Grief never goes away... we just learn to live with it

In the grand tapestry of human experience, grief stands as a dark and luminous thread, binding us to the very essence of our existence. It's a peculiar beast, a sorrow that gnaws at each individual heart, as universal as breath yet as unique as a fingerprint. For all its ubiquity, grief remains a cypher, a riddle wrapped in an enigma, to borrow from Churchill.

Since my parents passed away and the sale of the family home, I instinctively avoided the stretch of road that was the theatre of our wonderful, messy, boisterous, and loving place of nurture. I'll never return to live in Ballina because the memories are too potent, happy and rich with remembered affection. I could never replicate them on return, and that void is thankfully absent when I'm engrossed in the present, filled with family and friends in Castlebar, my adopted home. 

But on this summer's day, an errand brings me by the old homestead; the sun is warm, the trees heavy with leaves, and I am unexpectedly sided by a rush of memory and its attendant grief as I drive slowly past the line of childhood haunts. I feel the absence of my parents keenly and all the attendant family bustle, scattered to the four winds as we are. I pick up speed, resolving my sorrow by visiting the quiet graves in Leigue, a stark reminder of the passage of time.

Grief is love's stubborn twin. It's the price we pay for having loved, for letting our emotions become entwined with another's. Seamus Heaney famously said: "If you have the words, there's always a chance you'll find your way." As a result, people have always sought to express their sadness, to fill the shapeless hole created by loss.

My drive through Kilmoremoy awakens a repository of memory, a flush of images and sensations stirring a personal and collective history. When in the first throes of grief, we are often drawn to specific locations as if the environment may provide comfort. This is why you will see people staring out to sea, their gazes focused on a horizon populated by the ghosts of loved ones who have passed on. It is why people continue to leave offerings at places of personal value, seeking consolation in rituals that bind them to their loss. And it's why I have avoided this stretch of road, as I realise the loss has been suspended, not ended.

The connection between grief and place is arguably best represented in numerous mourning practices worldwide. From Irish wakes to New Orleans jazz funerals, we assemble to honour the deceased. The body, or its symbolic form, is a physical anchor for our memories and grieving. This practice addresses our urge to locate our grief and physically present it. Perhaps that's why I can resolve my bout of sorrow by leaving it with quiet prayers at my parents' graveside.

In time, we traverse the intricacies of grieving and learn to recognise that mourning should not be "gotten over" or "moved past". It's a companion, sometimes unwanted, as on my trip past my childhood home, but always informative. It teaches us about the depth of our ability to love, our ties' strength, and our wounded spirit's tenacity.

Each loss leaves its own distinct emptiness in our hearts. In his novel The Sea, John Banville brilliantly expresses the individuality of grief: "The past beats inside me like a second heart." 

Our recollections of the past become ingrained in us, moulding our interior landscapes in the same way wind and rain sculpt cliffs.

We have become increasingly secular in recent years and might have had to discover new ways to express our sadness. However, faith and tradition remain universal sources of comfort, and many people resort to religious practice and customs in times of sorrow. Something in our shared human experience reacts to the spiritual connections to our forefathers and their methods of mourning.

The Stoics, for example, called for a type of anticipatory grief. Said Seneca: "Nothing, to my way of thinking, is a better proof of a well-ordered mind than a man's ability to stop just where he is and pass some time in his own company." 

The practice of memento mori, or remembering that we shall die, was not intended to cause sorrow but rather to heighten our appreciation for life and prepare us for unavoidable losses. A stroll around Leigue, the memory jarred by names long forgotten on already worn headstones, is both unnerving and oddly comforting.

Eastern philosophies provide diverse insights. In Buddhism, mourning is a natural consequence of life's impermanence. The idea is not to avoid grief but to face it with mindfulness and compassion. This technique invites us to sit with our sorrow, examine it without judgement, and use it as a springboard for greater understanding and empathy.

Contemporary philosophers such as Martha Nussbaum have also investigated the nature of mourning. In her book, Upheavals of Thought, Nussbaum contends that emotions such as sadness are not irrational disruptions but intelligent responses to our judgement of value and importance in the world. According to this viewpoint, our grief reflects what we value.

Perhaps the most philosophically rich way to mourn is to embrace it wholeheartedly, letting it wash over us like a wave on the coast of consciousness. We cry, moan, and laugh through our tears. We share stories about individuals we've lost, keeping them alive via our words and memories. We raise a drink to our absent friends and dependable partners. And by doing so, we honour the totality of life, with all of its joys and tragedies.

In the Christian experience, mourning is not the conclusion of the story. It's only a chapter, albeit a dark and stormy one, but one that leads to new dawns, new connections, and new loves. As diverse wisdom traditions tell us, humans dwell in each other's shelters. In our shared grief and joy, we find courage, solace, and hope for the future.

Grief is more than an emotion; it is also a profound, if unintended, philosophical statement. It declares that we have loved and valued our transient loves. It affirms our relationships, vulnerability, and courage in the face of unavoidable loss. Grieving is more than just suffering; it is one of the most fundamental human experiences that connects us to all who have come before and will come after.

Grief demonstrates the human potential for love, connection, and meaning-making in the face of life's most inevitable outcome: death. One of our most admirable qualities is the ability to care so deeply that losing a treasured companion shakes us to our core. Despite this shaking and breaking, we find the fortitude to rebuild, love again, and find new meaning.

But what about our grief for animals, those devoted companions who want so little but offer so much? In many mythologies, the link between people and animals is considered sacred. The degree of our mourning for animals is probably related to their imagined innocence. They love and forgive us wholeheartedly, with no guile or motive. We lose a genuine connection to something fundamental and simple when we lose them.

Not unlike the unwavering devotion of our loving parents.