A year of mourning

 I was thinking recently of childhood memories of the Fremantle area in Western Australia.

It was so normal to see older European women wearing black. In all seasons of the year. I asked about it once of my Grandmother who was Australian and of English descent. She explained to me that they wore black because they had lost someone dear to them. A death of a loved one bought out the black clothing for a year. I heard others say that they should stop doing it because it was old fashioned, and even because they smelled bad wearing black in the heat. That was the most ridiculous reason ever in my mind even as a child. 

After the year I had in 2020 on a personal level I began to question why they would wear black for a year to show the world they were mourning. We have become so used to mourning being a private affair that we have lost sight of how helpful it is to show it publicly. These women weren't proud of it, they didn't wear it as a badge of honour, or to get sympathy. It was their culture. I'm almost sad that I rarely see it now.

What did it achieve? 

It was a visible sign to the world that the person had suffered loss. They were grieving. They might not feel like themselves and they might need some gentle care rather than standard service in a business.

It allowed them to be vulnerable and to be real about the state of their emotions in public. All without saying a word. There was no blank space around them where people in the community muttered that they were a bit grumpy or a bit off. There was no social media stalking to see if something had happened to make them be that way. 

What a beautiful transaction wearing black created. The wearer could go about their daily business knowing that they didn't have to say a word about why they were a bit flat, sad, angry, or why they weren't behaving like the did before. The viewer could see the person needed extra care, and could be more caring and gentle because of it.

In my case, I didn't wear black as I'd not lost a loved one to death. I went through a different type of mourning. It was the acknowledgement that a relationship I had in a physical sense did not translate into what the world sees as a normal emotional relationship. 

In that year I acknowledged I was shortchanged in what the world teaches us to expect. I acknowledged parts of me were broken and needed healing. I acknowledged that it was me who had to process that. I acknowledged that the support and love I receive comes from different places to where I originally thought it should come from. 

I got help, and I learned to give help in a real and useful way. 

At the same time because of the glorious covid's effect I also lived a lifestyle I hadn't lived for over quarter of a century. Doing that I lost part of me. I missed myself. 

I also began to dread the anniversary of the decision I made to no longer engage with a toxic influence in my life. What would I feel near that anniversary? Would I feel guilt and be plunged backwards? Would I be pushed into returning to that place? 

As it turned out, the work I had begun on myself had done a lot for me. I knew I felt sad at the happy days of the holidays, but that was the first time I hadn't seen one of my children on Christmas Day. That was weird, but yet a sign that they have grown into great people. It was survivable. I did it. New Years Day was the next one as that is such a great celebration in my Dads life. Again, I did it. It was different, but it worked.

Then suddenly my year of mourning was over and literally overnight I began to restart and to do what I wanted to do. I have no passengers in the bus and I'm driving it.

And so my year of mourning is now going to be my year of morning!