For me, grief can open up an internal cavern, revealing a deep well of understanding usually submerged beneath daily banalities. Life moves from action to slow motion; and small items or processes take on a rich significance which feels both precious and painful.
Physically, there is a sensation of emotion flowing like liquid through me, drawn down into a heavy sack that is suspended from the middle of my chest. It pulls my whole body down, weighing on my heartstrings and tugging at every capillary from centre to periphery.
I seek comfort by absorbing myself in the performance of small tasks, a kind of pruning of my life’s little ‘loose ends’. Picking up an object left in the wrong place and returning it to its rightful place or putting on the laundry, all the while married to the sense of the rain as it falls on the hard ground outside. My mind is held willingly captive in the house which now functions as a wealth of gentle distraction, rather than the source of tiresome to-dos.
At times like this, objects are my friend and the physical world gently offers its solidity in sacrifice, to the work of spinning meaning from pain.
