Perspective

     April 12, 2018, the day Joanne died, is a dividing line in my life. With her death, and the ensuing grief, I gained a radically new perspective. When in print I see the word 'grief' I'm drawn as a moth to a flame. Lisa gave me Wendell Berry's 2004 novel, Hannah Coulter,  commenting that she thought I'd enjoy it. Tonight, in the quiet of The Little House, opposite Joanne's chair, I began to read and was quickly engaged.
     The novel is in the form of a monologue by Hannah Coulter in  her seventies, reflecting back over her life. On page seven:
   "The year I was twelve my mother died. She took the flu and then pneumonia, and then, almost before we could think that she might die, she was dead. By her grave, when we brought her there, there was a heap of snow on one side and a heap of dirt on the other.
    "And so I learned about grief, and about the absence and emptiness that for a long time make grief unforgettable. We went on, the three of us remaining, as we had to do. In all the practical ways we managed fine. Grandmam was still a vigorous woman, as she would be for years yet. My father, though seriously damaged by his loss for awhile at least, was capable and a master of making do. I was big enough then to do a woman's part, and I did it. But we had a year when even to look at one another would make us grieve."

    Prior to Joanne's death I would have read this with hardly another thought. With the perspective of life in the land of grief, living with the presence of absence, I read it existentially,  "Yes, that is MY experience."  "I learned...about the absence and emptiness that for a long time make grief unforgettable."  And I say "Yay and verily."

   There's another line in the book that especially resonated with me. "When you are old you can look back and see yourself when you were young."  P. 31. How true that is and, what was confusing at the time, often makes sense with the perspective of time...hindsight you know.


Takk for alt,

Al