The Storms of Loss

O.K., yeah, so, loss. Loss, really, when you think about, is so perplexing. We don’t talk about it at all, though we sure do feel it. I don’t need to go into the daily losses, because you know them intimately, even if you’ve grown inured to their pain, or oblivious to their presence.

The loss I’m thinking about now is the big one, the death of someone you really can’t live without. I mean, you can, because you must, but I’m thinking that I’m not the only person who walks around with two big honking knives (no, meat cleavers!)—one in my heart, and one in the middle of my forehead—related to the endless missing of at least one someone.

Tonight I was driving from Love Lane, again the sky an incredible pink, with magnificent blue clouds, thinking about how amazing it is that we live on a planet such as this, with such amazing wonders, and we drive in little gas-powered vehicles, slightly inebriated, and we hurt so bad. I mean, even if we’re happy we hurt.

Reggie, in a talk I was reading today, was saying that our body is made up of storms. You can feel it, if you settle down and tune in for a minute: sudden thunder strikes and lightening bolts and massive winds and rain. This goes on moment after moment, endlessly. Storms in our body. And you add to those storms the death of your childhood bestfriend, or your young husband, or the pain of just about the sweetest little furry girl you could ever imagine.

What are we doing here, on this planet? How do we deal with all this pain? I’ll tell you what I’m doing tonight, as Scout circles by the water bowl behind me, his feet caked with shit, his eyes two pointy blurs: I’m opening my shirt and splitting open my chest, and shoving out my heart and saying, “Here. See it? It’s been beating continually for 54 years—54 years!—and I will allow it to break over and over again, if it means I can love that much more kindly, sanely, and deeply.” (Please, please, let me do that.)

There. That’s what I’m doing with my loss tonight.

4 thoughts on “The Storms of Loss”

  1. Tonight with my loss I watched the loss of Uruguay while one brother snored on the sofa and my sister ate some bread. We are hot and sticky and tired and the shiva hasn’t even started yet. There are photos of my father everywhere. I am not in any of them because my mother, the photographer, left him while I was still inside of her and no one ever quite matched her ability with the lens. We buried him yesterday. I wore a stupid hat. Then my siblings and I escaped the crowds and went to our favorite hummus place in Ein Hod and stuffed our faces with soft pita and olives and delicious pastes. Just us.

  2. Tonight, with my loss, I’m eating a piece of fried chicken and reading your comment, while a dog (not mine, mine is too out of it to recognize fried chicken unless it’s put on his tongue), sits watching. I’m loving you, Noa, thinking about pita and the olives and the shiva and the dad, looming, as they do—but he did especially—so damn large, here or gone. He made you, and I raise my glass (and a drumstick) to him: Thank you, Mr. Ben Yehuda, and good journey.

  3. Reading this I try and choke back tears and deny the tragedy of losing Eamon. During the first few months after his death, inexplicably I experienced grief and euphoria simultaneously. Part of it was being confronted with my own mortality that gave me a renewed vitality, but also as you said “I will allow it to break over and over again, if it means I can love that much more kindly, sanely, and deeply.” I made that promise to myself and have found love in every new experience I’ve had, in everyone I have encountered, and everyone I am already so fortunate to have in my life. Thanks for this one Trish. I miss you.


  4. Oh, Han. I think about Eamon and you quite a bit. So of course Eamon would give you one more gift, and probably there will be other gifts from him throughout your life. I miss you, too.

    I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch–my life has been crazy. I’m doing a lot of travelling, but in September, let’s spend some quality time. Love, moi

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