“helping. . .”
You know, this summer has been just rife with people’s tragedies, people whom we’re pretty close to: suicides of young people, deaths from old-age, contentious marital strife roiling around innocent young children. I have been wondering why, and why now? The answer is that I don’t know. There seems to be an epidemic of bad luck, misfortune and just plain hardship. Personal tragedies of Shakespearean proportions.
What I do know is that there is not much one can do to help. Because I have tried and failed most of the time. Grieving is as personal as it can be. Some people want to talk about it. Others deflect angrily. Everyone asks what more they could have done. Why didn’t they know? Why did this happen? What went wrong?
Many things that used to bug me now pale in comparison. This confluence of personal grieving has shut me up. I retreat into the companionship of my friendships and marriage with gratitude and forbearance. Being still seems to help. That’s about all.