A teabag of grief

In my recent findings and research around art and grief, I have been writing more. Some words you may relate to…

8 years with him, 32 without.

The weight of my grief hanging overhead like a damp teabag. A substance wanting to touch the tastebuds but unable to squeeze anymore out. It’s been used, its still here and yet its unworthy of a place at the table, or in the teacup.

I GRAPPLE WITH MY GRIEF LIKE I GRAPPLE WITH A PAINTBRUSH. THE BRUSH NEVER CLEAN NO MATTER HOW MUCH I RINSE IT.

The healing of a grief wound, a loss, a gapping inner wound –  it’s a slow one. I think day to day living with a hole in your life is the thing that drives this act of searching. I use my art to focus my search. The mark makings, the reading, research and findings.

DO YOU SEARCH? THROUGH THE CUPBOARDS FOR SOMETHING YOU CAN’T QUITE PUT YOUR FINGER ON? FOR THE TEABAG THAT STAINED YOUR LIFE AND LINGERS.

Maybe you go for walks and search in nature. Listening to the trees but hoping its your loved one whispering a smile across the particles. Grief is a somber old affair. It’s one we are stuck in. Struck with and stuck in. Nothing flowery or pretty about it.

Yet here is this glorious life where we meet people, we love others and we find laughter in everyday moments. How can we have a gap of loss intertwined with the fullness of a life?  How can jam on toast taste so good when the tears that fall are as salty as nuts?

ALY.HARTE

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