My house has felt especially quiet lately.
No more nails clicking on the hardwood floor each day.
No mid-day snoring, or the quick steps of a dog whenever a banana is peeled.
No more panting or cuddling beside me while I stretch after a workout.
We took a quick family photo at the beach on her last morning with us. A keepsake I’m so grateful for.
My dad’s death was the catalyst for me to shift to photography professionally.
And in the years between and after, loss has worn many disguises. Grief has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. There’s so much I never want to forget.
Recently, I came across a passage that felt like a balm:
Be gentle with the ones who take photos of everything. To some, it might seem they aren’t living in the moment. But usually these people have experienced so much loss and are deeply sentimental. They don’t want to ever forget.
Of course, we’ll be framing more photos of our sweet girl. I’m really glad I booked a photo session last fall. I bought her a ridiculous hot dog Halloween costume, and she was so embarrassed.
But soon my mind began to wander: to her beds, her worn toys, the puppy collar we still keep, the final collar she wore. I imagined weaving these fragments into a piece of art for our wall, a tapestry of memory and love.
I have learned not to turn away from these ideas when they arrive, especially those stitched with tenderness.
“A river of material flows through us. When we share our works and our ideas, they are replenished. If we block the flow by holding them all inside, the river cannot run and new ideas are slow to appear.”
Rick Rubin, The Creative Act: A Way of Being
My therapist says grief layers itself, sedimentary, fossilizing memories one atop another. What’s different about this loss is that I feel like I have more tools now.
When my dad died, I was twenty-five. Grief was something to be bottled. Not cried in public. Held together for everyone else. I didn’t know how to process any of it. A counsellor suggested I journal, and I panicked. “What if it was too much?” and I remember her saying: “You can always just put the pen down.”
I’ve thought about that a lot lately.
Because processing grief, I’ve learned, isn’t the same as performing it.
Performing is shushing whatever is present, pushing it aside to behave, to hold it together for others.
To the person who feels guilty for laughing, creating, or feeling joy while also grieving, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. The full gamut of emotions is at play. Give them space. Give them presence.
And if you’re not sure where to start, follow what feels comfortable. Be curious about the breadcrumbs pointing you somewhere that feels uncertain. That’s not avoidance. That’s how you find your way.
It doesn’t have a timeline or a dress code. Sometimes it looks like dreaming up ways to honour someone through art, through writing, through making things. Sometimes it looks like just sitting with the idea of it is enough.
Sometimes it looks like walking home, grabbing the mail, seeing a dog that looks exactly like Morley, and being overcome by a tidal wave of sadness, longing, and love.
With gratitude,
Jen
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