Blue sky above grey clouds

 

One of the easiest things to forget on cloudy days is the presence of the hope-filled blue sky above.

Likewise, it’s so easy to forget when we are encumbered by grey cloud emotions that what exists beyond it is a blue sky more hope-filled reality above it.

There is a blue sky above, on the sunny days when life is easy, and also on those harder, darker, cloudy days and seasons.

We often need to be reminded. I know when I have suffered my darkest days, it’s almost like I have no insight for that blue sky above that reigns resplendent as an ever-present irrepressible reality. I so quickly forget that the blue sky exists beyond the cloudy circumstances of my life.

Isn’t it a cosmic irony, when we most need to see the hope-filled blue sky above, we are encumbered by this darker grey cloud that drives us into an oblivion of despair.

The opposite reality is also true, because we see people full of hope when we are in the grips of grief, and it can feel harsh and isolating when people rejoice when we are mourning.

The sky is always blue, no matter what  
I otherwise feel is true.

The sky is blue, no matter what
I’m going through.

Those Long Lonely Grief Walks

Reminiscing these days brings a giddy delight for the days of wandering streets and roads alone with only music and my sorrows to accompany me.  I was finding a new life hard to acclimatise to, yet the unadorned life of simply strolling and pondering seemed intractable.  

Whether I was home or walking, those alone times I’d often wonder if life would ever work out.  And it has.  I suppose I never imagined life straightening out, though I couldn’t help but hope.  When there’s nothing else, hope is too attractive to ignore.  

That season 20 years ago now was about as stark as anyone can imagine.  We don’t have any comprehension of suffering until we’ve walked that dreaded path.  From my late mother’s records, she attests to the pain she witnessed: “Five months on and he is still doing it hard.  Wish I could take away his hurt and pain but all I can do is be here to listen to him and show my love and support for him.”  (25 February, 2004)

Five months on.  I remember it as much as it was yesterday.  Yet what 20 years does is add a silver lining.  I go back to that five-month-post-divorce version of me and I see the unsteady courage of making a new way.  

I write these words for the person or their supporter who is climbing their own Everest of grief outbound of loss.  It was incomprehensibly tough, though each day had its own unpredictable rhythm, which added to the instability of the season.

It’s the parts of the day where there is no escape into a working mindset that are hardest; much of that time I would walk, or if I were immobile I’d sob.  I think it’s pretty important to be honest about myself, a grown man, crying.  Such was the sorrow I experienced for the pain of loss, so often missing my young daughters, I was beside myself in pain.  

But those long lonely grief walks somehow helped, even if I could not escape the pain that insisted upon abiding.

Grief always takes longer than we would like it to take.  All I can say is, notwithstanding the pain of it, believe things will get better and slowly they do.  Enjoy the distractions that give a reprieve to the pain, but don’t deny the pain when there is no easy way out.  

The redeeming feature of those long lonely walks is revisiting those ‘ancient’ treks once out the other side — even if that’s 5, 10, 15, 20 years later.  There comes a time in venturing these well-worn furrowed paths when the mirror-image realisation takes place — an enormity of gratitude for what you got through.