Grief is Love Persevering

Don’t wait to light the candles.

There is this saying, “Don’t wait to light the candles.” Meaning, don’t wait to seize the beauty in front of you. A lot of us wait for the right moment. We will light the candles in a special moment. We will write that book in a more sensible moment. We will tell someone we love them in a safe moment. We will go watch the sunset when we’re less tired. We’ll call our family when we’re less busy. Essentially, we are putting life on hold. For what? For whom? For when? 

Now more than ever, our time here feels increasingly fragile. Death, whether it is of a relationship, a dream, or a body, is the one thing we all share, and has an impersonal way of tapping us. One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Me, Earl, and the Dying Girl. “Even after somebody dies, you can still keep learning about them. You know, their life. It can keep unfolding itself to you just as long... just as long as you pay attention to it.” 

See it all. Feel it all. Report back what you find.

My dad and I get dinner once a week. He is the kind of man that can tell a story for hours, and you feel like you are right there. When I was little, he used to tell me fairytales every night. I don’t mean he read the Harry Potter books to me. I mean he made up a brand new story every night. My entitled child mind demanded it. He tells me that he used to be in his office, riddled with anxiety as he tried to come up with a new story to share when he got home. He is the reason I am a writer, and I dedicated my fantasy book to him for this reason.

When my grandmother died, he gave me her necklace. It’s a small little Tora on a delicate chain. My memories of her pretty much entail her stuffing me with ice cream, wrapping me in giant hugs that made the world feel a little less scary, and teaching me how to play poker. I wish I got to know her more as an adult—that I could understand the woman who paved the path I now walk. So, when my dad and I get dinner, I ask him about her. I ask what she liked to do for fun, I ask about her relationship with my grandpa…anything he remembers, I try to extract new stories from him, so her life continues to unfold for me.

I’ve heard that we die twice. First, when our bodies go, and second, when the last person who knew us no longer remembers us. I do this with my past relationships, too. I love and treasure the time shared, and will until the day I die even if we never exchange another word. I am a living, breathing reminder of everyone I have ever loved, my heart big enough to carry the fingerprints of those who have touched me.

“Grief is unexpressed love.” - Andrew Garfield

For a while, I hesitated to light the candles. As someone whose childhood coping mechanism was disassociation, feeling is actually a choice. Leaning into love. Embracing loss. I swear being a poet saved me, because I have been forced to keep my finger on the pulse of life instead of stay comfortable and float along a complacent river of numbness.  

There is a lot to grieve right now. All at once, people are being born, proposed to, and taking their last breath. All at once, people are running for their lives and bombs are going off, while others watch oceans away through a screen. It’s a terrifying time to be alive, but we must continue to seize the beauty in front of us. Gratitude isn’t a word we toss around once a year on that absurd holiday—it is the full participation and cherishing of life—even when it’s challenging and uncomfortable and we feel at a loss for what to do. We must light the candles, hold each other more tenderly, and make the choice to continuously let the world into our hearts. 

We can only grieve what we have deeply loved, and the ripples our lives make will continue to unfold.

“What is grief, if not love persevering?” - Wanda Vision

Light the candles, friends. 

Your friendly neighborhood scribe,

Allie.

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