Dear, Xenia:  Thank you for writing and for the honesty and hard earned wisdom of your words. In response to your opening question, it seems to me that the grieving of which you speak does not end. Perhaps it alters in tone or intensity over time, winding back upon itself like a slow moving river; butI think deep grief once experienced becomes a constituent part of who we are. It permanently changes the nature and quality of our thoughts and feelings, of our being - and it changes our bodies as well. I think our bones, our lungs, our hearts, our gut, our arms and legs all retain a living memory of  what is lost, all are vessels of grief. These "grief outbursts" which often catch you unawares are both emotionally AND physically convulsive events leaving you physically and emotionally depleted, exhausted in their wake.

I was with a very good and trusted friend last night who thirty five years ago lost his infant son months after the child's birth.  There are times, he told me, even now after so many intervening years when some seemingly innocent memory, or sight, or sound, or comment brings back the force of that loss and he physically crumples - knees buckling - lungs constricting - souls gasping in a spasm of grief. It is not linear - we do not move without return from one point to another point to another point along a straight line.  Life, I thnk, is more like a tighly threaded spiral.  WE traverse the same emotional landscapes again and again.  The changes in height (or depth)- in tone or ntensity - being real, but almost imperceptible more often than not. It is a long way home, a long and winding way home - so it would seem to me.

One intrusive but relevant thought: Grief and grievance derive from the same ancient, base word.  They originally referred to a burden, a weight, a heaviness, harm, or injustice.  It is a heaviness we feel in our bodies as well as in our spirits - our sorrow as well as out anger.  You are right, Xenia, we have to learn to grieve without reservation.  We have to let our hearts scour ever corner of their chambers that we might give true voice to who we have become and are in all our complexity. That we might rest.  Such learning and speaking without reservation is a kind of birthing, a kind of sweat lodge. A kind of way through.  Perhaps the only way through though I have prayed and argued angrily for an easier, easier path for others as well as for myself.

Thank you for writing.  Thank you to all who have listened to you - near and far. I am here, this morning, a bundle of bones, and dry dust.  It goes on - the distant whine of trucks moving along the highway that skirts our town , the catchall clutter of Sarah's "big" bed jammed up against my own - unsorted wash, plates, mugs, magazines, a litter of unopened mail, a bill from the folks at Income Tax demanding (for the thrid time) I repay the $7.51 they say I still owe them.  Sarah's pillows. 

And so it goes, dear.  I began this letter in the dark.  It is daylight here now, but still dark where you are resting. In this part of the world we are used to hearing that it is the West that must carry its poor cousins in the East. The one thing we in the East can send you each morning in patial repayment is the Sun.

I am crippled by the heaviness of sadness today.  It colors my thoughts and leeches the strength from my bones.  That is the truth of my own heart today speaking "without reservation".  It goes on.

I send you my affection, my gratitude, my admiration, my love. 

Jim 

Dear Xenia:

Another circumnavigation of the Sun. Congatulations!!! 

When I read your post, I immediately imagined myself as a small boy standing on the pier at the edge of Halifax harbour watching the approach of your weathered wooden vessel.  I was waving to you, cheering you, shouting your name.  You were quiet, but smiling, hands holding the rough rails, the light of joy in your eyes, a seasoned nobility in your posture. 

I thought, "She's safe home" as you passed, as excited kids will do, and was grateful. 

I have a deep affection for that rocky point on the harbour. It is a sacred space. It's where my grandfather stood to watch my dad sail overseas during the war, and where my Mom stood to welcome him home. I lke the smell of the ocean there and the sight of the horizon over which the ships appear and disappear.  My Irish ancestors having fled the Potatoe Famine arrived here under sail.  They used to have a wharf down there.  It's long since covered with concrete, buried, but I retain a sense of connection and ownership when I stand there. How many lives came and went, from there, eh.  How many stories lost to memory over the years.  How much struggle unacknowledged, grief - excitement - promise and disappointment - satisfaction and regret.  The ships, large and small, grand and humble.  The lives they carried the same. Going and coming over the horizon.

I wave to you as a child and as an old man, Xenia.  I celebrate another year of your life, another going and coming around the still Sun through storm and calm, sorrow and celebration.

There is a writer of mysthology who wrote that "The souls of the dead surround us like the sea." I take comfort in that thought - that my ancestors recent and long since - my family and friends departed - surround me lovingly still like the sea - provide safe harbours for me when I am distraught and promise continued companionship when I venture forth through troubled waters - each year, each difficult day.  May you find similar comfort, Xenia, in the same manner as you begin another journey around the Sun.  Safe travels, my dear.  Happy birthday.

Jim

Greetings to all,

Thank you, Jim, for this reflection on Xenia's birthday. My milestone is that I just received my certificate of Canadian citizenshikp. So I am still here working away in the cradle of the Confederacy, and caring for Pablo, but feeling specially blessed and surrounded by my Canadian mother, within the sea of human love.

Love to you all,

Nouce