Grief lives in the creek.
A poem of sorts + an exercise for you.
Happy Friday! It’s cold here in Nashville and we still have quite a few inches of snow. We haven’t left the house since Sunday, when we got nearly 7in (very rare for here), and have been enjoying home cooked meals, watching our 6mo. old see her first snow, and plenty rounds of Mario Cart after she goes to bed. I’m grateful to have the ability to see clients virtually this week, although it’s eerily reminiscent of 2020. There’s quite a few new faces around here. This isn’t a typical post but it felt right to share. You’ll find a poem of sorts at the top and then an invitation for you to create something similar as a therapeutic exercise. Thanks for being here 🙏
Grief lives in the creek.
Like flowing water on the rock bed.
When the rain comes, the flow is stronger.
At times, the water still.
A stillness that speaks loudly.
Yet in the stillness, movement exists.
The flow comes and it goes.
The water is alive.
Flowing and slowing as it ought to.
When it needs to.
Glistening in the sun. Shining in the darkness.
Reflecting the world around it.
Reflecting all that lives within it.
A source of a kind of mystery.
And a source of life.
Grief lives in the creek.
Like flowing water running through my bones.
When the memory comes, the flow is stronger.
At times, the sadness still.
A stillness that speaks loudly.
Yet in the stillness, movement exists.
The flow comes and it goes.
The grief is alive.
Flowing and slowing as it ought to.
When it needs to.
Glistening in the sun. Shining in the darkness.
Reflecting the world around it.
Reflecting all that lives in it.
A source of a kind of mystery.
And a source of life.
I’ve had this on my notes app for a few months. It came to me after walking near a creek that was a very significant creek to a person in our family who had recently passed away.
The nature of grief is so complex and while there are some universities to it, it is deeply personal. Sometimes words can’t quite articulate the way grief feels. However, the act of writing words to try and describe it, like this poem, can be very therapeutic.
A few tips/ideas:
Use metaphoric language to describe what grief is like.
Slow down and pay attention to bodily sensations as you write (this is important to integrate body and mind and not merely think about it).
Write a letter to your grief.
Write from the perspective of grief itself - as in first person.
Share your writing with someone safe. We need to be met in our grieving.
It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else as long as it does to you. I’m sharing this hoping it inspires you to write something that invites you into deeper companionship with your grief. And if my words also resonate with your experience, beautiful!
I’m finding that grief is less about closure and more about acceptance and surrender. It’s not something we need to “get over” but something to move through and with. Sometimes grief flows stronger and other times softer. Both are valuable.
Whatever it is you find yourself grieving, may you let that grief become a teacher and a friend.
With care,
Blake
To note:
A lot of new faces around here and I’m very grateful for each of you! Last year was rather quiet with just a handful of posts but with more clarity and strategy, you can expect more consistency and other exciting things here this year. So stick around to learn more about that later :)
This was beautiful.
I love your poem:
“A source & a kind of mystery.”
I am a creek lover born of summers at my gramma’s cottage. Days were hikes with blackberries & snapping turtles, & when the sun went down & the stars came out, it meant campfire stories & roasting marshmallows.
I lost my mama 2 summers ago now & my grief remains very ‘alive.’ The way you’ve captured ‘grief as a creek-this alive source that is sometimes still, sometimes flowing; a reflection of life & sadness’- just so beautiful. ✨
Grief was the theme of my post a week ago remembering all the angels I’ve lost and like the creek metaphor, you never know when a wave is going to hit you. I’ve subscribed, thank you.