The way March feels

When 'imaginary' friends die

I shared this poem last week, but it is not done with me so I’m sharing it again. I have stared at it for so long — reading it a million different ways.

We read most things from left to right, top to bottom. But you can literally read this poem in almost any direction. Braiding and unbraiding it.

As we embrace the past we begin to unbraid the grief we bury into light across our faces.

As we resist the present we work to understand the grief we wield as ash across our faces.

And so on and so forth. My favorite way to read it is by repeating, “the grief the grief the grief the grief.” A worthy chant.

But someone in my Lenten book group made this observation about the poem:

You can take so many paths. There are alternatives on every line. But no matter which path you take, you have to go through the grief.

No truer words were ever spoken.

It is a poignant truth to face during Lent — and March in the Midwest — 40 days in the wilderness. And in a way, it leads us back to acceptance. Our life’s work. Holding our sorrow and grief with our hope, gratitude, and joy.

Imaginary friends

I recently bought Chelsea Granger’s book, “So many ways to draw a ghost.” Here is an excerpt from the introduction:

This book was made because I want to talk about death. Because I want to talk about grief. Because I believe we need to talk about it more than we do. Because when she died I wanted something like this. This book exists because I believe in art. Because I think our stories matter, because I think our grief matters. Because maybe one person who reads this might feel less alone. With this book I invite the dead to sit at the table and for us to sit there with them. May our grief deepen our presence and our joy.

It is pure genius and pure beauty.

In it, she talks about offering up your grief. I love the idea of creating rituals for loss: little ceremonies, altars, offerings.

One thing I have struggled with is the sort of “imaginary” nature of losing something you never had. Ambiguous loss.

- Chelsea Granger

A few years ago, this idea of grief being love with no place to go started circulating in pop culture (I think it had something to do with the show WandaVision).

It was everywhere, and it felt like a personal affront. What about me? The person I lost never actually existed. How could I love them? Am I not experiencing grief?

I wonder if I have thought too literally about love. A friend once suggested that this concept could be looked at through the lens of not having anywhere to put the love I have. I can see that.

-Chelsea Granger

Grief can be insidious in how it demands understanding. Answers. Clarity. But at the end of the day, I don’t need to understand love or grief or their relationship or what it means to lose something I never had.

Just this morning, my friend sent me an article Kerry Egan recently wrote about watching her young daughter grieve the moment her stuffed animals stopped being real for her.

“They never really did come alive, I know that, but in my imagination they did.” She turned to me with white-hot anger. “My imagination is gone and you never told me this would happen.”

Now, I’m not suggesting that this is a perfect metaphor for infertility. But in some ways, it speaks directly to me about aspects my experience.

My imaginary friend. My imaginary life. My very real love. My very real loss.

No love is ever wasted. Even if the stuffies never were alive. Even if the stillborn baby never existed. Even if the love is unrequited. Even if the love leads to heartbreak. Even if the relationship doesn’t last. Even if it ends in pain, betrayal or death. Even if the objects of love were imaginary. — Kerry Egan

Tokens of acceptance, offerings of grief

Last week, I decided to lean into my acceptance era. The line in the sand where you stop fighting grief and welcome it into your life with all its everything.

I decided I needed something tangible. To almost say to myself, “I’m still here.” It’s a bit of an offering in its own way. Maybe Chelsea Granger would be proud.

Meanwhile, my good friend’s grandma died. Her name was Dorothy. She was so special. She made everyone feel like they were at home.

My friend stitched one of her final sentiments.

Thread and color on cloth. Stickers on water bottles. Photos and candles and flowers on little altars. What are your tokens of acceptance? How do you offer your grief up? How do you pull up a chair for your ghosts?

See you next week <3