Broken 4 Ever
Making grief my companion, to let the light in
Hi everyone. Welcome to my photo journal.
I’ve developed a habit of stopping by The Shop in Warkworth after my weekly grief group at The Bridge Hospice to grab a slice of pizza and one of their extraordinary butter tarts. I did this shortly after Ruth died and have repeated it every week since.
My wife and I always put together our own pizza on Friday night and so we never got around to trying them out. For us, one pizza a week was enough. There’s a lot of things that I am doing differently now. Things I never really considered before. Things that would have been odd when we were together.
So, I was sitting outside by the creek that runs past The Shop eating my slice, in the warmth of the midday sun, when I noticed this graffiti under the nearby bridge.
“Broken 4 Ever,” it said.
Now there are a lot of things that make me tear up right at the moment. My grief is fresh and raw. Most of the time, it is my only companion. This week marks the one month anniversary of Ruth’s passing. The tears came easily. I sat for a moment longer and pulled myself together.
Climbing down the embankment, I followed an inconspicuous trail to stand under the bridge to get a closer look. This art hits close to home, encapsulating my feelings at the moment. Everything is broken and nothing will ever be the same. I get that. I wondered who wrote it and what they were going through themselves. The paint looked fresh, probably this year, or maybe last. I love the drippiness of the paint, like the words were being cried into existence. Grief loves tears. They are sacred. The outline in red suggests the passion with which the author was speaking.
I looked down at the water trickling past my feet. Fallen leaves washed up at the edges of the stream. Waiting to be washed away by the next torrent.
It occured to me this week that grief is not something you get over. You don’t, as many people say, just get over it. Instead, you just live with it. Grief becomes our companion. The more we sit with our grief, the more we make friends with it, the more it transforms us. We live with grief to keep from dying inside. Grief is like an open wound, but grief also promotes growth.
The wound is the place where the light enters you. - Rumi
This week I continued to get out, to use my camera as an excuse to go for walks and a way for me to let the light in. To see something other than the inside of my house. My empty, lonely house.
While wandering around the Warkworth Mill Pond, a vehicle pulled up. I heard my name being called. It was Rhys. We hadn’t talked in a while. He didn’t know about Ruth. “I don’t do Facebook,” he said. “That’s okay,” I replied. “I haven’t been doing it much myself lately.” I told him what had happened.
He listened intently and stumbled to find words. No one knows quite what to say. I took his picture.
He was surprised. Alarmed even. He put his hand up in defense, but it was too late. I took another shot of his hand in front of his face. He told me in Tibet, if you take a person’s picture, it’s akin to stealing a piece of their soul. Hopefully, I left his soul intact.
A couple of days later he said he liked the picture after I sent him a copy. He remarked that I had done the impossible and taken a good photo of him. Now we were getting to the heart of it. He doesn’t like having his picture taken. Ya, I’m like that too.
I returned last week to the Campbellford Seymour Conservation Area, taking a path not yet taken, the teal trail towards the back of the property and to the upland trail, hoping to immerse myself in nature and with any luck, to be carried away from my melancholy, at least for a moment.
The day was sunny with cloudy periods. When the sun shone, it backlit the path as I headed south down the teal path. As I turned from the first to the second trail, the ground rose gently ahead of me to the top of a drumlin. The area is full of post glacial landscape features like this.
Most of the leaves were down, although some were still falling. A few of the sugar maple saplings still clung to their leaves, but it was only a matter of days before they too would all be down. It was quiet in the forest. I only met one couple who were out walking their dog. All three seemed to be having a marvelous time as we passed and exchanged pleasantries.
As the sun peeked out from behind clouds, light cascaded down through ever wider openings in the canopy above. Only the pines still offered any real shade to speak of. It seems a mute point anyways. There was a chill in the air, the sun having lost its penchant for warm embrace.
Beech trees like the one on the right in the photo below don’t shed all their leaves in the autumn. Like the red and white oaks, they hang onto some of their leaves stubbornly through the worst that winter can throw at them. Although the leaves have died and changed colour, the trees hold their grip, not letting go. Noone is exactly sure why this is the case, but science calls these leaves marcescent.
These leaves provide welcome but muted colour through the depths of a largely black and white winter. But I wonder if people who don’t grieve are also being marcescent, refusing to let go or honour the cycle of life of which we are all a part.
This stretch of trail runs alongside the top of the drumlin, the land dropping off quickly to the west. At one point a hydro line presents a gap in the trees where you can see back down to the park entrance. The ground crunches with each step. Any animals that might be around would have more than fair warning of my approach.
The Mailbox Walk
It’s about six kilometers out from my house to our group mailbox and back. I should do it more often for the exercise and with a camera by my side for the photographs. Here are some recent snaps, captured as side notes on my postal promenades.
Brad thought it would be cool to have a driveway lined in birch trees. As it turns out, he put it in the wrong place as he ended up setting the entrance elsewhere, but it’s pretty cool all the same.
The sixth concession road east ends with a T intersection at Godolphin Road. Every journey pauses here, at least momentarily. This is the place I must stop and decide which way I want to go. Left or right, usually according to the destination. It feels as if there is extra stillness standing here on the road because of this. Life is filled with choices. This is one of them.
Speaking of the road of life, another side note on the way to picking up the mail is this Ontario Hydro access road, the track of which disappears down a hill and out of sight. Navigable for a way by car, it gets rougher the further down you go. The sign always give me pause. Unassumed Road. Life is like that, I muse to myself. Proceed at your own risk.
One of several custom log homes built near Godolphin Road by Chuck Stevens in the in the age of hippies. What a wonderful sign for a perfect house in the woods.
I’ve been avoiding talking about the US election, but it’s hard not to take notice of such an important, dramatic and for many, painful event. Ruth would have been so upset. So many people I know are heartbroken. And lest we think we are immune to the global move towards a less kind and egalitarian society, Canada is not immune to these tides of change. I fear, we too will soon see the circus come to town. Our only recourse is to not let crazy people make us crazy with them. Again, I have to remind myself we can’t control what happens to us, but we can control our response.
The Final Frame
One last image for this newsletter. A portrait of Duncan I made on October 23, 2024 on one of his rare excursions beyond the cat compound to our front forest.
I will leave you with this tune by Leonard Cohen who understood and wrote that there is a crack in everything and that’s how the light gets in. This cover of Anthem is by Father John Misty. I love the clarity of this version.
The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Ah, the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove, she will be caught again
Bought and sold, and bought again
The dove is never free
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birth betrayed
The marriage spent
Yeah, and the widowhood
Of every government
Signs for all to see
I can't run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
A thundercloud
They're going to hear from me
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
You can add up the parts
But you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march
There is no drum
Every heart, every heart
To love will come
But like a refugee
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
- Leonard Cohen
Thanks for sharing John - I am impressed by your writing and your ability to capture such heartfelt thoughts about your grief. You demonstrate such courage in getting out - and I am glad that you do - your photographs and the context around them carry such emotion and continue to inspire.
I love this; it's so beautifully written. May you find peace and beauty in the everyday.