Ever since my brother died four months ago I have felt separated from the world by grief and sadness. I have never experienced such depth of pain and the hollow emptiness of loss. Life will never be the same and neither will I. My point of perspective has shifted and I see the world differently than before.
As I write this I’m sitting on a plane, flying at 35,000 feet, looking at the sunset. It is so incredibly beautiful it takes my breath away. Shades of candescent orange give way to azure, cerulean then ultramarine to the darkest night sky, with smoky wisps of black, infinity, Turner in the sky on acid.
Where does someone go when they die? Talking about death is an uncomfortable thing for us, our mortality is both certain and impossible for us to conceive. But I am alive and I need to live a good life. One ruled by love and passion, guided by compassion and kindness, fulfilled with creativity and making. Time spent with the people I love and the friends I care for. This is my step out of the void of grief and I take my brother with me. It is both our silent and voiced memories that allow a person to remain with us, to honour someone in memory feels gently peaceful. The desire to heal and feel less raw and vulnerable is powerful.
Writing I find is a good way to begin a creative process. I’ve been to the studio only once since Chris died, some days I can’t even leave the house, but writing this is helping me to start thinking about my practice again, maybe it’s a coping mechanism, I’m not sure yet. But finding ways to live each day means to face your grief head on. So, to nullify the dread of loss that waits for you each morning, I greet it with some form of a salutation. I say “hi” to my brother when I wake up, it’s a small thing but it helps.


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