Hmmm. You must mean spiritual? Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins have been described in this way, too. But I don't really think of myself as spiritual, either. Soulful, perhaps, but much of the language we have for this sort of thing derives from centuries of religio-centric language. To feel deeply, to inquire into the meaning of things, to cultivate mindful habits does not require belief in God or crystals or spirit (whatever that might be).
Silence. How I yearn for it, need it, almost as much as sleep. And yes, that does have a lot to do with how I respond to emails and texts. Quantity equals chaos and noise and I need to take it in small doses. Plus I often find if I respond too quickly, later I think of something else or something better I wish I had said. Unfortunately this also means I lose track of some things and give the sender the impression I don't care- which is not my intent.
You mention the silence in Idaho as imperfect and I understand what you're saying but for me, it WAS a perfect silence. My screen doors open in the middle of the night allowed me to hear owls or even once be woken by a howling wolf. Yes, there was the occasional barking dog or loud vehicles, but the stillness of the night held these intrusions in a kind of amplified silence that was soothing.
The Kurt Vonnegut memory reminds me of something I often find myself saying when I'm enjoying myself with others: "In case I forget to tell you later, I had a great time." And my friends always laugh because our time isn't over and may even have just begun - but saying this out loud, and acknowledging others in the moment, anchors me in an awareness of gratitude that might otherwise escape me, and that makes me doubly happy.
Your grandmother's passing... the silence when my father died was shocking - and is a memory for another time. But there is one sentence that stands out for me: "It will always have been too soon for my grandmother to go, and I need to feel the wrongness of it to know that I loved her." My grief was intense when my father died at age 56. It was palpable, almost like another being always at my side. And I was deeply attached to it - much like you say here - as a measure of my love for him. Or as Kahil Gibran wrote: That which is your sorrow was once your joy. Your pain carves out a place in which you can hold more joy. - a poor paraphrase but you get the idea. But a real turning point for me was a memorial concert in my father's name, actually paid for by my father before he died. He was a donor to this wonderful acapella choir and the conductor was a friend, so he arranged for everything in advance except the date which my stepmother and I were to establish when we were ready. It took us almost a year and I was bowled over by how many people attended not necessarily for the music but for my father. All these people remembered him and remembered him fondly. It was amazing. And in that moment, I was able to release some of my grief. I realized that I had guarded it so fiercely b/c I felt responsible for his memory, that only I alone could remember him so well. When I realized that others did, some just as fiercely and sincerely as I, when I heard their stories, when they came out almost 10 months after his death to share their memories and admiration, something released, and the vigilance of my grief ended. Of course the loss will always be there and my grief remained active for about 4 years, but I will never forget that night. Henceforth I have been a huge advocate of memorial gatherings many months after a death. Anyway, just sharing as a consideration in the possibility it might resonate.
What a lovely memory, Jan. Thank you for trusting me (us) with it. I have also found comfort in knowing that others loved my grandmother as deeply as I did, and that even in her absence we have each other. We shore up our ruins with those who remain, to some extent. My grandmother died just before the start of my final year as a professor, and I lost a cousin to COVID just a few months later, so I have tried to remind myself of that at times when my outlook has been really bleak over the past year. It's a lot of loss, a lot of grief, all stacked together. It can be difficult to find people capable of holding that space with you, but I'm glad to have found some of that here.
Beautifully written, Josh.
you're definitely the most religious non-believer I read
Hmmm. You must mean spiritual? Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins have been described in this way, too. But I don't really think of myself as spiritual, either. Soulful, perhaps, but much of the language we have for this sort of thing derives from centuries of religio-centric language. To feel deeply, to inquire into the meaning of things, to cultivate mindful habits does not require belief in God or crystals or spirit (whatever that might be).
Silence. How I yearn for it, need it, almost as much as sleep. And yes, that does have a lot to do with how I respond to emails and texts. Quantity equals chaos and noise and I need to take it in small doses. Plus I often find if I respond too quickly, later I think of something else or something better I wish I had said. Unfortunately this also means I lose track of some things and give the sender the impression I don't care- which is not my intent.
You mention the silence in Idaho as imperfect and I understand what you're saying but for me, it WAS a perfect silence. My screen doors open in the middle of the night allowed me to hear owls or even once be woken by a howling wolf. Yes, there was the occasional barking dog or loud vehicles, but the stillness of the night held these intrusions in a kind of amplified silence that was soothing.
The Kurt Vonnegut memory reminds me of something I often find myself saying when I'm enjoying myself with others: "In case I forget to tell you later, I had a great time." And my friends always laugh because our time isn't over and may even have just begun - but saying this out loud, and acknowledging others in the moment, anchors me in an awareness of gratitude that might otherwise escape me, and that makes me doubly happy.
Your grandmother's passing... the silence when my father died was shocking - and is a memory for another time. But there is one sentence that stands out for me: "It will always have been too soon for my grandmother to go, and I need to feel the wrongness of it to know that I loved her." My grief was intense when my father died at age 56. It was palpable, almost like another being always at my side. And I was deeply attached to it - much like you say here - as a measure of my love for him. Or as Kahil Gibran wrote: That which is your sorrow was once your joy. Your pain carves out a place in which you can hold more joy. - a poor paraphrase but you get the idea. But a real turning point for me was a memorial concert in my father's name, actually paid for by my father before he died. He was a donor to this wonderful acapella choir and the conductor was a friend, so he arranged for everything in advance except the date which my stepmother and I were to establish when we were ready. It took us almost a year and I was bowled over by how many people attended not necessarily for the music but for my father. All these people remembered him and remembered him fondly. It was amazing. And in that moment, I was able to release some of my grief. I realized that I had guarded it so fiercely b/c I felt responsible for his memory, that only I alone could remember him so well. When I realized that others did, some just as fiercely and sincerely as I, when I heard their stories, when they came out almost 10 months after his death to share their memories and admiration, something released, and the vigilance of my grief ended. Of course the loss will always be there and my grief remained active for about 4 years, but I will never forget that night. Henceforth I have been a huge advocate of memorial gatherings many months after a death. Anyway, just sharing as a consideration in the possibility it might resonate.
What a lovely memory, Jan. Thank you for trusting me (us) with it. I have also found comfort in knowing that others loved my grandmother as deeply as I did, and that even in her absence we have each other. We shore up our ruins with those who remain, to some extent. My grandmother died just before the start of my final year as a professor, and I lost a cousin to COVID just a few months later, so I have tried to remind myself of that at times when my outlook has been really bleak over the past year. It's a lot of loss, a lot of grief, all stacked together. It can be difficult to find people capable of holding that space with you, but I'm glad to have found some of that here.
holding the space and bearing witness. Indeed.