Hi AA, I love this piece. I think it's your best one yet. So thoughtful, so poetic, and so true.
I've been working on a piece around death myself, albeit in a very different capacity, and your writing engages with some of the ideas swimming around in my own head.
I love that you talk about the different forms of death: the end of an era, a friendship, of who we were at different stages in our lives. So painful and inexplicable, sometimes. Those are the ones I really want to talk about in conversations right now, even though they have nothing to do with my work. I look upon the person I once was with a lot more kindness now than I did in that moment. How do you feel about Ayesha before she became an Auntie?
To add to this death list: 'la petite mort' (death by orgasm, but not literally). Puts a very different spin on such a difficult concept...
Moving on, the death of actual living, breathing human beings I have known has hit me like a punch in the gut; an assault on the senses; disorienting in an entirely internal way. I still can't wrap my head around one, even though it's been years. If we're going with metaphors, time changes the texture of death, of grief, makes it less all-consuming, but I'm not sure it does much else.
It's a sad, sad thing saying goodbye to the voice, the warmth, the touch, the gestures, the ideas, the personality, that all belonged to a person you knew who lived in a human body that is now 6 feet under, in its final resting place. I think about the tangible, precious human form, and everything associated with it; the loss of all of that. I think about never seeing this person again in this life. Never is a long time. Or maybe it really isn't, but it sure as hell feels like it is. I wonder if this kind of death is the ultimate loss or if there is something worse we have yet to experience.
You're right, we need to normalise talking about these things so we're better prepared to grasp them on an intellectual level, at least. On this note, I went to a meetup a few days ago: it was called a mortality meetup as part of a death cafe (ever heard of those?), and was attended by people interested in having conversations around death and mortality, but not necessarily grieve for a recent loss or seek emotional support, if that makes sense? It provided a space that makes a morbid subject more accessible. I wish I could take you along to the next meetup.
I realise I have written an entire essay in response to yours. What can I say? With writing like this, you end up starting a dialogue.
(So you know, your newsletter landed in 'promotions' this time and keeps rotating across folders)
My thoughtful, wise friend. Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts which you so eloquently articulate. Death is funny business. It goes against everything we work towards in this lifetime so I'm not sure it's meant to be understood. To answer your question, however, Ayesha and Auntie Ayesha are both works in progress and my hunch is they always will be. I love that you describe death and grief as something that has texture because it truly feels like it. And you're right, time does alter this. I haven't heard of a death cafe but I'm intrigued. I hope I can visit one with you soon, along with the many other plans we are due to catch up on. Sending you so much love.
Hi AA, I love this piece. I think it's your best one yet. So thoughtful, so poetic, and so true.
I've been working on a piece around death myself, albeit in a very different capacity, and your writing engages with some of the ideas swimming around in my own head.
I love that you talk about the different forms of death: the end of an era, a friendship, of who we were at different stages in our lives. So painful and inexplicable, sometimes. Those are the ones I really want to talk about in conversations right now, even though they have nothing to do with my work. I look upon the person I once was with a lot more kindness now than I did in that moment. How do you feel about Ayesha before she became an Auntie?
To add to this death list: 'la petite mort' (death by orgasm, but not literally). Puts a very different spin on such a difficult concept...
Moving on, the death of actual living, breathing human beings I have known has hit me like a punch in the gut; an assault on the senses; disorienting in an entirely internal way. I still can't wrap my head around one, even though it's been years. If we're going with metaphors, time changes the texture of death, of grief, makes it less all-consuming, but I'm not sure it does much else.
It's a sad, sad thing saying goodbye to the voice, the warmth, the touch, the gestures, the ideas, the personality, that all belonged to a person you knew who lived in a human body that is now 6 feet under, in its final resting place. I think about the tangible, precious human form, and everything associated with it; the loss of all of that. I think about never seeing this person again in this life. Never is a long time. Or maybe it really isn't, but it sure as hell feels like it is. I wonder if this kind of death is the ultimate loss or if there is something worse we have yet to experience.
You're right, we need to normalise talking about these things so we're better prepared to grasp them on an intellectual level, at least. On this note, I went to a meetup a few days ago: it was called a mortality meetup as part of a death cafe (ever heard of those?), and was attended by people interested in having conversations around death and mortality, but not necessarily grieve for a recent loss or seek emotional support, if that makes sense? It provided a space that makes a morbid subject more accessible. I wish I could take you along to the next meetup.
I realise I have written an entire essay in response to yours. What can I say? With writing like this, you end up starting a dialogue.
(So you know, your newsletter landed in 'promotions' this time and keeps rotating across folders)
My thoughtful, wise friend. Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts which you so eloquently articulate. Death is funny business. It goes against everything we work towards in this lifetime so I'm not sure it's meant to be understood. To answer your question, however, Ayesha and Auntie Ayesha are both works in progress and my hunch is they always will be. I love that you describe death and grief as something that has texture because it truly feels like it. And you're right, time does alter this. I haven't heard of a death cafe but I'm intrigued. I hope I can visit one with you soon, along with the many other plans we are due to catch up on. Sending you so much love.