"... I think of the people
who’ve gone before me
how I carry echoes of them
like layers of ash
debris I’ve collected
and cannot discard... "
This time of year is a particularly poignant one for me as two members of my immediate family died in this past week, a year apart from each other. I’ve touched on bereavement in an earlier blog, and I know that it’s a subject that will resonate with almost everyone.
Throughout my life, I’ve found different ways of relating to death. As a child and young adult, I fully embraced the Roman Catholic tradition in which I was brought up, but from which I later departed. These days, I don’t align myself to any religion or faith, and I find nature my best option when considering most things for which I need a reference point beyond myself. Does that make sense? I hope so, because I can’t think of a better way of explaining it.
Nature has a life cycle that, in many ways, matches our own, just on a different timescale. Trees are a great example, and I’ve found them such an inspiration for life in general and for my poetry in particular. Here in Iceland, I’ve encountered glaciers and the lakes that form due to melting ice, ultimately leading to the sea. It got me thinking about life and how we can’t always control how our journeys end, when we might die or how long it might take. Sitting by the lake at the tongue of the glacier, I felt I was watching the ice slowly die. Ice breaks off and floats in the lake until it finally melts. The icebergs are graceful, beautiful, and yet, at the same time, seemingly helpless. I couldn’t help but think that, after all those years of slowing moving down the mountain, splitting from an enormous glacier above, the ice will simply vanish without trace.
And yet, every iceberg tells a story. They display visible layers of ash, from volcanic eruptions, in much the same way as rock reveals layers of seismic activity in its structure. We too carry traces, some visible and others not. I’ve lost count of the physical scars present on my body, evidence of various accidents that involved broken bones and/or open wounds. Stitches leave scars that eventually fade but never totally disappear. Neither can I calculate the ways that my life has been enriched by others who I’ve loved and lost. It can be little things, like the way I polish my shoes or parallel park the car (just as my father taught me), to life changing decisions, due to the words or actions of a loved one. It was remembering the advice of a very dear friend, that led me to step down from a temporary promotion at work. It was one of the toughest but best decisions I ever made.
Truth is, we internalise the influence of others all the time, some of it conscious and some unconscious. You might not always welcome it: I hear both my parents in my head these days when I say something out loud and I recognise my mother’s mannerisms in my facial expressions. I purposefully make choices every day to live life to the full, to honour those who no longer have the luxury of doing so.
I don’t have any answers. I don’t know if there is any form of life after death but I have memories that still feel very much alive; I believe that means a part of that person lives on in me. At this time of year, when I’m remembering my loved ones, I miss them of course, but I also feel deep gratitude. I’m thankful that they were part of my life, and they left their mark on me, which means I continue to cherish them. I don’t think they would want me to feel sad but rather celebrate what they were and, in some way, still are. On a bright day at Svínafellsjökull, I felt sad yet glad at the same time.
fi wynne writes 