when there is no there there

"How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or living in it.         

How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, or if you have to."                                                                   

Alexandra Fuller, Scribbling The Cat

I don't think I'm supposed to be here, either that or nothing is going to make sense for a long time. My aunt S. described it like this: When you're in a place of crossing a bridge nothing that used to feel good gives pleasure any more, that which used to trouble us slips away, leaving us to feel almost nothing except emptiness, in between-ness.

This is the way I describe it: When I'm in a place where I know I used to feel good or what have you, I reach back into the Shuna library and try to produce that old, appropriate emotion. It is especially pertinent when I'm around strangers or acquaintances. You could tell someone a hundred times why you're sad, but they won't remember if they don't have to.

Grief is nothing you can prepare for. It steals everything leaving you with realistic skeletons,(the stuff you own looks the same but does not comfort), fooling the eye by keeping everything "the same." Dumps flour on the world, leaves you breathless and choking. It dulls pain and pleasure alike, with no end in sight. Makes your own body the enemy, your home brittle and sharp and cold. It's this small monosyllabic word, seemingly completely innocuous.

Now and then there's a moment. I seek comfort and I can grasp it. Two different apples cool and wet from the rain and crisp from early autumn frosts; a Mutsu and a Macintosh. They taste like a childhood sprinkled with picking wild apples, a college surrounded by old apple orchards. Apples are what New Yorkers take for granted until they move away. Every person in every place has this. It's the scent of someones shoulder when you embrace, the way they always dress in childlike stripes, the texture of soft hand-knit sweater and the remembering of holding the ball of yarn when they did so, home is a place so vast with intricate knots and textures, flavours and smells, sour moments and sweet, yet it is like catching a wily slippery fish. Memories sharp and clear torture and delight. Is it possible to go home?

Comments

[Dr. Biggles]

I carry my home with me, that way I'm usually there. It makes for smiley mornings.

Biggles

[Anne]

Breathtaking writing and one of the best characterizations of grief I have ever seen.

[chronicler]

One of mine is orange sherbet. Long walks uphill to buy a nickel cone with a very tall englishman who insisted it be orange sherbet. I go back to that street, and it is not there. Bit the memory of it lingers still.

Home is where the heart is dear one. So yes, you're always home. even when they've redecorated.

[wendy]

You need to return to Oakland where there is truly no there here. NYC seems to exaggerate all feelings to an extreme. When my father died I was totally numb for quite awhile and then the grief started to roll in like waves. Sometimes the feelings were overwhelming and wiped me out -- other times I felt cleansed by the chill flowing through me. I think it helps to embrace the emptiness, acknowledge your feelings, share your loss -- I appreciate you expressing your thoughts...

[kudzu]

Oh, Shuna -- My heart was in my throat when I read your words today. Though my loss can in no way compare to your own grief, I have beeb feeling much the same. I just left the house I have lived in for more than half my life. I am not able to move into the next space for a week and am wandering around feeling very homeless myself, away from the comforts and smells and sounds I was grounded in.....I an sure we will both survive and the pleasures will return, however blind-sided we will be from time to time by what we have lost.....It's wondrous to watch your growth as a writer during this painful period of your life and in spite of what you are enduring. Corragio.

[ruby]

Grief is like a mighty river roaring towards the open sea with it's
depth, twists and turns. It often feels like the psyche has no
refuge as it tumbles along. When my dad was snatched out of
my life, emptiness took a strong hold. Years later a wise woman
told me to manifest the great traits of him in myself.
Those words somehow transformed me.

Your writing is excellent and deep. I've gone on many a divine
eating expedition tracing your travels in my mind. I even
did a drive-by at the local Popeye's!

Thanks for allowing me a peek into your world.
Ruby