Grief.
Is it a liquid, a force, a charge? Can we measure it, pour it into jars, store it, divide it, apportion it? This much for mother and that much for dad.
Can we use it up in advance? Save it for later? Pour it all away?
Do we sip it like a fine old malt, down it in one, or drown hopelessly in its depths?
Or is grief a journey? Everything is a journey these days: learning Spanish; pet training; cancer. And if it’s a journey, is there a map? I walked the Camino once, from France to the western edge of Spain. On the first day I met a woman from America who had crossed the Atlantic to mend a broken heart. As we prepared to set out, she asked me “do you think I could wear flip flops?” …. I never saw her again.
Two days later I left my map somewhere and I thought I was lost. But at every turn and fork there were yellow arrows, a path well worn for centuries. And when at last I walked into Santiago I got my stamp from the Cathedral, stayed in a hotel and made my way to the airport, finished and ready to go home. And then I thought of those medieval pilgrims who reached that same city on that same path of yellow arrows, knowing they were only half-way done.
Or is grief a wild animal? A wolf that howls, a scorpion that stings, a mad bull elephant? Or a panther that waits with infinite patience to pounce on the unsuspecting lamb?
Is grief an ally, a comfortable old friend whose every word is familiar and known? Or a duplicitous companion spinning sugared phrases one moment, only to slide a knife between our ribs the next? Or a broken drunk at the bar half remembering half-forgotten memories?
Is grief a bracing cold shower that will do us good, make us strong and help us grow? Or a mind-grinding migraine that saps our strength and resolve?
Can we even know what it is: in advance, in its midst, or after it subsides?
Or do we just do what we always do, what we always did? Sleep when we can, wake up, start the day and try our best to follow the yellow arrows, wherever they take take us, wherever they point.
Maybe that’s all we can ever do with grief.
For Diane, August 2026
