What are you yearning for?

The National Parks of Emotion project and the connections I’m making with so many of you who have participated give me a sense of purpose and meaning during these uncertain times when I have no idea what’s happening next—among so many other things, when I’ll be able to see my family or close friends who live in the states. I’m in Canada, and I haven’t seen my parents since February 2020. My dad’s 80th birthday was this past week. They both received the vaccine, and I’m incredibly grateful for that, so it just feels like a matter of holding on and being patient. But it’s still really hard. I know so many of you are dealing with similar separations. I’ve received a couple submissions about the National Park of Yearning, and I related instantly. Here’s one that really hit me, I feel like I could have written it myself:

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It’s a deep valley and I’m at the very bottom, waiting to get out. I’ve been here since March. There are times when it feels like I have climbed for so long and I’m nearly out, nearly at the top. Like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. When I reach the top, I will get to see my family that I have been so desperately missing for 9 months—the US-Canada border keeping us apart.

But then the camera pans back out, and I see that I’ve still got a long way to go. The cases keep rising, the lockdowns continue, the border remains shut. I long to be reunited with my family. I think of how magical it will be when I see them again. 

I’ve experienced a particularly intense loss of a loved one before, so I am not completely unfamiliar with these feelings of missing and yearning and longing.

I yearn to be close to them, to hear my niece laugh again, to hold my nephew in my arms for the first time, to embrace my mother, to hear my dad tell a bad joke. We connect nearly every day virtually, but I yearn for real connection again.

— Anonymous, age 28

Yearning is an interesting emotion—given the current circumstances, I instantly think of it as an unpleasant feeling, but one of the participants wrote to me about how it can also be a pleasant feeling of longing. Maybe it’s a mixed emotion, in some cases, or perhaps it depends on what you’re yearning for, and why.

It’s been about a month since the last National Parks of Emotion Art Lab. So many of you have told me that you’re eager to hear about what’s happening with the project since then, and I’m eager to share. I’ll tell you what’s happening over the next while, as a series of Art Lab reports.

Meanwhile, what are you yearning for? Is it a pleasant or unpleasant feeling for you?

Magical Play

Play Passages came to life on Monday afternoon and it was magical—just what I pictured, but different of course because kids will always play in interesting, surprising, and beautiful ways. I created a space with the fabric images of the play memories, wood, bamboo and rope, but the kids brought it to life. For the adults in attendance, listening to the immersive play memories while watching the children, it was a good reminder of the importance of keeping in touch with play far beyond childhood.

I wanted to share some of the beautiful photos that came out of the event taken by my friend and gifted photographer Melanie Gordon, as well as a link to all of the final images and audio stories in the project, which you can view and listen to here.

Make sure to listen with headphones to get the full immersive experience, and if you have a chance, listen to them while you watch children play. Part of the fun is having the sounds in the stories and the sounds in real life bleed into each other.

The photo above is of my daughter—both of my kids and their friends played for hours in the installation. She is 9, almost 10. I felt immense joy seeing everything come together after thinking about the idea for many years, and developing it for a year and a half. She only has a couple of more years of childhood; I feel grateful I was able to make this project while she still wanted to play in it. But of course, I hope she never stops playing. I certainly haven’t.

Rhythms of Play

I find my art practice has its own rhythms, and I’m not always great at continuing to be in touch with people to keep them up with what’s happening. It’s especially like this when I’m starting new projects. I need to go into myself, and I find it hard to share publicly and be ‘out there’ at the same time that I’m incubating a new idea. Twyla Tharp, the choreographer, calls this “scratching”, and I really like that. It’s feels like I’m sniffing around, looking, listening, picking up things in the culture and that are on my mind, but that I don’t have exact questions for yet or an artistic form. It can be an uncomfortable place to be, but I’ve gotten better at being there, and sitting with that feeling of not knowing what’s next. Because I know eventually there will be movement, as long as I keep moving forward with curiosity. It’s definitely a type of play, and I’m getting better at it the more I allow myself to practice it.

I think this sense of movement, rhythms, and play can apply to many of us, no matter what is occupying our day to day. How do we move forward with curiosity in our lives, in the midst of what can often feel like the daily grind? It feels crucial for me; this sense of curiosity, continually pushing oneself, even a little bit, to do something new, to let oneself play.

I’m in a waiting period with Play Passages right now too (waiting to hear about a number of grants), and I’m “scratching” another new project that I can’t share yet. I hope to have more news to share soon. 

Meanwhile, how are you moving forward with curiosity and play in your daily lives? What are your creative rhythms?

Where did you play as a child?

I loved playing outdoors when I was a kid. This is a photo of me from when I was 6. You gotta love the jean leisure suit: 

I remember that day, exploring in the woods and wading in the river on a day trip to a neighboring town with my parents. And it was fun. But when I started looking for a photo of myself for this post, I realized that of course I don’t have photos of the hundreds of other times I played outside, because I was with my friends, and there usually were no adults around.

And that was even more fun.

There's no doubt that some of my most joyful childhood memories are of playing outdoors, when I created lots of imaginary worlds and adventures away from the watchful eyes of adults.

There have been many inspirations for Play Passages, but one of the primary ones is that since I had kids (I have two of them, they’re 8 and 5), I’ve became increasingly frustrated that it’s so difficult to give them the same freedoms and play opportunities that I had. And I don’t think it needs to be that way.

Fear in many forms seems to have trumped remembering what it felt like to really play, to take risks, to sometimes get hurt, to have a sense of wonder and possibility that wasn’t necessarily “productive”.

I found myself wondering what would happen if I started asking people to remember, what stories would come up? And if I asked them to play a little bit, take a small artistic risk, what would that process be like for people?

It’s not just about nostalgia (although of course thinking back on our childhood play can be very nostalgic). I don’t want to look at childhood play through rose-colored glasses—play is complex and it isn’t always a positive experience. 

I’m just extremely curious about so many things: what are our most vivid memories of playing outside and why do we remember them? What is the relationship between how we played as children and who we became as adults? How do we stay in touch with play over the course of our lives? And how do we give those same opportunities to our children?

I’m hoping this project will spark some of those conversations. And as usual, I’m drawn to making work anchored by a sense of place. I think asking about where we played as kids might lead to some interesting discoveries. (Side note: I also had many amazing play experiences indoors of course, but it’s the outdoor play that kids seem more deprived of, so I’m focusing on that for now).

I want you to start thinking about your play memories. If you can steal some time over the weekend, take a walk by yourself and think back to your childhood. Where and how did you play? With whom? How did it feel at the time? And how does it feel to look back on it now?

I’m really excited to see where this goes.

When was the last time you played?

As adults, how often do we have the opportunity to play? When was the last time you really let go, and did something creatively risky without a care about what came next?

That’s part of what Play Passages is about. In case you missed it, Play Passages is my new community art project that transforms people’s memories of childhood free play into art, and invites people to reconnect with playing a little in the process.

The first step in my research is to ask people to think back and remember a vivid outdoor play memory from childhood. It could be a specific story or just general memories of where and how you played, and with whom. And I’m also very curious about how it feels to look back on those memories. People write their stories down, and then comes the part where you get to play yourselves.

I tell people to draw a map of where they played with their eyes closed.

Yes, you read that right. Most people do a double take. I must be kidding, right? It sounds harder, at first glance. 

But here’s the amazing part—it’s actually easier for many people.

Up to a certain point as children, we all drew. And then many of us got the message that we were terrible at it, and stopped. 

Drawing with our eyes closed is a great way to short-circuit that inner critic. And what’s interesting is that even with our eyes closed, when we’re asked to draw a memory, our hands move smoothly over the page—we remember where everything was quite clearly and don’t need to look. And most importantly, it’s fun to let go, to see what comes out, to have that element of surprise when we open our eyes.

After making the drawing, then people are allowed to go nuts using watercolors (with their eyes open) to color in and flesh out their map however they want.

Ras Tanura Beach, Raymond Shih, 2017

This watercolor above was made by participant Raymond Shih; it’s his memory map of Ras Tanura, a beach in Saudi Arabia that helped ease his loneliness after moving from Toronto when he was 12.

Raymond is one of many people who contributed stories to Play Passages during EarthDay Canada’s pop-up adventure playground at the Toronto Archives, where I set up shop in late May.

You’ll be able to hear Raymond’s whole story, how he felt about the experience, and see how I used it as inspiration for a photograph very soon.

And start thinking back to your own childhoods! I can’t wait to hear your stories.

Lost Originals

One of my cyanotypes is the cover image for Lost Originals, the new collection of poetry by David B. Goldstein. In 2005, David and I decided to do a DIY artist colony with a group of friends. The cyanotype was made at the same time and place he wrote a lot of the book, at a strange old house we rented in Sintra, Portugal. The house on a hill had a warren of rooms, and was filled with a crazy amount of antiques and old dolls. It was a great source of inspiration for David, and for me as well (the cyanotype was created with keys found at the house).

I also have another image in the book from a series called “You Be the Arpeggio”, in which David wrote poems in response to some of my self-portraits.

You can buy a copy of the book here from BookThug Press, and in the Ottawa Poetry Newsletter you can read a beautiful essay by David about his writing process for the first part of the book (which also describes the kooky house in more detail). 

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You Be The Arpeggio, 2003

Chalkboard

Name: Carol Kummet

Age: 55

Tell me about the person who died: 

I was a new master of social work in 1992 when I first met Dr. Stu Farber, who was the medical director of a hospice program. Stu and I worked together for three years, after which I went to another hospice, while he moved to the Family Medicine Department at the University of Washington Medical Center and founded the Palliative Care Service there. In 2010 Stu called me to say that they were hiring a palliative care social worker, and I came back to join him. I was so lucky to be able to work on Stu's palliative care team. For four years, as a hospice and palliative care social worker and bereavement counselor, I cared for many patients and families, but I also ended up caring for Stu himself—my mentor, advocate, and friend—through his illness and death from leukemia. I'm not uncomfortable around grief and loss. Stu’s death, especially so shortly after the death of my mother, was unlike any sorrow I had ever felt.

Stu lived a life of service, teaching, and mentorship. His best teaching tool was his all out joy in the ability to be present for patients, families, and staff members who faced serious illness and uncertainty. Stu saw patients as people with stories, hopes, concerns, and strengths, and he trained generations of MDs to do the same. He taught us to apply our knowledge of the patient's story—what he called a patient’s “narrative thread”—to the medical care that person received. For example, he would challenge us to understand what, for each patient, was more important: fighting for more time in the hospital, or going home to be with family, even if it might mean less time alive. He loved to facilitate ways that families could support patients’ care, to allow them to die in their own homes, their own beds, with all they loved around them.

While Stu was dying, he wrote an essay about his experience in The Journal of Pain and Symptom Management. In it, he writes, “Personally, I always knew that I was going to die. I just didn’t believe it. Now I get it to my core. I am mortal. Knowing I am mortal is a sacred knowledge that makes each moment an awesome gift filled with opportunity for love, joy, and peace. It has transformed how I live my life. If I know I am mortal, then what is important? Sharing love and joy within my relationships: with myself, my wife, my family, my grandchildren, my friends, my colleagues, and the community in this very moment we are living.”

Stu died from leukemia on Feb. 27, 2014. 

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time? 

From the first I found that all I had been counseling the bereaved about was true, all so true. I could not concentrate, I became irritable, I gained weight, I experienced changes in my sleep patterns, and I felt an exhaustion that I worried would never lift. Please remember that Stu died just after my mother—these two people were such supports and advocates for me. I felt so vulnerable after their deaths.

Stu’s counsel about grief has helped me through the process of grieving him. In his essay, he writes, “Grief is neither a problem to be solved nor a disease to be cured. It is a process to be experienced and supported that has added richness and meaning to my life I did not know possible. Once again, grief has been one of the many paradoxes that has leavened my life.”

Now I have more energy and my other grief symptoms have subsided. I am now working on creating lasting legacies for both Stu and Mom as I continue in relationship with them.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss? 

Barren. Exhausted. The weight of the world on my shoulders. Vulnerable.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why? 

Stu and I were teaching a group of medical students the topic of grief and loss. He had such a great way of drawing out the students to make it safe for them to share their emotions. He asked the students for words to describe when they felt most alive, and wrote some of their comments on the super-old-school chalkboard: euphoria, freedom, peace, chronos, connected, authentic, colorful, laughter. I loved the look of it so I took a photo.

He also used "words that work" to elicit a patient's story. Those words are our outline in helping patients and their families tell their stories in light of their medical situation.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

What was helpful was when people listened and allowed me to tell stories. What was frustrating was people assuming I'd be “over it” more quickly than humanly possible.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?:

I had the amazing fortune to care for Stu with the help of Dr. Katie Schlenker. Katie and I were all too aware that we were the palliative care team for the palliative care team's director and mentor. Katie supported me in my grief.

Did anything surprise you about your experience with grief? 

How all-consuming it was.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning?

I needed to continue to offer grief support to others because of my job as a grief counselor, so I often cried in private. I learned a lot from my bereaved clients as they expressed their grief.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I'm from Minnesota and we are a people that talk about death and dying. That helped.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

My range of emotions is broader—I’m more sad about the small losses and more joyful about the small comforts.

I’ve been thinking about the way that Stu closes his essay on the process of his own dying. “As I gaze into mortality,” he writes, “love sits in the center of my consciousness. Love is the inspiration that creates my courage to move forward as a caregiver to my wife, a patient receiving care, a father accepting support from my children, and a human simultaneously living and inevitably dying in the miracle of this world. As I sit with my medical caregivers, I see fear of failure at the center of their consciousness, with death being the ultimate defeat. These professionals actively, albeit unconsciously, convey that living longer is always preferable to dying, but they fail to appreciate that the most important act is to support living in harmony with a narrative thread. It is another of the many paradoxes that I live within.”

Carol Kummet is a Minnesotan living in Seattle where she is a hospice and palliative care social worker.  Although a dog person, Carol currently lives with a cat named Lila in honor of her lovely aunt who died in 1996; she plans to adopt a dog once she retires. She loves her work, her family, reading, and quilting. 

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This is the last post from Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants shared an experience with bereavement, and I photographed an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. - Mindy Stricke

Iris

Name: Brandee Eubank

Age: 43

Tell me about the person who died:

My daughter, Erica, was the kindest, most generous, most sensitive person I had ever met. That sounds like something that a mother might say, but it’s true. Those are wonderful qualities but I remember wondering: how are you going to survive here, in this world? Everything affected her, deeply. I worried about her.

She was also a lot of fun. She loved to dance, goof around, camp, and explore; she loved animals, and color. She was drawn to beautiful things. After she died, seven years ago, one of the tattoos that I got in her memory was a bright blue bird. She was so beautiful, so full of energy, but so achingly fragile. 

And her skin. It sounds strange but I think about her skin a lot. She had the most beautiful porcelain skin. When I was around five or six, I imagined my future child. I remember wishing that she would have skin like Snow White, who I was obsessed with at the time. And she did—amazingly, because I don’t. She had smooth, white skin, and her cheeks flushed the loveliest pink. I remember how her skin looked, and what it smelled like through the years, and how it felt to press her to me. It’s unusual to see that exact complexion but when I do, my breath always catches.

I adored her. I had her very young, at seventeen. When I grew into adulthood it wasn't as my own person, it was as Erica's mum. I still haven't been able to quite figure out who I am beyond Erica's mum. It's like I lost my daughter and my identity at the same time.

I don’t always mention how Erica died and I suppose that comes from a place of protectiveness. Erica killed herself. I’ve heard the things people say about suicide and they are so often lacking in compassion or any real reflection. I am not sure I am prepared for people to think those things about my child, let alone say them out loud. Very often the act of suicide itself seems to overtake the entire narrative of a person’s life, reducing it to that one moment. She was a wonderful and complex being, and there was so much more to her story. I’ve only recently started to be more open about the choice she made but it still makes me fearful. I wish people were less reflexive in their responses because we do, societally, need to have these conversations.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

I cried every day for over a year after she died. My husband would leave for work, I would wait until I knew he hadn’t forgotten anything at home and the coast was clear, and I would start crying. Sometimes I watched TV shows that we had watched together–Gilmore Girls, America’s Next Top Model–and even comment out loud, as though she was there. I wandered the property and wailed like a wounded animal. Sometimes I would forget that the sound was emanating from me and I would startle and look around to see what kind of animal that was. I would pretty much cry on and off all day until about an hour before he was due to arrive home and then I would wash my face and rub ice under my eyes to get the swelling down. As if he wouldn’t notice. 

I don’t cry often anymore. My eyes well up but I hold back the tears and keep moving. I still play the what-if game (if I had done this, not done that, if she had been here and not there, if, if, if...) in my head all the time but I hide a lot of what I’m going through. I don’t know if it’ll ever end. The other day it occurred to me, “Hey–you know that you’re going to die, too.” And it was a relief to remember that.

I’m a wreck. But I present well.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

Oftentimes it feels like a vast desert. Windy, bare, desolate, beige. Other times it looks normal, except that I’m separated from everyone by this bubble that has closed around me. For all intents and purposes, there’s nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that I cannot fully connect with anything. There is something intensely isolating about being able to see everyone and everything happening around me but knowing that I am removed, separate, inside of this bubble that I don't remember creating.

Tell me about something that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Erica drew me a picture of an iris at school one day and I still have it. It’s a bright purple flower and next to it she wrote, “Mom, you’re like a perennial. Beautiful and every year you’re still a blossom.” It made me laugh. I loved it. I kept it up until I realized it was losing its color and then I put it away. I keep it with her ashes now. But I have several purple irises tattooed on my forearm because it’s a memory that makes me smile.

How did the people in your life support you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

My husband has been my biggest, and sometimes sole, support. He’s been tremendous, mostly in having no expectations of me. He’s never pressured me to be anything other than exactly what I am in the moment. He doesn’t ask me to talk but he’s there to listen if I choose to speak. I can cry, not cry, demand to be alone, need him near me. He rolls with my moods, I don’t have to explain myself to him. That acceptance and freedom has saved me.

I was surprised by some of the reactions of friends and acquaintances. I think people are afraid of death, and the death of a child is the scariest. Some people reacted like I might be contagious. Others wanted, almost immediately, to know how I was moving forward. What positivity I had been able to find in the situation. One female family member told me, about a month after Erica’s death, that if it was her she’d use the experience to try to help other people through similar situations instead of thinking about herself. She didn’t have children at the time.

How did your private grieving relate to your public mourning? 

I haven't mourned publicly, outside of those instances early on when I broke down before I could escape a situation. I'm a little bit like an injured animal in that way. I prefer to slink off and deal with my wounds in private. Even seven years later, when I allow the myself to really experience the pain it leaves me howling and gasping. People may say that they want me to share, but no one wants to really see that kind of thing. And I don't say that in a self-pitying kind of way. I don't want to share that with anyone either. I don't think I could even force myself to be that vulnerable in front of anyone.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I sometimes wish that I believed in an afterlife. That I would see her again. But in some ways it's better that I don't. I briefly entertained the possibility after she died and I panicked, wondering if I should die immediately too, so that I could be there for her. What if she needed me? She must need me. And maybe there was some time limit, for catching up to a person after death. That was a crazy period. 

What helped me was looking outside of my own Western culture. The self-help books, grief counseling, “finding positivity in negative events”, talk therapy–none of it is stuff I can relate to. It made me feel even worse for a while, that I couldn't move forward in the expected ways. But then I remembered a documentary I had seen, I don't know about what, and the documentarian is walking through this village and an old woman is sitting on her porch, crying. She looks miserable. And one of the villagers says, matter-of-factly, "Oh, that's (so and so). Her son died many years ago. Sometimes she cries." Sometimes she cries. And no one is freaking out or dragging her to therapy or suggesting a book she should read. 

People all over the world lose children every day and they're not expected to "do something" about it. It doesn't make me special to have lost a child, it's just sad. And I don't have to develop a mission statement around that sadness.

How did your loss and your experience of grief change you?

I’m kinder now. It’s part of trying to carry her forward but it’s also because after she died I wondered with whom she had come into contact that day, or the day before, and whether they had shown her any kindness. Was someone nice to my child? Or did she not interact with anyone in a gentle way before she died? Since she had recently moved to another province, I don't know these things. So I am hyperaware that everyone is someone’s child, and I want them to know kindness and love. 

The downside of that is that I am even more sensitive to the harm we do each other and I don’t know if that’s something I needed heightened. Every time I hear a bigoted statement, or a cruel comment, or a selfish position, I am just gutted. Someone's child is hearing those words. 

At the same time, the little things (and most things are little things) don't bother me anymore.

Brandee Eubank lives with her husband, Shane, and their beloved golden retriever, Ben, in a small house on the Alberta prairies. Together they run a small business and in her free time she writes.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants shared an experience with bereavement, and I photographed an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Wedding Ring

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Wedding Ring, 2016

Name: KS

Tell me about the person who died: 

My husband was on a mountain climbing trip when an earthquake hit. Large pieces of the mountain fell and crushed several climbers, and he died. 

He was my best friend. We had known each other for 15 years before we got married, and had similar values and temperaments. 

He was also a supportive partner. I am Asian and many of us are still pretty traditional. Even among my generation, there are certain traditional expectations that remain in many of our psyches, such as the onus of housekeeping being on the woman, whether she works or not. Given this, I really appreciated his non-traditional view that both partners play an equal role in housekeeping and child-rearing. Because I had his full support, I was able to pursue a demanding career and yet feel secure as a wife and mother.

Part of my regret is that my children will never see what a good man their father was. Though I know they can also see good values embodied in other people like myself or their aunts and uncles, I wish they could experience what it is like growing up with a father who truly believed in gender equality and the need for female empowerment in our society.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

I felt completely lost for a while, regarding my identity, purpose, priorities, what needs to be done, and how to do things that were usually his job, like the bills. Now I am in the middle of forging a new sense of self, and learning how to do things I never knew how to do before. It feels overwhelming at times, but I just tell myself, “Who would have thought I'd know how to do this?” and press on. 

For a long while I couldn't feel much of anything apart from grief. Often I would smile at or play with my children, while being conscious of feeling numb inside. Though this sensation remains, I have also begun to able to feel grateful about the little blessings.

Most of all, I feel that my grieving is... stunted? I felt as though I never was able to mourn for him properly as I was pregnant and then busy with caring for my children while working and settling all the necessary and numerous post-death matters. I look forward to the future when my children are grown up and I can go off somewhere just to mourn for him for as long as I want.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

I associate my grief with darkness. It is nights that I miss him the most; when we would come home and be with the children, when we would put them to bed, when we would have our quiet time together. It is nights now when I finally have some quiet time to mourn for him, to grieve and think of him, to pray for him.

When I look forward to having the time and opportunity in the future where I can go off somewhere to finally mourn for him as long as I want, I imagine it inexplicably as an airport hotel overlooking the runway, or a chalet by the beach. Maybe it is because they remind me of places we often found ourselves, or maybe I unconsciously find something soothing about planes in flight and the sea.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Due to the nature of his death, I couldn't see his body. Also, he died in another country, and when his body arrived, he had to be buried almost immediately. I literally had only minutes with him during the funeral. 

But before the funeral began, someone passed me his wedding ring. It was a simple and broad titanium band. It was badly chipped. When I saw it, I broke down. Part of it was grief, but part of it was gratitude to that person who had thought it important to return it to me. 

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

I found people who gave me space most helpful. I found people who imposed themselves on me frustrating. And I found people who belittled my feelings hurtful.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

Some people talked about him or their grief about his death openly. That was how they coped. For me it was different. I could not and did not like to talk about it. A year on, and I still dislike talking about it, though I am better able to now.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning?

They are unrelated. Generally I do not show my grief publicly and go about my life as usual. But that makes living exhausting.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I am a Muslim. We believe that while God gives us free will, a few things are predetermined like our time of death. That helped stop me from dwelling on thoughts like, "If only he hadn’t gone on that trip.” I also took comfort that he died on a day and in a way that was described in the Quran as a “good” day and way to die. So that helped me to be less self-absorbed in my grief as I reminded myself that there are signs his death might have brought him eternal bliss. I cannot know for sure, of course, but since he was destined to die that moment, it could have been worse... God took him in ways that seem blessed, and for that hope I am thankful.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

Scheduling, time management: this helped me to manage my life and my children better and gave me some sense of control and accomplishment, reinforcing the belief that I can do this on my own.

Having my own time at night, after the children are asleep or between night feedings. To cry, to mourn, to talk to him or to God.

Putting my phone away when I feel particularly weak. Communicating “normally” with people or surfing the web somehow sap my energy. So staying away from my phone helps me to conserve energy and I get back to it when I feel stronger.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you?

It shifted my priorities—how I live and why I live. I used to want it all: family, career, friends, everything. Now I just live for my children, and have very little desire for anything else. 

It has made me weaker, and stronger. Before, I could never have imagined the dark depths my mind has gone into, and yet my ability to come out of it each time has made me better realize my strengths.

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story. 

Rocks

Name: Pam Hoffman

Age: 34

Tell me about the person who died:

The expression "two’s company, three’s a crowd" has never really applied to my sisters and me. More like “two’s company, three’s a party.” Fast-paced words, comical hand gestures and facial expressions—our own unique brand of communication when together. We didn’t start out as three; for six years Katie and I were just two. (Katie was 22 months older.) Then came our “bonus baby”—Wendy. The dynamic of our trio is such that we have always rotated roles. No one person was ever consistently in charge or consistently left out.

The three of us were raised in a way that celebrated our individuality. We were privileged to grow up in an environment that not only permitted but encouraged us to find our own paths. While Katie would be in the “art room” working on her latest creative project or curled up on the couch lost in a book, I would be tearing around the garden on my bike or practicing my netball shots for hours in the backyard, while Wendy would be rehearsing her latest dance routine or Disney movie scores for a performance in our hall later that evening. Katie always used her talents to help Wendy and me as children—she would happily make an animal sculpture out of Wendy’s mashed potatoes (only then would Wendy eat it) and do my music theory homework for me (which took me hours and her mere minutes).

We weren’t perfect. We have had many challenging moments with one another. Fortunately, the older we got, the closer we became. We grew to celebrate our differences and have always found joy in our similarities. For Katie and me, absence really did make the heart grow fonder. The distance between us once she moved to the UK from South Africa became a bridge, and after tumultuous teenage years we developed a truly exceptional long distance relationship. The close and genuine relationship we as sisters have all had with one another as adults is a great comfort to Wendy and me since Katie's death.

Katie died from suicide on June 5th, 2014. Depression is a terrifying illness which steals the best and brightest from us. I know I did the best I could for my sister. I choose not to define her by the way she died, but by the way she lived. I choose to remember her for all her light and not her darkness. I choose to look for the beauty in my grief. I choose to honour her life as a custodian of her legacy.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss?

Mourning the loss of my sister is an ongoing process. Some days the sadness feels overwhelmingly heavy; other days it's a gift to wake up feeling light and to appreciate the feeling of normality. Losing my sister felt like being in a time warp: things moved so slowly and yet incredibly fast. Thinking back, there are events and spans of time I can hardly recall at all. Running on adrenaline for months with a fierce desire to control the bureaucracy around her death, organize the events related to it, and look after the rest of my family, especially my younger sister, led to weight loss, anxiety and withdrawal from my usual social routine. This has improved with time (and a lot of therapy!) but what I can only describe as “loss panic” is still a far too easily accessible emotion. Grief doesn't leave me, it just becomes less suffocating. To seek “closure” for my sister’s death feels traitorous. It's not something I want to “get over,” it's something I want to hold and respect. 

The timeline of grief is very difficult to describe, as are the accompanying experiences. In the beginning there's a huge wave of compassion and support, but a month later I felt like everyone had moved on and forgotten. Key dates such as her birthday and the day she died are now moments I crave ritual around, but can't yet find a satisfyingly concrete action for. Grief is always shifting, moving, changing. Ironically, grief comes out of death but feels fiercely alive.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like?

Katie lived in the Highlands of Scotland for many years. I have visited the area many times and find great comfort in the barren, windswept, cold and rugged landscape. The beauty in apparent desolation is what really hooks me. It's knowing that there's beauty where others can't necessarily see it. Beauty in pain, beauty in death, beauty in grief. The paradox is very powerful to me and a really important touchstone; it helps save me from going down a rabbit hole of despair.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Rocks and boulders. Ideally large ones at the seaside (Cape Town is littered with them and we spent hours playing and picnicking on and around them as children and as adults). No two are alike and they look so different from every angle. They're always more than meets the eye, either from a distance or when examining their surfaces from up close. The boulders here literally shine when you look at them closely because of the quartz in them.

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

An unexpected by-product of Katie's death was, for the first time, being able to say no to people. My world shrank to the bare essentials overnight and I didn't have my usual capacity for people. Some were very supportive and understanding of my needing space and time, others less so. This allowed me to do a long overdue sorting of people I really wanted in my life from those who were superfluous. Death by suicide also comes with a lot of stigma, with many people making incredibly judgemental and insensitive comments. I don't think these were meant to be cruel, I just think some people don't think before they blurt. I've become acutely aware of how difficult people find it to talk about death, and to let me talk about my sister. The best moments are from those who do remember to ask. It is the most thoughtful, compassionate and comforting act for someone to ask me to tell them about Katie. Not her death, but her life. For them to actually ask how I am, for them to listen, truly listen and just be there, without trying to make things better or fix what can't be fixed.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

I tend to think of the groups of grievers for Katie as concentric circles. The inner circle housed my parents, myself, and my younger sister Wendy. My parents are divorced, but both are remarried, so they had their spouses for support. Wendy has a long-term partner and I have my husband, so we were all very fortunate. I experienced all of our partners as a forcefield around our inner family circle. 

We did implode in our own unique ways at different stages. My mother was stoic, but completely broken. My father, who hadn't known how severe Katie's depression had become, was shocked and traumatized, spilling over emotionally in what I considered inappropriate ways. My younger sister Wendy and I seemed mostly on the same page; however, to this day she hasn't wanted to know the details of how Katie died. This isn't a secret, but just a place she doesn't want to go. Wendy and I felt responsible for managing our parents, and I felt responsible for looking after Wendy. 

Our cousins, aunts and uncles were the next ring of the circle. I think they just maintained a holding pattern in typical WASP fashion because they had no idea what to do. Katie's friends were wonderful. To this day I feel that through Katie's death I gained more sisters. Even though they were grieving themselves they never asked anything of us, they just helped and supported and did whatever was needed. They were the “me” I felt like I couldn't be to anyone other than Wendy at that point, and for that I am forever grateful to them. 

Then the outer ring were people whom I didn't even know. Friends and colleagues of Katie's who sent messages of support, cards, flowers, and memories of what she had meant to them. I often feel people can't really appreciate how comforting these small acts of kindness are. 

Overall, we all initially felt shock and despair, but then moved in very different ways of processing what had happened to us as a family, us as sisters, us as individuals. These have been fragile paths. I'm always aware of not wanting to upset anyone in my family; I don't want to say the wrong thing or start an emotional snowball. At the same time I feel this has left us all in quite isolated spaces of grief. I'm now in a place where I really want to talk about her, to share memories and focus more on her life than on her death. This is still delicate territory though.

Has anything surprised you about your experience with grief?

I'm surprised by how strongly my survival instinct kicked in at first. While everyone else fell apart I was the most organized, efficient, proactive member of the family. I've found it fascinating to be able to look back and reflect on my own behaviour, how all of my usual personality traits intensified, both the good and the bad. I probably ran on adrenaline for the first year or so after Katie's death and had to work hard at coming down from that, feeling okay about feeling okay—that this wasn't a betrayal—and managing the shockwaves of grief that sometimes still come out of the most unexpected places. When I do have the chance to share with others who have experienced loss I have found it a privilege to be able to talk, listen, cry, or just be present. Grief can be a gift if you choose to embrace it rather than bracing against it.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning?

Public mourning has been a challenge for me. My vocation involves looking after others, so I find it very hard to allow others to look after me. I feel I need to be reliable and consistent, and tell myself that there is no space to fall apart at work. In a way my work has always been a safe place of competence. A place where I enjoy being seen as someone who does a good job, helps others, and doesn't even have a bad day. It's a mask, as everyone has bad days, but I wouldn't let anyone see this in public. Privately I let loose a bit more, and I've had to work very hard on not feeling compelled or obliged to be there for everyone else in my family. I do worry about being a burden to my husband: at what point will he run out of patience with having a wife who spontaneously combusts into a flood of tears for no apparent reason? I sometimes wish I could have a meter on my forehead, ranging from good to very fragile, so I wouldn't always feel the need to explain myself. Someone could just look at the meter and know where I'm at and give me a hug.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

In the wake of Katie's death I have wished, many times, that I was a religious person. Religion gives you ritual, and ritual around grief is something I feel I'm still grasping at straws for. However, when it comes to belief in the afterlife, this doesn't bother me at all. Katie is free; she no longer has to feel a pain which had become unbearable to her. I know she's fine wherever she is. It's being left behind that's the hard part. If I keep perspective, if I breathe, if I don't dwell in the past and if I fight the urge to try to control the future, the present is manageable in most moments, and for that I'm grateful. The present is all any of us have.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

I love photography and developed a personal ritual after Katie's death. Taking pictures is a creative outlet I find satisfying and rewarding. Whenever I feel an overwhelming sadness I look around and try to find something beautiful to photograph, to remind me that there's still beauty, even in grief. “Beauty in grief” has become a mantra of sorts for me, a silver lining, a reminder of Katie, of a beautiful life and of so much still to live for.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you? 

I think I'm more empathic toward other people's grief now than I would have been in the past, and I feel far more equipped to be helpful. To not shy away from the pain or the tears, to be there in the long term, not just during the initial shock, to not offer advice or try to make things better, but just to listen and support. I also feel I'm more selfish with my emotional resources. While I'll pour love into relationships that are reciprocal, I find it challenging to be in places and spaces which I don't feel are engaging or nurturing. Less is more, and my life is a lot simpler than it used to be.

Pam Hoffman is a Clinical Social Worker living with her husband and house rabbit in Cape Town, South Africa. She enjoys buying more books than she has time to read, loves caring for her indoor jungle which is taking over the apartment, has a penchant for things being organized neatly and is partial to tea and cookies on a daily basis. 

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This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story.