I spent the last ten days in Santa Barbara and the Ojai Valley, seeking rest, inspiration, and the company of friends and family.
Santa Barbara has long held a special place in my heart, but it had been a decade since my last visit. The landscape and feel has changed dramatically since then, as the Thomas Fire and subsequent floods wrought destruction and transformation.
I knew a dear woman who was lost in the flood, and while the loss weighed heavily on my heart, I couldn't help but feel that my grief was not entirely my own. As an outsider, I had not been as deeply affected as those who had lost their homes or loved ones. It is a peculiar feeling, to grieve for someone you cared for, yet to feel that your grief is not entirely justified.
Is it ever appropriate for an outsider to grieve something that does not directly concern them?
Giovani e Maturo (Young and Mature)
During my time in Santa Barbara, I found myself opening up and beginning to heal. I have come to understand that grief is a normal, if strange, experience. There is no set timeline for grieving, and it can revisit us even after we believe we have processed it.
As I reflect on my own life, I am struck by the continuity of my being, both the youthful and the mature parts. Regardless of our age, there is a certain wisdom that we carry within us, and in times of grief, I find solace in that knowledge. We are all united in this shared experience, and we must each find our own way through it.
A poem by Charles Wright particularly spoke to me during this time, and the last two lines in particular resonated deeply...
Toadstools by Charles Wright
The toadstools are starting to come up,
circular and dry.
Nothing will touch them,
Gophers or chipmunks, wasps or swallows.
They glow in the twilight like rooted will-o’-the-wisps.
Nothing will touch them.
As though little roundabouts from the bunched unburiable,
Powers, dominions,
As though orphans rode herd in the short grass,
as though they had heard the call,
They will always be with us,
transcenders of the world.
Someone will try to stick his beak into their otherworldly styrofoam.
Someone may try to taste a taste of forever.
For some it’s a refuge, for some a shady place to fall down.
Grief is a floating barge-boat,
who knows where it’s going to moor?
To an open heart,
Kay