Carved deep

There are two perfect weathers in which to visit the grave of a loved one.

One is on a calm, clear, sunshiney day, where the view from the grave looks glistening and beautiful, and the fresh flowers you've brought are simply zesty with life and energy and hope; they positively affirm - sing out - that everything continues and heals and grows. And it's all about peace and coming-to-terms and gentle tender pain; all very Simba/Circle of Life stuff.

The other weather is like today: dark, louring clouds, whipping wind that feels like it slices through flesh, shoulders shivering and teeth chattering with cold, freezing rain filling your bones with that damp chill that takes hours of warmth to undo. The whole landscape is dark and morbid, and the flowers - filled with the colours of spring and hope - are already being torn and crushed before your eyes. It's a different experience of grief and loss - I guess Ruskin would be talking about 'pathetic fallacy', about how we recreate in the world a mirror of our own feelings.

The two same-but-different experiences reminded me of 'The Prophet':

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."

And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.