On grief and creativity…
Two weeks ago, we said goodbye to our beloved dog, Likey.
To be clear, he wasn’t really a dog. As far as I am concerned, he was a human soul in the body of a canine.
For the first seven years of his life, Likey was my husband’s dog. Initially, a companion for him whilst he was recovering from an operation.
For the last eight years, Likey was my lynchpin.
Likey followed me everywhere, moving from room to room – ever watchful of my restlessness or discomfort and always ready for squeaky-toy time. A sensitive border collie, he was my comforting, slow breath to match when my body was in free-fall panic mode. This last eight years of my life contain so much trauma that the memories are sometimes muddied. The only true clarity comes from knowing that when I was alone in the house, it was Likey who held the space - held me, until I was able to find the light once more.
He was a unique soul.
But we are not strangers to grief. We have all been there, haven’t we?
We have all lost someone we love – human or otherwise.
Someone who has been with us through all the joys and tragedies of life.
Maybe you had been expecting the loss, maybe not.
But when it comes, it winds you with such force that you are floored.
It’s a sucker punch that you don’t get up from easily.
No one does.
No matter how many times we experience the devastation of a bereavement, it never gets easier. There is no lesson you learn from this type of past experience that teaches you to cope more competently with grief the next time.
Grief is messy, soul-wrenching and devastating.
It is love coming full circle.
The instant you lose someone you love, every single routine and task falls away, especially those that are for yourself. If you are a parent or carer or partner, you are torn between your responsibility to others and the feeling that you are dissolving into your grief.
You prop yourself up, try to keep going but it is slow and painful – waves of involuntary motion amid copious tears and questions that cannot be answered.
The spaces that you love (in my case, my home) become alien because everything reminds you of their absence.
Likey’s toys that were once scattered around the house – a sign of his delight in play at any time or any place - are gone. The huge and ridiculously placed dog bed that camped out in the living room is gone.
The space now a void that mirrors the void in my heart.
Yet, I cannot part with the bed in my office. I cannot quite let him go.
It is so unbearable in those bittersweet moments between loss and remembrance that the things you have to do and the things you love to do become impossible. The carefully cultivated routines crumble.
Should you experience a moment of pleasure, you are torn between the natural response to enjoy it and the instant and overwhelming feeling of guilt and grief that follows. This was me, this week – making a connection with an eminent author and artist and then later crying myself to sleep, because how could I possibly feel good in the world when the house was devoid of its heart?
So, how do we continue to create? How do we bring joy back into our lives when inside we feel decimated?
I am trying to figure that out on the page.
Some pour their love and grief into their creative work.
For others, the well dries up completely. Panic and fear set in – Will the desire to do the thing I love return?
When I lost my second baby, I could not look at a book or pick up a pen. An automaton inhabited my body performing everyday tasks.
But as a writer, I had nothing to give. The pain was too overwhelming.
This time, the pain is different but no less debilitating. Words pour upon the page.
Even so, it is hard to inhabit the grief-space.
If you are a creator and you find you are incapable of your means of expression, it is a further kind of anguish. For those who have not found their way to a creative life, those on the periphery of your pain, surely this loss must be insubstantial compared to the loss of your loved one? Surely your priority is to wash the dishes, pay the bills, be responsible?
Partly.
But the creative part is where our soul lives, where it dances for joy and cries out with pleasure. It is the part of us that must be let loose on the canvas, the page, the knitting needles, the tool bench, the fabric, the camera, the kitchen, the piano, to make the rest tolerable.
Doable even.
Because let’s face it, most of us have a day-job. If we’ve had the opportunity or even bravery to go for it, that day-job might also be in a creative field, but for most of us, it’s not the case.
My creativity does not pay the bills. It is my means of living in the world.
When our ability to create is gone, some of the pathways to joy are also gone.
Loss of creativity is a hard road. One that can only be walked. You cannot run.
It is a road you will stumble down, terrified of the emptiness and it will seem unending and unbearable.
Having been here before, I have found that I must be patient and allow my body to express its pain, trusting that when it is time, the words will return.
***
My 10-year old’s creative tribute to his ‘Likey Boy’.
Actions that have helped me to take small creative steps to be able to write this piece:
Allowing myself to let out my grief when it feels safe to do so, and not feeling ashamed of it or pushing it away
Encouragement from other creators to keep writing
Making lists of ideas, feelings, colours, sounds
‘Raging on the page’ – writing all the hurt down, or just fragments (idea, courtesy of
, Ease Retreats)Taking photos of the things that spark hope in my heart
Remembering the joys of our life with Likey when it feels bearable
Making a mess with my writing (making a mess to move forward - whatever the creative medium, because our work is ours until we share it, and so we can do whatever we want to express this pain)
If you have any other ideas on how to keep creativity flowing through grief, I’d welcome them in the comments below.
Lynette x
Bravely written Lynette, in the face of heartbreak and grief, it can be so hard to find ordered words. Sending you heaps of love.