When we’re overwhelmed and overshadowed by situations we often come to the end of ourselves. We find we have no more words to speak to that person, the well that the whole family drinks from is just plain dry or perhaps there are many people relying on us but we’ve run out of ideas.

Today, I offer a simple little prayer.

We're like fresh puppies panting at the next thing and the next thing and the next.

Pause. Breathe. Stay.

There’s an artist, Marina Abramović, who performed an art piece that was simply sitting and looking into the eyes of strangers. In 2010 she performed this at The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA).

The Extreme nature of this work is
not stupid, it’s required.

We thought we’d squeeze in a little visit to Èze on our way along the French riviera. It’s an enchanting village clinging to the mountain side above the Mediterranean Sea. My homie and I made our way along the stone cobbled streets that wound their path to the top. Quite parched and ready for, as I call them, fivesies, we found a humble sign indicating an appropriate spot. Down a few steps into a cellar-like room we were led. We glanced at each other, not quite sure where this was going. All of a sudden it opened up into a mountain edge terrace that felt like I was walking onto a film set - a very fancy high-end restaurant with white umbrellas, white table cloths and French women dressed in chic outfits with red lipstick and sideways looks in our direction. Fair enough, we were in our bathers.

(Video Included)

Bon Iver stepped on stage. Little did he know, there was a man in the audience for whom this would be his last live concert. I don’t remember much of the genius that Bon Iver displayed that night, I was too full of emotion and realisation that Andrew and I would not do this again - this was a last. I could tell that he was so invested in every note, listening intently to the chord progressions and being present with his whole being. I could tell he also knew that this was a last and I felt sick wondering what that would be like for him.

Usually I’m not a fan of encores but this night I would have given anything for the encore not to end.

There’s things to be done, places to be and Lord knows I don’t want to upset others with my grief. The first words out of our mouths, when tears well in public, is some sort of apology. We mumble through a sorry and conjure up a justification of weariness. Well, of course we’re bloody weary! We’re grieving! 

Perhaps, if we don’t learn how to lament, we create in its place a deep cleft in the surface of our earth, a chasm that we cannot cross. The ground we once thought solid, the God we once knew cared, crumbles beneath the weight of our grief. The Creator we used to sit with tumbles down the ravine and we no longer have a place for the sacred things of life.

I wonder, if lament was allowed, if we let the pain of loss surround us in the brown dust earth, maybe we would see God differently in this space. Instead of an empty echo tumbling through darkness, maybe we would experience a divine intimacy, a closeness that could hold us in the loss.

I wonder if God is lament.

(Audio version available)

They say that grief is like a heavy black cloak that covers you head to foot. Actually, I’ve not heard anyone say that, but that is the cliché. And yes, it’s true, there is a sort of darkness that pastes itself upon your skin, a tar like substance, so inseparable that you wonder if it has become you.

But take heart, fellow sodden-foot traveller.

(Audio version available)

Everyone needs a booby keyring at times like this!

The pain of loss is not selective, rather, it’s a giant communal pot of bolognaise that an Italian mumma makes you have seconds of, only not nearly as tasty. My story is one of cancer (4 times over in my immediate family) and the long-suffering of losing loved ones. But your grief may be a totally different lemon varietal. Either way, we’re all sucking on something sour!

(Audio version available)