Monday, July 4, 2022

Sense of Loss

For me, grief is linked heavily to the grief of having lost oneself. Of having to say goodbye to a stage in life that you yearn to hold on to... but is now gently but firmly prised from your grip. 

I've recently had to deal with the loss of my grandparents. Perhaps more than anything else, they were emblematic of my childhood. They had represented those years when I had been romping around the neighbourhood, wildly immature and incredibly mischievous. They represented a stage in my life when I was wholly dependent on others for all my needs and wants, and yet not for a moment did I feel unsafe or unloved. 

But over the years I grew out of this dependency. Unconsciously and without meaning to, I started to move away from my need of them. And as I move towards youth, they started to decay and fade.. much like my childhood. And soon, my childhood years vanished.. and they too left me. 

For one of our family gatherings many years ago, we played a montage of my mother's old family pictures to the Bee Gee's song "First of May". There perhaps could not be a song more hauntingly reflective of the bittersweet nostalgic sentiment which accompanies the journey down memory lane.

I miss my grandparents. And partly, I miss the child I was.  

Is it a selfish grief if, alongside my missing the person I've lost, I miss also the stage of life that I was in? 

This question emerged more starkly when I felt both overjoyed yet profoundly sad when I met up with a dear group of friends from my university in Durham. It was a special occasion because two in the group would be tying the knot. I'm not good at expressing myself verbally or in person, but my heart was bursting when I met these friends of mine. Who else but this group would ask me - upon the first half hour of my arrival - "how are you doing, really? How are you doing spiritually?" It was intrusive, shocking, perplexing - yet very welcome. 

I didn't "lose" anyone in this group per se. But these friendships have changed greatly over the years, as these things naturally would. Sometimes in my dreams, Durham still returns to me as a haven untouched by the cruelty of time, as a relief from the crushing pressure of current realities and adulthood. 

I see my university years heading towards the same direction as my childhood. That stage of my life smells of idealistic optimism, of simple unwavering rectitude, of painful yet genuine friendships, of "adult" freedom unburdened by responsibilities. But all too quickly, it is slipping through my fingers. Durham has changed, my friends have changed - I have changed. 

What is the thing that lasts, then?