The bridge of sorrow

For a long time, I stood in front of the narrow wooden bridge, its gentle arch reflecting. It was a bridge for walking back and forth, over and over. Just like that, for the sake of walking and the reflections. Mourning is a walk back and forth. Over to where one was with him. All the years of life together. And this walking back and forth is important. Because something has been torn off. Memory puts it back together, again and again. Something has been lost. Memory seeks it out and finds it. Something of oneself has been lost. You need it. You go after it. You have to regain it if you want to live. You have to walk the land of the past, back and forth, until the walk over the bridge leads to a new path. leads to a new path.

Jörg Zink

Two years ago when one of my friend's grandmother died, he sent me this poem. Someone from the church proposed to read it at the funeral. The poem stuck with me ever since. And as a coincidence, last year, when my grandmother died. I came back to this poem once again.

I especially like the part in this poem ‘walking back and forth’, and I think this image portrays really well how processing grief looks like. I am very familiar with walking back and forth.

Walking back and forth of the memories, walking back and forth of what they would have said in this situation, how they would have liked these flowers... until I collect all these pieces.

Becoming whole again is about finding that person within me, and merging with it. Integrating the qualities this person modeled to me. And even though at the time I didn’t get to understand them now, I do. This is the part that feels most tender. This is the place where we process the loss.

Processing and grieving my grandmother’s passing meant for me to be able to have much more appreciation for the things nature offers. Embracing the cycles, being able to celebrate life when it is spring and roses are blooming, literally and metaphorically, or feeling the fulfillment of cooking for someone.

Being in devotion and service to someone always carried so much charge for me as I associated this with misogyny. At Least this is how all the things expected from a young girl landed for me growing up.

Being a little fierce rebel, I rejected all the household chores that were assigned to women. Instead, I isolated myself without realizing it. I kept writing poems in my journal and read books in my room. Finally, here I am embracing all the things I once rejected. Here I am setting myself free!

Besides so many other qualities my grandmother was a storyteller. I have always asked her questions about what it was like to be born and grow up right after the Second World War (for context, Turkey was not part of WW2 but of course, had its impact from the war.) From the stories she told me I have imagined her childhood home, her siblings, and how their everyday life looked like, how she was an attentive child to her brothers and sisters. How she dedicated herself to serving others even at a very young age.

I have been reflecting more about her recently. I got to see her even better, I’ve got to understand her even deeper.

I couldn’t see her nurturing side when she was alive, partly because of our quarrels and partly the way she presented herself. She loved gardening. She would grow tomatoes, cucumbers, and strawberries in the garden. She would make us strawberry yogurt snacks :) but all this, the way she was now makes me understand something deeper about her, that is her presence doing her work.

She would set an intention or pray while cooking so that the food could turn out delicious for others to enjoy. She never began anything without saying “bismillahirrahmanirrahim”—“in the name of God.” This hits me very hard these days because she knew something very ancient, very wise, that is your presence; this is what makes food delicious, that is what nurtures a child, and this is how creation starts with your presence.

This was one of the hardest pieces for me as I most often match the idea of work with obligation. Something that I have to do, something that I need to abandon myself to do. Because ‘the work’ I have done was never been something I like to do. But for her, it was something she poured her love into. Or perhaps she grew to like it, she accepted what was given to her and found beauty in it and for that, I feel deep respect. Once she told me ‘I came to this world to serve others.’

For a long time listening to her talk about her life's purpose irritated me to my core. I wanted to be anyone but like her. ‘Serving others’, was that a life worth living? I would ask myself: Only now I can understand her dedication to be in service to others. There is a joy, a form of reciprocal relationship serving others that I could not understand at the time. Only after having the memories of her, now I see how in all the detailed ways she cared for me and others. Only when I was still eating the pickles she made for me even though she was long gone. All the intricate ways she touched my life skillfully, sewing my unstitched jacket, making mantı (Turkish ravioli) to stock up my freezer. I see the traces she left behind her.

She did everything she could with great patience and care. She was so present, one of the most present people I’ve ever known. Her qualities make me think about these two archetypes: the mother and the crone.

As someone I have never had a good relationship with ‘mother’ her death made me want to be even more immersed in this archetype. Because her embodiment of mothering was beautiful. Nurturing and caring for others wasn’t a weakness or something to do out of necessity, only those who have it in them can nurture. I came to recognize how caring for others is a great quality one can have.

I see now she did all the things because of her love for others, not because she sacrificed herself in the name of serving others. I looked at her with bitter eyes when she was alive. Why? why did you sacrifice yourself for others? Why do you become the server to others but not follow your dreams and become your own person? This was how I perceived her for the longest time: the story I had about what it meant to have a family as a devoted woman. I guess it is very common in her time that your life is about your family. And nothing is wrong with that. I was just afraid of that. I wanted to explore the world for myself without any ties. I didn’t know it was possible to have a family, to love someone, and also be able to explore the world. I was taught either this or that. Black and white.

Part of the reason I talk about death is because death needs integration. It needs embracing. I try to feel it. I try to open my heart to it. I try to be more intentional and see each step of the way what this has given me. all the people, places, and ideas that I’ve let go of, for all the deaths. This is my way of honoring them, this is my way of celebrating life.

​​I think to honor death means to celebrate life. To honor grief is to become more alive. To feel the pain means to get more sensitive and receptive to pleasure and love.

If this story inspires you, you can buy me a coffee.