There must be something strangely sacred about salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.Kahlil Gibran
Those of us who’ve suffered one or more devastating losses often describe grief as being like the ocean with pain and longing breaking over us in waves. At times, the sadness is overwhelming, and we feel as though we’re drowning. But over time, we learn to float, to keep our head above water. We begin to recognize when the big waves are coming and become better able to deal with them. Although we never escape the sadness, we learn to navigate the waters of grief and move forward into the life we create in the wake of our loss.
During my darkest days, I found that the wisdom and experience of other grievers helped me to re-enter the world. They showed me that life after the death of a beloved was possible, that I could begin to see beauty, find grace and feel hope, even joy. They helped me realize that love was all around me, and all I had to do was lean in.
At Salt Water, our community can help you find your equilibrium and begin to heal after an unbearable loss. As Barbara Kingsolver put it so beautifully in High Tide in Tucson:
What a stroke of luck. What a singular brute feat of outrageous fortune: to be born into citizenship in the animal kingdom. We love and we lose, go back to the start and do it right over again. For every heavy forebrain solemnly cataloguing the facts of a harsh landscape, there’s a rush of intuition behind it crying out: High tide! Time to move out into the glorious debris. Time to take this life for what it is.
We invite you to become part of our community. Share your story, ask a question, make a comment. We’d love to hear from you.
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Pockets Of Joy
Winter will pass, the days will lengthen, the ice will melt in the pasture pond. The song sparrow will return and sing, the frogs will awake, the warm wind will blow again. All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur–this lovely world, these precious days … E. B. White, Charlotte’s Web
The Wheelchair
The empty wheelchair stood along the wall, a few seats open on either side. She chose the seat on the left of the wheelchair because of the electrical outlet nearby. She needed to charge her phone before her final flight home.
Where I’m From – Gina Ransom
I am from built-in bookcases and antique filled rooms.
From pink popcorn bricks, red ropes, foggy summer mornings.
Where I’m From
I am from homemade orange ginger marmalade and strong black coffee. From whole-never-nonfat milk, butter not Blue Bonnet margarine, cheddar not Kraft and whole wheat bread when my friends all ate Wonder.
The Pieces That Remain
I’m sitting here in my younger son’s dining room, catching up on some time and attendance entries from the past week, that I put off ‘til it was almost too late, by the light of the full-size Christmas tree and the toddler-sized tree beside it.
This Earth-World, That Promised Eternity
Two places of beauty separated by a thin veil, pressed closely, one against the other, as two bubbles floating in the air …
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