I love how you wove the scarabs/dung beetles through the progression of your story, or is it the story, weaving through the line of dung beetles at daybreak? Either way, Jeannine, I am so very glad that all your hard and painful work has brought you such light. Such surprising light.
I'm struggling a bit for words; a jumble of thoughts and feelings about risk and reward and shelter and armor and strength and writing. I read Kate's essay earlier today, and I so appreciate getting to see her words in a different way when they are sitting alongside yours. I mentioned to Emily in our exercise comment thread earlier that through WITD I have been writing about things I thought I never would. Your words here help me understand more about why that is. Thank you, for that and other healing things. Grieving in community is like reading in community, isn't it? You see and feel more deeply.
My parents are still alive but I grieve them everyday, especially my mother, who has estranged herself from me, because of my father. More or less. A complicated story. I understand the very precise way in which creativity in general and writing in particular can save a life. How it has saved my life, since my very first independently bought journals. But I want to say that even more than that my dreams saved my life. As in night dreams. Because they were preparing me for these tragedies years and years before the implosion of my family. Thank you for sharing your story, Jeannine. It helps me consider how I might navigate the second death of my parents, and confidence that I will be able to get through.
There's an old Latin phrase: "inter faeces et urinus nascimurum" (I think that's right? going from memory). It's used in more modern esoteric/self-development literature: "We are born between (or among) feces and urine." Though this is literally true on a body level for the non-medicalized, non-institutional birthing process - it's more invoked in this context with depth psychology (or astrologically with saturn and Pluto): that we are all "in the shit" here. In our own shit, the world's shit, the grief and suffering, the broken, abandoned, toxic and forsaken traumatization of existence. And that to mature, to reconcile oneself, to heal - we are called to Be Present with all of this shit, the refuse and refusals and denials.
Your work definitely does that, so I'm glad it's echoing back to you and entering in. Rolling that dung to rekindle the sun, to renew the soil of the soul. It's Tikkun Olam: witnessing the scattered shards in all things, hidden in the dark. To acknowlege them, make them shimmer.
Well this is just wonderful from first word to last. And I have to say that while in fifth grade the stories were of ancient Egypt and Greece, in third grade it was the Old Testament, so I learned many Jewish traditions that year, including some fall rituals like Tikkun Olam, and it is so beautiful. I've since learned more and I feel deep resonance with all of the Jewish fall holidays I've learned about.
Wow. Thank you for sharing this Joshua. I love reading & learning about other languages, religions, especially when they weave in the divine (& shitty) mystery of what it is to be ‘alive.’
To “Be Present” is a promise land for me. I aspire to be at the Summit of “here, now, this moment” basking in its glory, but it isn’t an easy thing to come by for me.
I know I’m not alone. To simply exist, breathing in and out “In our own shit, the world's shit, the grief and suffering, the broken, abandoned, toxic and forsaken traumatization of existence” is a mighty ask for open hearts & big feelers. But surely worth it…to “mature, to reconcile oneself, to heal.” Thank you for sharing your words & wisdom.
"But I’ve since discovered that actually, unbeknownst to me, I was writing my own safe passage to the future and toward the self I would meet there, rowing through its own dark waters." This is such a revelation to those of us, including myself, who write, not just for the sake of reconciling the past but for that safe passage. "...to have lost my father either in relative silence or in a disorienting cloud of well-intended but tonally inaccurate and therefore excruciatingly painful condolences would have been quietly re-traumatizing to a person whose original trauma was already worsened by third-party indifference immediately following its disclosure and for all the decades afterward." And this, the tragic, singularity of grief. Grief is only known to the sufferer despite assurances from others that they understand. No they don't, they can't. Jeannine, all I can say is that you are surrounded by love here and that the context of your presence only adds to the fabric of the love that is here.
No worries, so appreciate your courage to share. Your words came from the place where your heart is now, and your heart knows what it needs right now, so your own words are what your heart needs to hear .
This is beautiful, with how it shows what aches and grounds and heals (though, non-linearly). It reminds me why people use the word RADICAL: Radical Acceptance, Radical Belonging, Radical Self-Care, Radical Community, Radical Justice, Radical Honesty.
In this case, Radical Writing + Radical Community = Radical Grieving (which is all, even when experienced sometimes alone and with the uniqueness of one person's experience, inherently plural rather than singular, and about people not profits, and about working our way towards thriving in collectivity with each and every word thought, written, spoken, and shared).
It’s all in the conversational reciprocity, my voice here wouldn’t exist without yours (in both the specific and the general sense), the words you built up, to create a space to hold you, and us, a community of people, words, dialogue, care, connection. You built it, here, and how cool?
So beautiful and tender and full of wisdom - "But I’ve since discovered that actually, unbeknownst to me, I was writing my own safe passage to the future and toward the self I would meet there, rowing through its own dark waters." Thank you for this Jeannine.
For the longest time, after an affair, a contentious divorce and my father’s suicide, I would say to myself “I’m being prepared, for what, I don’t know”. Only decades later did I step into the knowing I was being prepared for who I evolved to become. The poetry of your words captured my lived experience. Thank you for seeing me.
This makes my heart so happy - you are moving forward in life, with your whole self, as well as in your grief journey. Grief is never easy, and your circumstance is ultra-complicated. I’m honored and humbled to be here, witnessing your revelations and holding space for you. Holding you close thought and prayer 💜🙏🏻💫
Jeannine, thank you for another stunning tapestry, brimming with beautiful reflections and insights into matters so deeply personal one can’t help but be emboldened to prise open their own pasts and let the healing light flood in.
Thank you Jeannine for all of yourself that you give to us. I am looking forward to the Letter Reimagined. When we write a letter the recipient has to listen moreso than when in conversation. Then I realised that we also have to listen deeply to ourselves when writing one.
The tenderness and humor, the vulnerability and the common humanity of connections you create in being a writer and a sensitive human is a beautiful and powerful thing to witness! Not only are you seen but by expression of your courageous heart and emotions, we all feel seen. Thank you for being a writer and uniquely you.
“And there is perhaps nothing more safeguarding to a person who has been silenced and unseen than being recognized, reflected, and revealed to herself.”
It is a must read! I was going to link to it in the essay but ultimately hesitated for complicated familial reasons (Kate and I are not related! But, it's a small world and with six degrees of separation). https://katemanne.substack.com/p/why-didnt-they-save-me-the-unhelped
I almost chose a photo with a dung ball, and then I got a little nervous some might see it as too disrespectful juxtaposed with the headline, which I was not going to change.
Writing has saved your life, Jeannine, but I think this frank, open writing will save others’ too either through being seen by your words or by giving them the courage to write their own.
It is a particular type of grief, that longing for what you wish you could have had and the understanding that you don’t have it. And also the complete headf*ck of trying to untangle the why of it all. So often we look first to ourselves, find ourselves wanting. But it is not and never was the case.
I read an earlier comment that talked about the second death of your parents and that feels so exactly right. I’ve experienced the first with my father, but not the second, yet. All of your words have helped me make sense of this strange sadness and I know they will continue to do so. Thank you for being so open, so honest and - always - we are here to be tender with your heart.
Thank you for sharing yourself, your writing, your grief, and ultimately, your humanity with us.♥️
I am buoyed by your strength & honored to bear witness to your talent & generosity, even as you tend to your own grieving heart.
Your willingness to risk showing ‘all of you,’ ~while offering an opening for powerful witness to you in your truth,
also delivers a great gift to us~ a light for the way forward. You are going first, as they say.
Grief is so personal & yet also universal. We all have fingerprints but no two are the same.
I lost my mom two summers ago. We had a complicated relationship (to say the least).
You give me hope that one day, I can write all the way through my dung~& come in to my own ‘writer existence’ as it were. From my grieving heart to yours~Xo
I love how you wove the scarabs/dung beetles through the progression of your story, or is it the story, weaving through the line of dung beetles at daybreak? Either way, Jeannine, I am so very glad that all your hard and painful work has brought you such light. Such surprising light.
"such surprising light" -- exactly. xo
I'm struggling a bit for words; a jumble of thoughts and feelings about risk and reward and shelter and armor and strength and writing. I read Kate's essay earlier today, and I so appreciate getting to see her words in a different way when they are sitting alongside yours. I mentioned to Emily in our exercise comment thread earlier that through WITD I have been writing about things I thought I never would. Your words here help me understand more about why that is. Thank you, for that and other healing things. Grieving in community is like reading in community, isn't it? You see and feel more deeply.
Yes, yes. It is like all of that. I am grateful for all of it, too.
Truly. This is beautiful, Rita.
My parents are still alive but I grieve them everyday, especially my mother, who has estranged herself from me, because of my father. More or less. A complicated story. I understand the very precise way in which creativity in general and writing in particular can save a life. How it has saved my life, since my very first independently bought journals. But I want to say that even more than that my dreams saved my life. As in night dreams. Because they were preparing me for these tragedies years and years before the implosion of my family. Thank you for sharing your story, Jeannine. It helps me consider how I might navigate the second death of my parents, and confidence that I will be able to get through.
"the second death of my parents" is a very important phrase and I am grateful to you for introducing me to it. And, I am glad you have writing, and have had your dreams. Dreams are most certainly rehearsals. I have written about that, too! Glad to know you here. https://writinginthedark.substack.com/p/sleeping-birds-are-vulnerable?utm_source=publication-search
There's an old Latin phrase: "inter faeces et urinus nascimurum" (I think that's right? going from memory). It's used in more modern esoteric/self-development literature: "We are born between (or among) feces and urine." Though this is literally true on a body level for the non-medicalized, non-institutional birthing process - it's more invoked in this context with depth psychology (or astrologically with saturn and Pluto): that we are all "in the shit" here. In our own shit, the world's shit, the grief and suffering, the broken, abandoned, toxic and forsaken traumatization of existence. And that to mature, to reconcile oneself, to heal - we are called to Be Present with all of this shit, the refuse and refusals and denials.
Your work definitely does that, so I'm glad it's echoing back to you and entering in. Rolling that dung to rekindle the sun, to renew the soil of the soul. It's Tikkun Olam: witnessing the scattered shards in all things, hidden in the dark. To acknowlege them, make them shimmer.
Well this is just wonderful from first word to last. And I have to say that while in fifth grade the stories were of ancient Egypt and Greece, in third grade it was the Old Testament, so I learned many Jewish traditions that year, including some fall rituals like Tikkun Olam, and it is so beautiful. I've since learned more and I feel deep resonance with all of the Jewish fall holidays I've learned about.
Wow. Thank you for sharing this Joshua. I love reading & learning about other languages, religions, especially when they weave in the divine (& shitty) mystery of what it is to be ‘alive.’
To “Be Present” is a promise land for me. I aspire to be at the Summit of “here, now, this moment” basking in its glory, but it isn’t an easy thing to come by for me.
I know I’m not alone. To simply exist, breathing in and out “In our own shit, the world's shit, the grief and suffering, the broken, abandoned, toxic and forsaken traumatization of existence” is a mighty ask for open hearts & big feelers. But surely worth it…to “mature, to reconcile oneself, to heal.” Thank you for sharing your words & wisdom.
Healing the world— yes. Beautiful, Joshua. Here, now, present, as it is and as we are. Thanks for this.
"But I’ve since discovered that actually, unbeknownst to me, I was writing my own safe passage to the future and toward the self I would meet there, rowing through its own dark waters." This is such a revelation to those of us, including myself, who write, not just for the sake of reconciling the past but for that safe passage. "...to have lost my father either in relative silence or in a disorienting cloud of well-intended but tonally inaccurate and therefore excruciatingly painful condolences would have been quietly re-traumatizing to a person whose original trauma was already worsened by third-party indifference immediately following its disclosure and for all the decades afterward." And this, the tragic, singularity of grief. Grief is only known to the sufferer despite assurances from others that they understand. No they don't, they can't. Jeannine, all I can say is that you are surrounded by love here and that the context of your presence only adds to the fabric of the love that is here.
Thank you so much, Steve. I appreciate this, including the way you said my words back to me. There's strange comfort in that, somehow.
No worries, so appreciate your courage to share. Your words came from the place where your heart is now, and your heart knows what it needs right now, so your own words are what your heart needs to hear .
This is beautiful, with how it shows what aches and grounds and heals (though, non-linearly). It reminds me why people use the word RADICAL: Radical Acceptance, Radical Belonging, Radical Self-Care, Radical Community, Radical Justice, Radical Honesty.
In this case, Radical Writing + Radical Community = Radical Grieving (which is all, even when experienced sometimes alone and with the uniqueness of one person's experience, inherently plural rather than singular, and about people not profits, and about working our way towards thriving in collectivity with each and every word thought, written, spoken, and shared).
Oh, I understand what you are saying about the word RADICAL. Yes. Thank you for this. I appreciate your voice so much.
It’s all in the conversational reciprocity, my voice here wouldn’t exist without yours (in both the specific and the general sense), the words you built up, to create a space to hold you, and us, a community of people, words, dialogue, care, connection. You built it, here, and how cool?
So beautiful and tender and full of wisdom - "But I’ve since discovered that actually, unbeknownst to me, I was writing my own safe passage to the future and toward the self I would meet there, rowing through its own dark waters." Thank you for this Jeannine.
Thank you, Lisa, for everything all the time.
For the longest time, after an affair, a contentious divorce and my father’s suicide, I would say to myself “I’m being prepared, for what, I don’t know”. Only decades later did I step into the knowing I was being prepared for who I evolved to become. The poetry of your words captured my lived experience. Thank you for seeing me.
This makes my heart so happy - you are moving forward in life, with your whole self, as well as in your grief journey. Grief is never easy, and your circumstance is ultra-complicated. I’m honored and humbled to be here, witnessing your revelations and holding space for you. Holding you close thought and prayer 💜🙏🏻💫
Thank you for the holding. It is felt and appreciated.
Jeannine, thank you for another stunning tapestry, brimming with beautiful reflections and insights into matters so deeply personal one can’t help but be emboldened to prise open their own pasts and let the healing light flood in.
It is healing light, yes. It really has been. Thank you, Anna.
Thank you Jeannine for all of yourself that you give to us. I am looking forward to the Letter Reimagined. When we write a letter the recipient has to listen moreso than when in conversation. Then I realised that we also have to listen deeply to ourselves when writing one.
Yes, that's true. There is a different kind of discovery there. Thank you, Cathie.
The tenderness and humor, the vulnerability and the common humanity of connections you create in being a writer and a sensitive human is a beautiful and powerful thing to witness! Not only are you seen but by expression of your courageous heart and emotions, we all feel seen. Thank you for being a writer and uniquely you.
Ah, thank you so very much.
“And there is perhaps nothing more safeguarding to a person who has been silenced and unseen than being recognized, reflected, and revealed to herself.”
So tender and true, all of this ❤️
Continued love and gratitude to you, Jeannine.
And to you. ❤️
Is there a link to the essay you mentioned on third party indifference/trauma? That sounds like a must read…
It is a must read! I was going to link to it in the essay but ultimately hesitated for complicated familial reasons (Kate and I are not related! But, it's a small world and with six degrees of separation). https://katemanne.substack.com/p/why-didnt-they-save-me-the-unhelped
I very much get it, thank you for sharing here ❤️
Tears, smiles, and a laugh. My dung balls see your dung balls, Jeannine. Lovely to greet you on this side today and every new day.
I almost chose a photo with a dung ball, and then I got a little nervous some might see it as too disrespectful juxtaposed with the headline, which I was not going to change.
I love it as is. Grief and life are messy, and to ignore it would be disrespecting the whole of it. This is real and true, and so generous.
So moved by the tender honesty of this and by the power of story to transform and heal -- thank you
Thank you, Jan. I am grateful (so grateful) for this community. I hope that shone through.
Writing has saved your life, Jeannine, but I think this frank, open writing will save others’ too either through being seen by your words or by giving them the courage to write their own.
It is a particular type of grief, that longing for what you wish you could have had and the understanding that you don’t have it. And also the complete headf*ck of trying to untangle the why of it all. So often we look first to ourselves, find ourselves wanting. But it is not and never was the case.
I read an earlier comment that talked about the second death of your parents and that feels so exactly right. I’ve experienced the first with my father, but not the second, yet. All of your words have helped me make sense of this strange sadness and I know they will continue to do so. Thank you for being so open, so honest and - always - we are here to be tender with your heart.
Thank you for this, Emily, and for writing with me. I am so blessed by this community. Love to you.
Thank you for sharing yourself, your writing, your grief, and ultimately, your humanity with us.♥️
I am buoyed by your strength & honored to bear witness to your talent & generosity, even as you tend to your own grieving heart.
Your willingness to risk showing ‘all of you,’ ~while offering an opening for powerful witness to you in your truth,
also delivers a great gift to us~ a light for the way forward. You are going first, as they say.
Grief is so personal & yet also universal. We all have fingerprints but no two are the same.
I lost my mom two summers ago. We had a complicated relationship (to say the least).
You give me hope that one day, I can write all the way through my dung~& come in to my own ‘writer existence’ as it were. From my grieving heart to yours~Xo
Writing through the dung, and and into the light of our existence. Together. xoxo