The park this morning was crystalline with rain. As I walked along a leaf strewn path, the lines from a Shakespearean sonnet came to mind: That time of year thou mayst behold in me, when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold, bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. (Sonnet 73).
These gloomy words suit my mood as recently I’ve suffered the loss of my stepmother and that of a long-time friend. Life seems to be favoring sadness over joy of late. Some other day, I might feel different.
The philosopher Schopenhauer would say my will makes me suffer — my will to have my stepmother back and my friend. His solution is that I should empty myself of emotion and move as close to nothingness as possible, a drastic step which Freud would caution courts death.
So many thinkers have written about grief but how can words strung out upon a page touch feelings?
Oddly enough, I do take solace in my writing. There I drown myself in the quiet of my work. Currently, I am revising a play. I’ve been crafting it for years. Perhaps I’ll never finish, but I use the time to heal.
Helen Keller, who suffered much in life, once wrote: No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars or sailed to an uncharted land. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Perhaps I will put away my mournful thoughts and find the courage to agree with her.
(Courtesy of http://www.123rf.com