As a writer I pride myself in being able to put words to emotions which normally would remain indescribable. I enjoy the comments I receive when someone says that my poetry or my blog has spoken to them, has given words to that which they previously couldn’t express. Yet for months I have stared at a blank screen. For months I have found myself unable to describe, only to feel.
I started this blog to express a journey of faith and doubt: my journey as a once evangelical Christian turned eclectic agnostic. Yet in November I would face the ultimate journey of faith and doubt. In November, I would face death.
Over the last few months, I have suffocated in silent drowning. I have read horror stories of children who inhaled too much water only to pass hours, even days, later. So was I in the open waters of my grief. Having swam and clawed my way to land within the mere hours it took to drive back home, it appeared to all that I was fine. I played the part so well, I would convince everyone, including myself. Yet for all this time the water filled my lungs. All this time, every breath was labored.
Wouldn’t it be easier I wondered, if I could go back to the former certainty, to the faith of my youth. Wouldn’t it be better if death was a comma in the sentence of life. Yet for me, death is not even a period. For me, death is a question mark.
My father passed away November first. I found out the next day. November second will always remain the day the stained glass shattered, but a question remains:
Can I make these pieces in to something beautiful?