--actually, all three of them have sibling loss in some way. By the third, I felt a lot had healed inside. When people ask how many kids are in your family, I still stumble over that.
I am so sorry for your loss, Mary. Someone asked me the other day about how many siblings I have and I stumbled too. It's so hard without her.
Thank you-- so get this!
Your piece arrived on my phone at the right time. After a stroke and breast cancer, I finally had to drop out of my MFA program this semester ( I hope to go back next semester) but, despite an assignment from my professor to write a poem a week, I have only written one or two klunkers and mostly scroll and despise myself for not getting back on the horse. My writing has been responses to posts. Maybe I can slow down and somehow have the writing I love return.
Thank you for reading, Barb. I hope you find your words, and more importantly, I hope you're healing.
Thanks for sharing. When I lost my partner, several years ago, I needed to write about my feelings. It helped me so much. I submitted my piece as a flash fiction and it was published. I wish you well.
What beautiful words and sentiment along with your pain and longing. I'm so sorry about your sister, Hema. I know that pain intimately...I lost my sister, my best pal who was just 46 too, my older sister by three years. She had a sudden, massive stroke and lived for two days though in a coma. I was with her until the end. Even though that was almost 27 years ago, I still want to phone her when I need her and I still need her. (I lost my dad suddenly to a heart attack when he was 50 and I was 17.) As Tracie Adams said it's: "like developing a chronic illness that you learn to live with." Writing helps. It helps a lot. Everytime I sit down to write, grief and loss pours out on the pages, in one way or another. It doesn't matter how often I tell myself not to include grief, I've learned it's impossible not to slip it in there somewhere. And that's okay. Loss gets into our bones, our breaths, it molds us into who we are today. Your words are beautiful, Mena. Thank you for writing something that is not only so relatable, but also so human, so real, so honest.
What a great piece. I love your willingness to share your doubts, the negative tugs on why write at all? If you didn't ask that question, you may or may not write, but it would always be less than your best.As artists, we experience oter artsits, and to be inspired is wonderful, but to keep the balance between giving up or pushing forward takes zooming out...way out, it's your story, no one else's and those of us who have become intimate with grief are capable of producing real eye openers, compassionate stories, stories to elevate. Each emotion has two arms, two hands, one can lead you rto a dark world, a world where loneliness can go on forever, it's other hand can lead you to higher degrees of freedom and love, through forgiveness. It might sound odd, but here I am at 74, saying, take both hands, always take both hands. The win is spectacular.
This gave my hope a bigger boost. I was wishing to read something about sharing your grief with others for I am going through it after losing my dad. Thank you so much Hema ! I hope I share my grief like you did.
Oh Hema, you know I empathize with all of this, having lost my brother last month. This is beautifully written and so wise and compassionate. Thank you for writing this. Sending you continued love and strength.
Thank you for reading, dear Kathy. Sibling loss is a deep kind of pain. Sending you so much love and strength back.
"I hold its small, hot hand." That line! It is like a child, isn't it? There's no reasoning with it to be done.
I'm so sorry for your loss.