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Grief is like a well, a well that is so deep you can't even
comprehend if or where it might end. You spend a lot of time in it,
and eventually make your way to the top, where you hang out, sometimes
inside, sometimes partly outside. Sometimes you are sitting on the edge,
dangling your feet over the side. Very occasionally you leave altogether
and the well just sits at the end of the garden; you always come back
to it.
Often you come back involuntarily, an incident or image or person
drags you back, sometimes even lifts you bodily and throws you down
deep. If you are lucky you remember where the footholds are, and where
the chinks that your fingers fit in are and you can get yourself out a
bit faster and with fewer cuts and bruises than last time.
Sometimes you take yourself down to the end of the garden and flirt
with the well. You dip a toe in, or lie on your stomach at the edge and
peer down. You might throw stones down it, to see how deep it is.
Occasionally you throw caution to the wind and step in, hurtling
yourself down; afterwards you wonder why you are so cruel to yourself
but you also recognize the rewards of remembering.
You know that you can't have the memories without the well, so you
accept it and even start to incorporate it into the larger landscape
of the garden. You plant around it in ways that draw subtle attention
to it, it becomes a place you don't avoid but you also don't approach
it without awareness. Other people comment on the beauty of your garden,
and the worthwhile ones include the well in their assesment. The well
is part of your landscape, and you learn to live with it somewhat
gracefully, sometimes even proudly; it is no longer deep enough to
swallow all of your joy.
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The Well
