Jen's death felt like a defining time in a lot of my friendships - those who got in touch, sent cards, offered help or came to the funeral. Even some of my work colleagues came to the funeral, and they'd never met Jen. I had thought I wouldn't care who came, but I was profoundly touched. And Emily? Despite all her talk about grief, her words didn't seem to connect with me. I'd thought I'd meet her in the wasteland of loss that she herself understood, but instead I felt let down.
Now as time moves on, I think I've been too harsh on Emily. Grief is so vast and intricate that each person who arrives there is wandering in their own wasteland. I should have been more understanding of what she'd been through, instead of expecting her experience to illuminate my own. I'd like to say "Come back, all is forgiven", but it's too late for that. Emily's been dead for 123 years. For my Emily is the remarkable Emily Dickinson. For now I'll only quote two parts of one poem, that I came across yesterday:
I measure every Grief I meet(and later in the same poem)
With narrow, probing, Eyes -
I wonder if It weighs like Mine -
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long -
Or did it just begin -
I could not tell the Date of Mine -
It feels so old a pain -
I wonder if it hurts to live -
And if they have to try -
And whether - could They choose between -
It would not be - to die.
The Grieved - are many - I am told -The full poem can be found here. I'll blog again later to explain my long relationship with Emily.
There is the various Cause -
Death - is but one - and comes but once -
And only nails the eyes -
I've never been able to read ED. It will be good to read your reflections on her work as maybe I'll learn something from your far more patient and sensitive approach as a reader.
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