Up and down.

[ysobelle]

Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is playing in my ear, and I'm tuning in to that and the music of the keys under my fingertips. I can see C.J. wandering Times Square in shock and horror and loss, crying, and I remember the same emotions from Buckley's fans when he drowned so young.

I had a talk with someone a few weeks ago about the transience of happiness. Much like the seasons, the good comes, then goes, then comes back. Or, in my mind, the good goes, then comes back, then goes again. The old glass-half-empty thing. I've discovered in my heart in the last week a well of anger and sadness I keep thinking has dried up. Now I find I don't know how deep it goes.

Maybe it's just that I don't know where it wells up from. Part of me knows it's a distraction. I don't have to look inwards if I have something beyond me to be angry about. I can rationalise and intellectualise and point at my father and speak of Electra and Jung and Bill and Jeff Buckley. But I can still feel the rattling parquet floor of my old apartment beneath my knees as I sank down and sobbed.

"Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."

And emotions can be ripped apart and thrown out into the light to shrivel or grow. But they'll still hurt. They'll still lift you up and get you drunk like a 2am party girl, or grind you like third-world millstones. And sometimes, all the intellectualising and dissection in the world won't help you until the pain just wears slowly away. Those of us who don't decide one day to get over or forget or forgive or move on or whatever everyone says we should do have to wait, patiently or impatiently, for the sharp edges to dull themselves, or the skin to shine up and harden with scar tissue.

It's not just the obvious things. I find, for example, I miss Leah now more than I did. Part of me has started to wonder why it's been so long without her calling me. Part of me has started to reach out, and pull back in bewilderment that she's not there. I'm frightened of that. I'm frightened of the repeating pattern of loss that overwhelms me each time it washes over me. I shocked myself last night: a friend of mine laughed at me when I said yes, I missed going to Hawai'i with my parents, but they'd bring me pictures.

"Pictures! That's not the same," he said.

"No, but a picture I can keep forever."

Have I really gotten so afraid of things I can't hold on to I'd pass up an experience for the tangible evidence of it? Would I rather have the photo than the trip?

I just can't seem to find the bottom of the well.

Comments

[daemionfox.livejournal.com]

I just can't seem to find the bottom of the well.

Seaching for the bottom of the well is the problem. It means you're willing to go deeper and deeper into the waters, getting caught in the dark and cold.

The trick is to acknowledge that the well is there, if needed, and only draw what you want without trying to find out how far down it goes. Go too far, and you'll hit Morlocks.

[brattgirlz.livejournal.com]

grief is a long road with many ups and downs. The loss of someone so close or anything that reminds you of a loss that great will make you pull things in that seem more permanent. Ever bad experience I have at work makes me a better parent because I come home and pull my kids in closer. I hope you feel better.

[morriganswitch.livejournal.com]

I don't care how many times I listen to that song, (one of my favorites) It makes me cry every damn time.

all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Jessyka says hi.

[irishcoyote.livejournal.com]

Leonard Cohen actually wrote that. If you don't have Drunkard's Prayer by now, by all gods girl, go. Methinks you need it.


*hugs*
Rev.D.M.

Leonard Cohen

[scarletwildfire.livejournal.com]

And I so hear Leonard's voice (he doesn't seem to get the credit - whomever sang it the next time around does...) singing this song and thank DM for introducing me to that music so many years ago...

And yes this song is appropriate. And yes, Nikki - Hallejuliah to you for putting your grief into words that I find myself nodding to. And dearie you need Hugs.

*HUGs*

[well-artesia.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you're coming down this weekend... can't wait to see ya!

[imafon.livejournal.com]

Everyone grieves differently, but the common thread is that everyone grieves.

It has been almost 3 years since my brothers death, and I still have days when I am absolutely blindsided by sadness. The wish that I could hear his voice, give him a hug, hold his hand. The only thing that gets me through is knowing that he is a part of me no matter what. That I carry an essence of him within my very soul, because I loved him, and he loved me in return.

I wrote the following poem after his death. I hope it helps you, as it has helped me cope with loss.

The Timeline

In death I am unemcumbered,
flying forever free.
Living without the shackles,
in which life held me.
Now my body matches my spirit,
perfect in every way.
Able to all of the things,
taken for granted every day.

I lived my life simply,
enjoying what I had.
For me,
living daily,
took the good with the bad.

I knew that when I came here,
an angel from above.
I would be granted a family,
for my pure heart to love.
And for every day I held them,
and they in turn held me.
I knew a long, quiet life
for me there would not be.

For living requires devotion,
and although I held mine tight.
My Lord and Father took me home,
where now I live in light.

Don't cry for me forever,
my life was as it was meant.
For God has a plan,
that makes complete sense.

He gives us each a timeline,
we are told to use it well.
And I tried with all my being,
until Deaths' final knell.
And when I left I knew,
that I had done something right.
For angels greeted me,
with white and holy light.

Now I'm flying ever higher,
a guardian of mortal men.
And do not weep forever,
for we shall meet again.