Grief as creative fuel

My words have often been my tears on paper. The more I've felt, the deeper I've grieved, the more I've felt a need to express myself to not have to harbor it all on my own. As a teenager, I often wrote in my journal when I wasn't feeling well, asking why all the time, until the soft mule of my favorite horse breathed warmth onto my hands that I then buried underneath his mane. It was my parents' divorce prompting me to leave the house and take refuge at the riding club. The unconditional touch became my grace.

With joy, it's different. I don't want to let go of joy. I want to hold on to it, replay a happy memory and tune back into what I was feeling. Then I don't write at all. I rather dance around in my living room, hoping that my dreams will come true.

When we talk to others, our emotions come alive again, together with our experience becoming relived. Sometimes, this is necessary to feel that we are witnessed, seen and heard and not alone. But sometimes, the hurt just grows again. It's a fine line. A line that, if others learned how to hold space and just listen with their hearts, would become the turning point towards healing and moving on. While time gives us distance and therethrough its own space, our hearts need presence. If not with someone you can trust, at least with your journal. Today however, my entry will be about what I hope for.