Rob, your beautifully courageous, poignant essay captures so much of what it's like to lose someone you love. My mother died last March, and reading this was a really cathartic experience. The depth of your observations in the face of such a devastating loss is truly inspirational. My condolences to you and yours.
And you know what? I believe were visited by goats. Capricorns, to be exact...
An achingly beautiful piece, Rob, but you still manage to infuse it with your trademark wit and moments of surprise. I’m mesmerised by that pair of obviously-not-goats but more so by your rich and honest humanity.
This struck a chord: “They don’t know, I thought, thinking on all these people on the flights, buckling for landing, gathering their things, entirely unaware of my dad, and his departure. We’re all so oblivious to each other, wrapped up in our little goings-on. I tried to imagine their lives, what they would go on to after landing.”
I haven’t experienced losing a parent, but I recognise those thoughts from my own moments of grief. At first, there’s bewilderment, possibly even anger, but then there’s maybe something oddly reassuring in the realisation that life does go on, oblivious to our personal pain. Your observation makes me wonder now how many times I’ve been one of those passengers on a plane, or interacted with someone not knowing what terrible thing they are going through. We never know. To us, they’re maybe just someone driving badly or seeming inconsiderate in some way. If only we knew what they were going through, we wouldn’t rush to judgement so fast.
I love this comment, thank you so much, Simon. I'm so glad this one resonated, and love that it has you wondering. For sure there's something reassuring in feeling the relentless (in a good way) continuation of everything, not personal in any way, as much as it feels that way. And yes, even those brief glimpses of wondering what others are going through, or someone extending that to us, if we're lucky, can feel reassuring like nothing else.
Having lived in the desert I have experienced the truth of this.
"The desert looks like death when you first look upon it, but as you defocus, you see: there’s life everywhere. Nourishment in the most improbable places."
The reminder comes as a great gift for me today as I've been had my nose up against what feels like an ending, but beyond is certainly new life.
Rob, what a beautiful piece. So many moments, captured poignantly that will help others through their grief.
“I put my hand on his chest, which was solid and unmoving, and knelt by his side. I wept quietly for a few minutes, intermittently saying I’m sorry, and thank you. I told him I loved him, and that was it for us…”.
I was so there with you with this description. ❤️
And then this -
“But out here, I felt like nothing, in the best way. Nothing to hide, nothing to try to be. No idea of me or not-me. Walking through the desert, walking through my grief.”
So many moments that you’ve captured the essential essence of.
Beautiful. and so timely. A close friend of mine list his partner this past Thursday and shared this with me today. It's so very hard to know what to say about mortal loss. I think your father may have phrased it best. Thank you so much for sharing this heartfelt piece. Bless you and your family.
I'm so sorry to hear about your friend's partner. It's lovely that he shared this piece with you. Please send him my very best. As you say, it's hard to know what words would ever suffice. It's the reaching out that matters. Bless you and your family, too. Thank you for these words, which will stay with me.
Hi Rob, I walked that desert with you. Your stories are little pinches to the heart. Just lovely. I'm glad to have found you and sad for your loss. Orphaned at 38, I'm now 63, still trying to make sense of it all. That's the game of life, eh?
Thank you for this, Maureen. I'm not sure I'll ever make sense of all of it, but I'm finding over time, that maybe it can help one learn to be more loving, which seems to me the most important pursuit in life. I really appreciate your lovely comment, and am so glad you walked the desert with me. 🌵
I just read this essay and The Things We Lose back to back. Feeling a gut-punch of emotion; it’s hard for me to put into words right now. But it’s enough to make me subscribe and come back for more. Thank you!
How beautiful and vivid. The way you describe loss - and the nuanced relationship you had with your father is very touching. I've recently become a too-old-to-be-an-orphan-orphan too. So it really hits home - but it would have either way. I love the way you write.
Sorry to hear about your losses Debra. It's so hard. I'm really glad to hear from you, and to know this piece connected. Grief surely connects us all, and behind it, the expression of love that grief really is at its core. Thank you so much for the kind words.
Whenever I read someone's writing about their personal grief experience following the loss of a loved one, it immediately strikes me how different and yet similar everyone's journey can be. Thank you for sharing yours so beautifully, vulnerably. As Ram Dass simply and eloquently said, "We are all just walking each other home."
Yes, Tim—I love that, it is so completely unique in certain ways, and universal in others. That's one of my favorite quotes, as well. Thank you for reading, and for the lovely, thoughtful comment.
This really touches me Rob. My husband, who died from suicide in September loved the desert. I never understood it as he did- but you do. He would go there when life got too hard.
I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand the torment of not having one last conversation.
Isabelle, I'm so sorry to hear about your husband. Not having one last conversation is indeed such a torment. I'm so glad to hear from you, and to know that this resonated in some way. I'm looking forward to reading your work.
It's a good question about the mushrooms on the walk. I'm not really sure what it did, as I tried so many things in that deep season of grief, it's hard to parse what was helpful and to what extent.
I did try an MDMA session with a guide not long after my mother died (while my father was still in decline), and I think it's safe to say that experience was certainly transformative in some very real ways. It seemed to deepen an already burgeoning desire to see love in places I formerly only saw its lack. I'm not sure I could ever fully articulate what happened, but I'm still grateful for it.
I missed this, Rob, and I'm sorry to hear about your father, and that you didn't get to see him before he died. Your beautiful writing reminded me of racing from Switzerland to England with my mother, when my grandmother was in hospital. I had a feeling we had to hurry, whereas my mother was in complete denial, and was surprised when I insisted on taking a taxi from Gatwick airport down to the hospital in a little town on the south coast.
We arrived there in time; my uncle had been sitting with Nana all night, and I'll never forget how my grandmother opened her eyes, smiled at me and said, Oh, is that Francesca! because she was so delighted to see me. She passed away about an hour later, with the three of us by her bedside and it was the most powerful experience I've ever witnessed. It wasn't easy, but there was so much love in that ugly little cubicle.
Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, because you didn't get to say goodbye. But I think that sometimes our loved ones want to wait for us, and sometimes they don't. My father in law passed away with my sister in law beside him, which really upset my husband because he wasn't there. But it was more important for my sister in law to be there, because the relationship had been far more complicated, and somehow I think he wanted to tell her that everything was ok. And he knew that my husband would be ok.
Thank you, Francesca, this is so lovely to hear about you making it to see your grandmother. In thinking of the timing with my dad, it was my daughter's birthday the day before, and she was having a really hard week, so I stayed to be with her on her birthday. She worried later that she'd cost me the day of travel, and being with my dad, but as I told her, I wouldn't change it for the world. I'm sure my dad would've agreed.
This is also beautiful. The desert is so…expansive, physically and emotionally. I remember when my friend lost her dad and then 3 years later her mom when we were in our late 30s, and she called me crying because she was now an orphan ❤️
Thank you, Sadie. What a beautiful thing that your friend reached out to you. I know the friends I called in that moment were the ones whose voice alone was a deep comfort on the hardest days.
Thank you for sharing this Rob. It’s beautiful writing. I’m so sorry that you didn’t get to say goodbye before he died.
The moments in the desert transported me there. I loved this. I walked a lot when my sister died. It is a meditative act.
Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your being here. Sorry to hear about your sister. I'm glad you found at least some respite in walking, too. 💛
Rob, your beautifully courageous, poignant essay captures so much of what it's like to lose someone you love. My mother died last March, and reading this was a really cathartic experience. The depth of your observations in the face of such a devastating loss is truly inspirational. My condolences to you and yours.
And you know what? I believe were visited by goats. Capricorns, to be exact...
Thanks so much, Larry—and sorry to hear about your mom. I'm glad this resonated. I appreciate you.
My pleasure, Rob. This is such an engaging, achingly tender read.
By the way, I saw your note in the WH Cafe about "Hello Beautiful." I'm about to crack that open in a few minutes.
An achingly beautiful piece, Rob, but you still manage to infuse it with your trademark wit and moments of surprise. I’m mesmerised by that pair of obviously-not-goats but more so by your rich and honest humanity.
This struck a chord: “They don’t know, I thought, thinking on all these people on the flights, buckling for landing, gathering their things, entirely unaware of my dad, and his departure. We’re all so oblivious to each other, wrapped up in our little goings-on. I tried to imagine their lives, what they would go on to after landing.”
I haven’t experienced losing a parent, but I recognise those thoughts from my own moments of grief. At first, there’s bewilderment, possibly even anger, but then there’s maybe something oddly reassuring in the realisation that life does go on, oblivious to our personal pain. Your observation makes me wonder now how many times I’ve been one of those passengers on a plane, or interacted with someone not knowing what terrible thing they are going through. We never know. To us, they’re maybe just someone driving badly or seeming inconsiderate in some way. If only we knew what they were going through, we wouldn’t rush to judgement so fast.
I love this comment, thank you so much, Simon. I'm so glad this one resonated, and love that it has you wondering. For sure there's something reassuring in feeling the relentless (in a good way) continuation of everything, not personal in any way, as much as it feels that way. And yes, even those brief glimpses of wondering what others are going through, or someone extending that to us, if we're lucky, can feel reassuring like nothing else.
Having lived in the desert I have experienced the truth of this.
"The desert looks like death when you first look upon it, but as you defocus, you see: there’s life everywhere. Nourishment in the most improbable places."
The reminder comes as a great gift for me today as I've been had my nose up against what feels like an ending, but beyond is certainly new life.
Thank you, Rick. So glad this resonated today. Here's to what comes next. Wishing you all the best.
Rob, what a beautiful piece. So many moments, captured poignantly that will help others through their grief.
“I put my hand on his chest, which was solid and unmoving, and knelt by his side. I wept quietly for a few minutes, intermittently saying I’m sorry, and thank you. I told him I loved him, and that was it for us…”.
I was so there with you with this description. ❤️
And then this -
“But out here, I felt like nothing, in the best way. Nothing to hide, nothing to try to be. No idea of me or not-me. Walking through the desert, walking through my grief.”
So many moments that you’ve captured the essential essence of.
🙏🙏
Thanks so much, James! Really glad this one connected. I so appreciate the read and the kind words.
Beautiful. and so timely. A close friend of mine list his partner this past Thursday and shared this with me today. It's so very hard to know what to say about mortal loss. I think your father may have phrased it best. Thank you so much for sharing this heartfelt piece. Bless you and your family.
I'm so sorry to hear about your friend's partner. It's lovely that he shared this piece with you. Please send him my very best. As you say, it's hard to know what words would ever suffice. It's the reaching out that matters. Bless you and your family, too. Thank you for these words, which will stay with me.
Hi Rob, I walked that desert with you. Your stories are little pinches to the heart. Just lovely. I'm glad to have found you and sad for your loss. Orphaned at 38, I'm now 63, still trying to make sense of it all. That's the game of life, eh?
Thank you for this, Maureen. I'm not sure I'll ever make sense of all of it, but I'm finding over time, that maybe it can help one learn to be more loving, which seems to me the most important pursuit in life. I really appreciate your lovely comment, and am so glad you walked the desert with me. 🌵
I just read this essay and The Things We Lose back to back. Feeling a gut-punch of emotion; it’s hard for me to put into words right now. But it’s enough to make me subscribe and come back for more. Thank you!
Thanks so much, Terri—I so appreciate this. Very glad you're here.
How beautiful and vivid. The way you describe loss - and the nuanced relationship you had with your father is very touching. I've recently become a too-old-to-be-an-orphan-orphan too. So it really hits home - but it would have either way. I love the way you write.
Sorry to hear about your losses Debra. It's so hard. I'm really glad to hear from you, and to know this piece connected. Grief surely connects us all, and behind it, the expression of love that grief really is at its core. Thank you so much for the kind words.
Whenever I read someone's writing about their personal grief experience following the loss of a loved one, it immediately strikes me how different and yet similar everyone's journey can be. Thank you for sharing yours so beautifully, vulnerably. As Ram Dass simply and eloquently said, "We are all just walking each other home."
Yes, Tim—I love that, it is so completely unique in certain ways, and universal in others. That's one of my favorite quotes, as well. Thank you for reading, and for the lovely, thoughtful comment.
This really touches me Rob. My husband, who died from suicide in September loved the desert. I never understood it as he did- but you do. He would go there when life got too hard.
I’m sorry for your loss, and I understand the torment of not having one last conversation.
Isabelle, I'm so sorry to hear about your husband. Not having one last conversation is indeed such a torment. I'm so glad to hear from you, and to know that this resonated in some way. I'm looking forward to reading your work.
Truth.
This makes me feel like I really know you Rob. So poignant.
Just curious, did taking mushrooms and going for that walk help in your grief at all or not so much?
Thanks so much, Istiaq, I really appreciate this.
It's a good question about the mushrooms on the walk. I'm not really sure what it did, as I tried so many things in that deep season of grief, it's hard to parse what was helpful and to what extent.
I did try an MDMA session with a guide not long after my mother died (while my father was still in decline), and I think it's safe to say that experience was certainly transformative in some very real ways. It seemed to deepen an already burgeoning desire to see love in places I formerly only saw its lack. I'm not sure I could ever fully articulate what happened, but I'm still grateful for it.
You put into words like a
cascading waterfall, all the myriad of different feelings
What a lovely way to put it. Thank you, Carol.
I missed this, Rob, and I'm sorry to hear about your father, and that you didn't get to see him before he died. Your beautiful writing reminded me of racing from Switzerland to England with my mother, when my grandmother was in hospital. I had a feeling we had to hurry, whereas my mother was in complete denial, and was surprised when I insisted on taking a taxi from Gatwick airport down to the hospital in a little town on the south coast.
We arrived there in time; my uncle had been sitting with Nana all night, and I'll never forget how my grandmother opened her eyes, smiled at me and said, Oh, is that Francesca! because she was so delighted to see me. She passed away about an hour later, with the three of us by her bedside and it was the most powerful experience I've ever witnessed. It wasn't easy, but there was so much love in that ugly little cubicle.
Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, because you didn't get to say goodbye. But I think that sometimes our loved ones want to wait for us, and sometimes they don't. My father in law passed away with my sister in law beside him, which really upset my husband because he wasn't there. But it was more important for my sister in law to be there, because the relationship had been far more complicated, and somehow I think he wanted to tell her that everything was ok. And he knew that my husband would be ok.
My condolences, Rob. And a hug.
Francesca xx
Thank you, Francesca, this is so lovely to hear about you making it to see your grandmother. In thinking of the timing with my dad, it was my daughter's birthday the day before, and she was having a really hard week, so I stayed to be with her on her birthday. She worried later that she'd cost me the day of travel, and being with my dad, but as I told her, I wouldn't change it for the world. I'm sure my dad would've agreed.
Oh, poor girl! Yes, your father would definitely have been on your side. Parents always are. ❤️
This is also beautiful. The desert is so…expansive, physically and emotionally. I remember when my friend lost her dad and then 3 years later her mom when we were in our late 30s, and she called me crying because she was now an orphan ❤️
Thank you, Sadie. What a beautiful thing that your friend reached out to you. I know the friends I called in that moment were the ones whose voice alone was a deep comfort on the hardest days.