One of my favourite songs from the Les Mis is Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, and in that song there is a line that, every time I hear it, never fails to give me chills. There’s a grief that can’t be spoken…

A grief that can’t be spoken. When I blogged through holy week many years ago, and I reflected on Holy Saturday, I titled the blog with this. And still I can’t get it out from under my skin. There is a grief that can’t be spoken. 

There is so much of grief that is unspoken. Unspoken because you cannot possibly find the words from inside yourself, to be able to put voice to them. Unspoken because there are things that don’t need to be put into the ether. Unspoken because it is simply so mind numbingly mundane and utterly dull- because it is sometimes, grief is boring- that it is the last thing you want to say. 

But there are other things unspoken. All those conversations that you want to have with the person who has left you behind. All the things that you should be able to say to them. The things you were saying when grief interrupted, that now remain unspoken. Forever unspoken. 

There is, however, a small part, of your unspoken grief that feels comforting.  That is unspoken because you like it that way. Unspoken because it feels like a secret between you and them, the bit that, were they still alive, would be the most precious heart of your relationship with them. 

And so sometimes, while the unspoken grief can be dark and lonely, it can also be a place to retreat to. To explore and dwell in.  

Lex xx

Grief makes you think the worst things. Imagine the most intrusive thoughts, times them by ten and you have the tricks grief plays on your mind.

But the thing is, we need the worst thoughts. Our minds need to go to the end of themselves, to explore the boundaries of what we think, believe and imagine. Because the worst has happened, and maybe, just maybe, the worst thing we can think, believe or imagine isn’t actually the worst. Maybe it’s just is. Just a thought. Just an idea. Just something that, in the pain of everything else going on, our minds needed to put voice to. 

That’s what I found surprising. With the help of a book and film. That the very worst thing I thought, that for 10 years I berated myself for, is in fact not that surprising and something that other kids think…

Grief is often unkind to you, telling you that what you think is the worst. But sometimes grief is surprisingly kind, catching you, just as you fall off the edge of expressing the self same worst thing. 

Lex xx

Breathe. Just take a breath. Ok, you just need to say it…say it. Tell them. Make sure your voice doesn’t wobble- you’ll make them feel bad for asking. Matter of fact, it’s a matter of fact, so make it sound like that. You’ve been quiet too long now, you need to say it now…

My mum died…when I was 16…a long time ago…when I was a kid…

That’s how it goes, in my head, when someone asks, or I have to tell someone for the first time. A snap second of thinking, but that’s the thinking that happens. Trying to work out what words to say and how to say it, so that the person I’m telling doesn’t feel awkward. 

But then, I made it part of my job to tell people. To write about, teach about and bang on about doing death better. Yet still, my snap second of indecision, every time. And if I’m honest, there are times, when I’m teaching, where I don’t explain the full story. Where I don’t tell people the root of my passion. Where I treat it as a mere academic idea in which I am a detached expert. And that’s ok. 

Other times, I long for people to ask, so I can speak her name. So I can share stories about her like I’m normal. Times, when I’m teaching, and I invite people in to the truth with me. Inviting people into where the shadows have grown longer, where I can tell them of her light. And that’s ok too. 

The thing is, the thought process is the same, it happen’s both times- even now. It’s just that sometimes I’m able to push through and say the word, and sometimes in the interest of self care and self preservation, I’m not. And it’s ok, either way. 

Sometimes we can speak their names, yearn to tell you about them and love to invite you into our story. Sometimes, the truth might just be a little too much to actually say the words. Still ask though. Always ask. 

Lex xx

It has been almost five years since my book Walking in their Shadow was published. Which means it is ten years since i wrote it. 

I still use this material often, indeed I am giving a lecture on childhood and adolescent bereavement this afternoon, but I haven’t done a huge amount of new thinking and writing on my own grief in about ten years. 

I haven’t done any new writing here for over a year, did you notice?! 

But today is the beginning of Lent, and I really valued blogging through Lent to get over some writer’s block a five years back, and I feel it is time again. 

But this time, ten years on, as the shadows grow longer, I will write everyday throughout Lent with a specific slant to grief, bereavement and loss. 

I’ll be using a couple of different sources of writing prompts, some will be longer than others. But I pray that this will be a beneficial exercise for us all. 

Lex xx