My dad is a philosopher
I wrote to my dad about Bastien. He wrote me back something beautiful.
--- lokifin wrote:
> Dad. Bastien is gone. He's been missing for three weeks, and I have no choice to think that he's dead.
>
> It's hard, Dad. I miss him so much. I never lost anyone like this before. I know it's not like losing a person, but it's as close as I know. I miss him, Dad. And it hurts. Jean knows about it. I talked to her the other night.
>
> I just thought you should know, because you would understand.
I sure do. I remember (remember? I can revisit it!) how bad I felt when Dune died, when The Biter died, when our stinky little cat Alex died, and when Lucky got hit by a car and Jean and the vet wanted to put him down. I couldn't agree to it, and I got to feel selfish and petty for the trouble. Yeah, I can relate. I used to tell folks that it was a good thing Dune died before we got attached.
I don't get choked up any more, well, not frequently, but I don't mind saying that I shed more than a few tears over each of them. I haven't stopped loving them, either.
My only advice is to know that the pain you feel is an honor that your soul pays to the soul of the one you've lost. Love isn't free, and one price you pay is in the grief you must go through. It's just as important to honor that grief, to recognize the real place your loved one has held in your heart, as it is to cherish the time you do have together.
I wouldn't wallow in it for too long, either, or you learn to resent it. It's also important not to resent the pain, since it is a part of the life you have shared. I found that I kind of resent the fact that the passage of time drags us away from contact with those we've lost, and shrouds them in this gulf that we can't reach across, except by our memories. I think grief serves to sort of brand their memories inside us, and after the acute pain subsides, it helps us to find that little hiding place where we can connect with the bits that have been left behind.
You can count on missing him, and in time you'll learn to cherish the missing of him, because that missing turns into your memory of how things were. It gets better, it really does. Not quickly, but gradually, through the living of your own life and the living attachments that you still have.
I'm sorry that this is part of the life we get to live, but I couldn't have come up with anything better. I do think that these sorts of things (the sort of bitter things we have to learn to accept and get on with life in spite of) are things that give live some of its depth, and help to put more mundane things into a real perspective.
I'm even more sorry for the pain I know you're feeling, and for the fact that I'm pretty much helpless in the face of it.
Pa.
--- lokifin wrote:
> Dad. Bastien is gone. He's been missing for three weeks, and I have no choice to think that he's dead.
>
> It's hard, Dad. I miss him so much. I never lost anyone like this before. I know it's not like losing a person, but it's as close as I know. I miss him, Dad. And it hurts. Jean knows about it. I talked to her the other night.
>
> I just thought you should know, because you would understand.
I sure do. I remember (remember? I can revisit it!) how bad I felt when Dune died, when The Biter died, when our stinky little cat Alex died, and when Lucky got hit by a car and Jean and the vet wanted to put him down. I couldn't agree to it, and I got to feel selfish and petty for the trouble. Yeah, I can relate. I used to tell folks that it was a good thing Dune died before we got attached.
I don't get choked up any more, well, not frequently, but I don't mind saying that I shed more than a few tears over each of them. I haven't stopped loving them, either.
My only advice is to know that the pain you feel is an honor that your soul pays to the soul of the one you've lost. Love isn't free, and one price you pay is in the grief you must go through. It's just as important to honor that grief, to recognize the real place your loved one has held in your heart, as it is to cherish the time you do have together.
I wouldn't wallow in it for too long, either, or you learn to resent it. It's also important not to resent the pain, since it is a part of the life you have shared. I found that I kind of resent the fact that the passage of time drags us away from contact with those we've lost, and shrouds them in this gulf that we can't reach across, except by our memories. I think grief serves to sort of brand their memories inside us, and after the acute pain subsides, it helps us to find that little hiding place where we can connect with the bits that have been left behind.
You can count on missing him, and in time you'll learn to cherish the missing of him, because that missing turns into your memory of how things were. It gets better, it really does. Not quickly, but gradually, through the living of your own life and the living attachments that you still have.
I'm sorry that this is part of the life we get to live, but I couldn't have come up with anything better. I do think that these sorts of things (the sort of bitter things we have to learn to accept and get on with life in spite of) are things that give live some of its depth, and help to put more mundane things into a real perspective.
I'm even more sorry for the pain I know you're feeling, and for the fact that I'm pretty much helpless in the face of it.
Pa.