A note on grief

Recently we lost my grandfather. “Lost” being the colloquial term, for we did not misplace him, rather he has gone to another room, one for which we do not yet hold the key.

Grief has been like turning off the lights. When at first all light abruptly vacates the room, everything turns the same shade of black abyss. As you stand there paralyzed, unable to move or see up from down, there is nothing you can do but pause. In that pause your eyes slowly begin to adjust, and any light that still exists begins to make itself known, gaining entry through the cracks and crevices. You begin to make out outlines and shapes, and a new landscape reveals itself. Though a shade of grey, you can see again, understand again, begin to move again. In this space of muted charcoals and unfamiliar terrain, you realize you’re not paralyzed, you must simply adapt.

As the night goes on, the hours pass by, more and more light begins to make its way to you. You become better acquainted with the cyclical nature of this transient experience. When clarity arrives in the morning light, it brings with it a reminder that the focus, at all times, must remain on seeking the light; trusting that it will always reach you. As the shades of charcoal transform to burning embers, the memory of night remains but the warmth returns, the light persists.

It is then that you’re reminded: without darkness, how would you know light? Without death, how would you appreciate life? The choice offered to each of us is simply this: embrace it all.