Do you remember long car journeys as a child? The passage of time seemed so unbearably slow, games of eye spy interspersed with a chorus of whining, “are we there yet”. I used to look out the window and imagine a rabbit racing along the roadside, sometimes on the hard shoulder at ground level, sometimes as if by magic over hedges, along the powerlines, hopping from one pole to the next. Then, while distracted by a town, view or some point of interest, the imaginary rabbit would disappear. Like those long journeys, grief is a slow, slow burn. You want to reach the final destination, a resolution of sorts. Distracted at times, you forget your loss until it appears again.
I’ve written about grief relating to death before, and in the years since that piece, I’ve continued to learn that there is no end, no final destination, and no resolution. I developed complicated grief with a side serving of post-traumatic stress following the unexpected death of my Dad. The emotional impacts and initial shock and disbelief lasted much longer than 'normal'. I did, or tried to do all the right things, sought professional support, wrote about it, and confided in friends and family. But grief is as lonely as it is inevitable. I ploughed through, not unscathed. Recently though, I feel I've weathered the worst of it.
Death is an initiation, both for the dying and those left behind. The experience of profound loss marks the crossing of an invisible threshold, a point of no return and a shift in identity that can’t be undone. For me, the family felt like a constellation missing a star. Grief became a kind of psychospiritual dark matter, a void left behind that my mind tried to rationalise and fill with explanations, imaginations, hows and what-ifs. That dark hole seemed to swallow me whole some days.
When I was little, my non-imaginary rabbits died Chippie first, taken by a fox, then later, Thumper, an exceptionally grumpy, enormous, territorial rabbit who succumbed to old age. I was sad, relatively so. We had a burial in the back garden with some of my friends and that tied things up nicely in my mind. Truth be known, the death of the fictional rabbits in Watership Down accompanied by Simon & Garfunkel's 'Bright Eyes' probably did more psychological damage to me than the death of the two pet rabbits. Harrowing!
Sometime after the rabbits died, the centrepiece of our garden, a beautiful Cherry Blossom got sick, died and had to be cut down. I was bereft. I watched and wept from my bedroom window as the branches were sawn off, utterly heartbroken. The Cherry Blossom was my friend and unlike the grumpy rabbit, it didn’t bite. I had such love for that tree. My Mum told me that she would bring me outside to sleep under its blossoms as a baby and as I grew older I would climb into its trunk and sit for hours in its embrace. It still makes me cry to think about it thirty-odd years later.
I recently realised that this link to the Cherry Blossom explained a great deal about how I have processed grief and relate to nature. Objectively the rabbits or even my grandparents who lived overseas (who I did not know well) would have been more likely sources of grief and loss. Looking back, however, the death of the Cherry tree was probably the closest thing to grief I experienced as a young child. It seemed sudden and felt terribly unfair. I'm not sure I even realised trees could die in that way.
My attachment to a non-human being also makes better sense now. I've developed a deeper connection to nature in recent years through training as a nature therapy guide and understand that unique childlike connection to nature again. For children lucky enough to grow up close to wild places, there is a kind of uninhibited relationship children have with the natural world, wholly sensory and non-judgemental. Making friends with a tree seemed entirely plausible to me as a child, though I didn't realise the importance of the relationship until it was gone or indeed that it was a friend. As I grew up, the influence of societal norms crept in and my carefree connection to nature was lost, as happens to most of us.
Now I have rekindled that closeness with nature, it's become one of the most healing parts of my experience with grief. I can’t articulate how or rationalise it in writing or conversation. There are mountains of scientific studies proving the many mental and physical benefits of spending time in nature but reading about it can't compare with experiencing it. Unlike talk therapy, there is a visceral and sensory connection that you have in nature that can’t be accessed through cerebral strain and analysis.
The dark matter lingers, and the not-knowingness is ever present, with no final destination, no cure. This strange unquantifiable, inexplicable void shapes and defines us in ways that can take years to understand. In some parallel universe, unseen, another you manage to scramble through, you can’t see that other version of yourself until later, or perhaps not at all. A different person emerges from the experience of loss. The passing of time does not diminish the grief, but you become more resilient, learning ways to navigate grief as it bubbles up, allowing it, feeling it, and accepting it will return again.
Nature has been a balm, not a cure. Being in nature is often the time I feel grief most acutely. Seeing the beauty in the world emphasises the loss somehow. Seemingly opposing emotions of sorrow and joy co-exist. It is possible to feel two things at once. I can now see the beauty of change and decay, growing older, sometimes wiser. Slowly accepting the inevitable.
Natures notes is proudly written on and inspired by Dharawal Country.
I recognise the Dharawal & Wodi Wodi custodians and ancestors who have an enduring connection to land, water and skies. I give thanks for reciprocity and acknowledge that this
Always Was and Always Will be Aboriginal Land.
Yes, beautifully written. And I resonate with everything you have to say about our primal connection(s) to nature, which start in childhood.
Thank you Anna. What a lovely, heartfelt piece.