In memory of my mum, Peggy Frizzell, who passed on this day, August 20th, in 2018.
Writing from the heart is tricky when the source is broken.
Leonard Cohen said that’s how the light gets in.
People treat sorrow like a plague rather than a river that runs through life, which we all must drink from. That’s part of the deal. It takes courage to love.
It is best to remain silent. Play along. Leave a smile by the door. Slap in on before you go out.
Put a record on when you get home. Pick up a book. Experience what others genuinely feel, as the flesh is made word in what’s labelled fiction.
There, masked in rhythm, verse and prose, our secret heart is spoken by strangers and people who never existed but seem closer to us and more real than anyone we’ve met.
It’s okay to be broken there. It’s expected. It’s where we go to know we’re not alone and to remember what it is to be human.
I hope some of it’s real. That somewhere, out there, in the firmament, amongst the stars, or maybe in another dimension, or here with me, just beyond what my senses are capable of detecting, you, Dad, Grandma, all who we’ve loved and went before, are together and having a grand time of it, laughing at the living for being fools too greedy and self-absorbed to enjoy the wonder and embrace the mystery.
Too caught up in petty squabbles, trying to control what we don’t understand, telling lies designed to conceal rather than reveal, forgetting to be grateful and curious and to celebrate life while we have the chance—it doesn’t last long. Experience its perfect offerings.
Believing you are all together and happy somewhere doesn’t make me miss you any less, even when I can hear your laughter and see your smile.
But it comforts.
In writing this, I feel you all around me. Words are the sheets I throw over the ghosts in the room.
Memories surround, and the love felt and more to give floods in like light through a crack.
Mr. Cohen was right.