I had never intended the focus of this blog to be about grief and loss, and that is still not my intention. It just happens that usually, when I am compelled to "free-write," it is because my soul is restless and when my soul is restless, and I feel that I am about to climb out of my skin, it is often because of that nagging, gnawing, lifelong shadow-companion of mine, grief.
Maybe it's because the only ways I really can communicate--or pretend to communicate, or imagine that I am communicating--with those who are gone are 1) to dream about them and 2) to write.
At one point in my life, about 20 years ago, I became receptive to the concept of lucid dreaming--and for a while, it worked. And I can tell you for a fact that lucid dreaming is not bullshit; it is a legit phenomenon. I practiced and was able to "will" my dreams, at least partially. I kept a journal during that time and felt very connected to my psyche. But that was a long time ago. I was more emotionally agile and resilient then, less wounded, less jaded, less resigned to the fate that is mortality.
When I write about it now, the New Agey tone of the language embarrasses me--I think of how I used to go to Garland of Letters on South Street in Philly to by Champa and Patchouli or Woodstock chimes, but cringe when I saw the weekend Buddhists looking for some of the dharma--crystal healing and chakra balancing is not my cup of tea at all. But being able to conjure up a dream about someone I love who's gone--that, to me, was not New Age mumbo-jumbo. It was a real experience; a gift. But it's gone now, just like those I once held and hugged and laughed with, made love with, cradled, cared for--they're phantoms.
In the past 10 years, my once fanciful, once hopeful dreams have given way to nightmares and dull-aching, bottomless-pit dreams of eternal loss--the themes are similar, but the imagery varies: sometimes I'm reaching for my Mother, who's just inches away, but I'm blocked from touching her by an invisible glass wall; sometimes I'm hearing my brother's voice, but it's garbled, as if under water; sometimes I'm placing my baby in a cradle, only to realize upon closer inspection that it's actually a grave; sometimes, I'm holding a telephone receiver, trying to connect to a departed love, excited at the prospect of finally hearing his voice again, only to find that the number's been disconnected or that he's not "at home."
It's fucked up. It's ravaged me. It's taken my youth. It's taken my innocence.
But it's given me things, too. It's given me more compassion. And empathy. And understanding. It's shown me that love does not die--ever.
Maybe it's because the only ways I really can communicate--or pretend to communicate, or imagine that I am communicating--with those who are gone are 1) to dream about them and 2) to write.
At one point in my life, about 20 years ago, I became receptive to the concept of lucid dreaming--and for a while, it worked. And I can tell you for a fact that lucid dreaming is not bullshit; it is a legit phenomenon. I practiced and was able to "will" my dreams, at least partially. I kept a journal during that time and felt very connected to my psyche. But that was a long time ago. I was more emotionally agile and resilient then, less wounded, less jaded, less resigned to the fate that is mortality.
When I write about it now, the New Agey tone of the language embarrasses me--I think of how I used to go to Garland of Letters on South Street in Philly to by Champa and Patchouli or Woodstock chimes, but cringe when I saw the weekend Buddhists looking for some of the dharma--crystal healing and chakra balancing is not my cup of tea at all. But being able to conjure up a dream about someone I love who's gone--that, to me, was not New Age mumbo-jumbo. It was a real experience; a gift. But it's gone now, just like those I once held and hugged and laughed with, made love with, cradled, cared for--they're phantoms.
In the past 10 years, my once fanciful, once hopeful dreams have given way to nightmares and dull-aching, bottomless-pit dreams of eternal loss--the themes are similar, but the imagery varies: sometimes I'm reaching for my Mother, who's just inches away, but I'm blocked from touching her by an invisible glass wall; sometimes I'm hearing my brother's voice, but it's garbled, as if under water; sometimes I'm placing my baby in a cradle, only to realize upon closer inspection that it's actually a grave; sometimes, I'm holding a telephone receiver, trying to connect to a departed love, excited at the prospect of finally hearing his voice again, only to find that the number's been disconnected or that he's not "at home."
It's fucked up. It's ravaged me. It's taken my youth. It's taken my innocence.
But it's given me things, too. It's given me more compassion. And empathy. And understanding. It's shown me that love does not die--ever.
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