I've been thinking and thinking and thinking, and writing and deleting, writing and deleting. But I'm not a writer. I can never fully explain my thoughts in words. I'm frustrated my inability to choose the right words to describe precise feelings. Most of the time, that's okay. I'm happy to be able to read the writings of people who do have that gift. You are one of those writers who make me answer your essays out loud, shouting "Yes! Exactly! That's what I WISH I had the words to say! Thank for saying what I couldn't in such an eloquent way. Thank you for making me feel less alone in my thoughts." I've missed your writing so very much over the past year. But since reading about Mila's death, I've felt compelled to figure out a way to write something, anything, because I can't cross the border into my own goddamn country, and drive to your farm and find you in the woods, lay prostrate at your altar next to you and let all the tears flow into the earth until we are both too exhausted to continue for the moment. I'd sit on the ground next to you, pour a warm mug of tea, and listen to everything you'd be gracious enough to share about Mila and yourself. I'd be there for it all.
But then, it would never be enough. Just a tiny little grain of comfort, utterly insubstantial to face the mighty power of an ocean of grief. So I'd do it again and again. Until there was a little pile of comforting sand that lasted through the storm and remained on the beach after the waves receded. You could sift it through your hand as you sat there catching your breath.
They do, you know. Recede. Those giant waves of grief crashing over you again and again so that you struggle to keep your head above water and gasp for breath and scramble wildly for the surface. Sometimes you don't want the storm to ever stop raging, because it feels like that is where you are closest to them.
I'm struggling with what I've written so far and all the rest of what I want to share with you. I want to delete the part where I make myself out to be a stalker and invader of privacy (I swear I'd dither on the edge of your property and drive away so as not to bother you). I want to share more of my own experiences in the hopes that they would make you feel less alone too. But the truth is, no one will grieve Mila's death as you will. Your pain is palpable, and I know it intimately, but your pain is not mine. I cannot bear the weight of this grief for you, anymore that I can bear Mila's struggles for her. And I would. In a heartbeat. On my life. I'd take that weight onto my shoulders and let her rest until she found the strength within her to stand back up.
You're not a writer? I object to such a flawed notion. Your words brought me there, to that altar, with you by my side. I don't see your face, but the weight of your presence, your closeness, your wholeness, open and there with me in grief and connection fills me with such gratitude and love. It happened. It's happening. And when I read your words, yet again, we meet again. Thank you.
I do feel that, those waves and the struggle to surface, but then, as you know, as you said, the calm finds me treading water, looking around at an endless sea, wondering where the storm went. Then I'm guilty. Then I'm so far away from the storm that is all I have to remember that she was here at all and I think I better start paddling, must find the storm which is folly. The storm is right behind me, about to bear down once again.
It's exhausting, this push and pull and stretching and contracting. You know. I'm grateful to know those who know. It feel so much less isolating, but I would still give you the release from knowing if I could.
Thank you for your kindness, Elizabeth. Can I ask the name of your child?
With love,
Tara
p.s. I modified my comment to you on SDF simply because I didn't want to leave an open link in my comments for others to find and come here. I will open this up at some point, maybe, but for now, it feels too vulnerable and too.... I don't know. I don't want voyeurs even though that's not likely why anyone would read here. Maybe there's something here for people that don't know this pain but are willing to read of these experiences. Still, not now. Not now, for me, anyway. Not today.
How you manage to graciously respond to all the strangers who write to you with such courage and kindness, truly demonstrates that you are a living embodiment of agape love.
I have three daughters just like you (and one sweet son). Evelyn, our second oldest, is the one died. I used to ask all my babies to whisper their names to me before they were born, to tell me who they were, because I didn’t feel up to the task of choosing a name for a person. Maybe it’s the impenetrable walls I’m so good at building that keep me from being able to even hear whispers from beyond that veil that separates us from our daughters. I know I’ve begged her to visit me in dreams, to send me a message, show me a sign. I don’t know why I can’t feel her or hear her or get the gift of seeing her in dreams. I hope Mila visits you this way. That even for just a moment you can be with her again.
I’m always here to listen and read and share whatever is helpful to you, Tara. But I won’t comment on every post because this is your place to pour out your heart. I’m here for it all but mostly as a listener. If you ever want to reach me for any reason at all my email is: elizabethbullard@protonmail.com
Thank you for your beautiful words, Elizabeth. Thank you, too, for sharing parts of Evelyn and your heart with me. I would love to talk to you more. I am going to write to you. Thank you.
I do not know for sure if our prayers and our tears on behalf of another can span the space of time but through mine I just prayed for the you who wrote this nearly 2 years ago and for you today. Peace + comfort.
my husband came upon your words, asking me "this isn't the tara you love, is it?" but it is. and i wish more than anything it were not. for the words instead to have been an untrue tale about an awful made up people, and not about the very real + wonderful one i know you to be.
i immediately slip into bed to tuck myself between my three tiny sons, weeping + clinging to the symphony of their breath, pouring through your words of + from your beloved daughter.
i hesitate to flick a word too much or too little – how could there ever be a 'just right' here? there is no sentiment that could soothe the weight of your pain nor one that could embody the way that it tastes. perhaps, i wonder, it best to say nothing at all. but is not extending one's heart out across the muck to reach another part of the dance?
there is a thread in my mother's heart that is woven through your own. it buzzes + twists + curls with the great love + the unspeakable ache; a telegram of sorts, tapping out the story of mila + what it is to love her.
there too, vibrating along the line, is the palpable goodness of your thirdborn babe. her beauty saturating the space between what eyes see; permeating time + finding me here.
i could say more + i could say less... but may you know how deeply moved i am by her this night. and how horrifically sad for you, dear mother, i feel. it is but the slightest sip of what you must endure + still, i wish i could drink more, if only it would give allow you to rest awhile.
Dear Tara,
I've been thinking and thinking and thinking, and writing and deleting, writing and deleting. But I'm not a writer. I can never fully explain my thoughts in words. I'm frustrated my inability to choose the right words to describe precise feelings. Most of the time, that's okay. I'm happy to be able to read the writings of people who do have that gift. You are one of those writers who make me answer your essays out loud, shouting "Yes! Exactly! That's what I WISH I had the words to say! Thank for saying what I couldn't in such an eloquent way. Thank you for making me feel less alone in my thoughts." I've missed your writing so very much over the past year. But since reading about Mila's death, I've felt compelled to figure out a way to write something, anything, because I can't cross the border into my own goddamn country, and drive to your farm and find you in the woods, lay prostrate at your altar next to you and let all the tears flow into the earth until we are both too exhausted to continue for the moment. I'd sit on the ground next to you, pour a warm mug of tea, and listen to everything you'd be gracious enough to share about Mila and yourself. I'd be there for it all.
But then, it would never be enough. Just a tiny little grain of comfort, utterly insubstantial to face the mighty power of an ocean of grief. So I'd do it again and again. Until there was a little pile of comforting sand that lasted through the storm and remained on the beach after the waves receded. You could sift it through your hand as you sat there catching your breath.
They do, you know. Recede. Those giant waves of grief crashing over you again and again so that you struggle to keep your head above water and gasp for breath and scramble wildly for the surface. Sometimes you don't want the storm to ever stop raging, because it feels like that is where you are closest to them.
I'm struggling with what I've written so far and all the rest of what I want to share with you. I want to delete the part where I make myself out to be a stalker and invader of privacy (I swear I'd dither on the edge of your property and drive away so as not to bother you). I want to share more of my own experiences in the hopes that they would make you feel less alone too. But the truth is, no one will grieve Mila's death as you will. Your pain is palpable, and I know it intimately, but your pain is not mine. I cannot bear the weight of this grief for you, anymore that I can bear Mila's struggles for her. And I would. In a heartbeat. On my life. I'd take that weight onto my shoulders and let her rest until she found the strength within her to stand back up.
For whatever it's worth, I'm here for it all too.
Much love, Elizabeth
Dear Elizabeth,
You're not a writer? I object to such a flawed notion. Your words brought me there, to that altar, with you by my side. I don't see your face, but the weight of your presence, your closeness, your wholeness, open and there with me in grief and connection fills me with such gratitude and love. It happened. It's happening. And when I read your words, yet again, we meet again. Thank you.
I do feel that, those waves and the struggle to surface, but then, as you know, as you said, the calm finds me treading water, looking around at an endless sea, wondering where the storm went. Then I'm guilty. Then I'm so far away from the storm that is all I have to remember that she was here at all and I think I better start paddling, must find the storm which is folly. The storm is right behind me, about to bear down once again.
It's exhausting, this push and pull and stretching and contracting. You know. I'm grateful to know those who know. It feel so much less isolating, but I would still give you the release from knowing if I could.
Thank you for your kindness, Elizabeth. Can I ask the name of your child?
With love,
Tara
p.s. I modified my comment to you on SDF simply because I didn't want to leave an open link in my comments for others to find and come here. I will open this up at some point, maybe, but for now, it feels too vulnerable and too.... I don't know. I don't want voyeurs even though that's not likely why anyone would read here. Maybe there's something here for people that don't know this pain but are willing to read of these experiences. Still, not now. Not now, for me, anyway. Not today.
xo
How you manage to graciously respond to all the strangers who write to you with such courage and kindness, truly demonstrates that you are a living embodiment of agape love.
I have three daughters just like you (and one sweet son). Evelyn, our second oldest, is the one died. I used to ask all my babies to whisper their names to me before they were born, to tell me who they were, because I didn’t feel up to the task of choosing a name for a person. Maybe it’s the impenetrable walls I’m so good at building that keep me from being able to even hear whispers from beyond that veil that separates us from our daughters. I know I’ve begged her to visit me in dreams, to send me a message, show me a sign. I don’t know why I can’t feel her or hear her or get the gift of seeing her in dreams. I hope Mila visits you this way. That even for just a moment you can be with her again.
I’m always here to listen and read and share whatever is helpful to you, Tara. But I won’t comment on every post because this is your place to pour out your heart. I’m here for it all but mostly as a listener. If you ever want to reach me for any reason at all my email is: elizabethbullard@protonmail.com
Much love, Elizabeth
Thank you for your beautiful words, Elizabeth. Thank you, too, for sharing parts of Evelyn and your heart with me. I would love to talk to you more. I am going to write to you. Thank you.
I do not know for sure if our prayers and our tears on behalf of another can span the space of time but through mine I just prayed for the you who wrote this nearly 2 years ago and for you today. Peace + comfort.
oh dearest tara,
my husband came upon your words, asking me "this isn't the tara you love, is it?" but it is. and i wish more than anything it were not. for the words instead to have been an untrue tale about an awful made up people, and not about the very real + wonderful one i know you to be.
i immediately slip into bed to tuck myself between my three tiny sons, weeping + clinging to the symphony of their breath, pouring through your words of + from your beloved daughter.
i hesitate to flick a word too much or too little – how could there ever be a 'just right' here? there is no sentiment that could soothe the weight of your pain nor one that could embody the way that it tastes. perhaps, i wonder, it best to say nothing at all. but is not extending one's heart out across the muck to reach another part of the dance?
there is a thread in my mother's heart that is woven through your own. it buzzes + twists + curls with the great love + the unspeakable ache; a telegram of sorts, tapping out the story of mila + what it is to love her.
there too, vibrating along the line, is the palpable goodness of your thirdborn babe. her beauty saturating the space between what eyes see; permeating time + finding me here.
i could say more + i could say less... but may you know how deeply moved i am by her this night. and how horrifically sad for you, dear mother, i feel. it is but the slightest sip of what you must endure + still, i wish i could drink more, if only it would give allow you to rest awhile.
with all my heart + all my love,
nicole