A Study in Grief

Grief is like art.

Everyone feels grief sometimes. Everyone creates art

Of some kind

At some times.

Some art is big, and some is small.

Some is profound to all that witness it,

And some is only significant to the artist.

My grief, like some art,

Is apparently forbidden.

Shouted down

By loud voices.

But it is real nonetheless.

Some people don’t think I get to call my sorrows real,

Because theirs are different;

Like people who say that only paint

Or violin music

Or the works of the famed

Can be termed “art.”

Because their art is large

Or brightly colored

Or obvious

And mine is old and small and crumpled at the corner.

But I have found

That there is a truth in art;

A truth in grief.

I have found

That all people are artists of some kind,

Whether in word

Or music

Or light

Or dance

Or paint

Or crayon.

I have found

That all people grieve.

At something said,

Or heard,

Something dazzling

Or moving

Something age-old

Or some new tragedy.

And in a way,

Our grief unites us.

In the same way art can;

We can all gather

And mourn,

Just as we can all gather

And appreciate.

But sadly, more often,

Our grief divides us.

“You do not know grief,”

One artist cries out.

“Your art is not my art,

“Your experience not my experience,

“And therefore

Your art, your grief, is invalid.”

But it is not so.

Or rather,

It does not need to be so.

Why cannot a beautiful photograph hang on the wall

Next to a sketch on the left

And a poem on the right?

Why cannot we acknowledge

That all art is significant

Because it exists,

Because it speaks to at least

One human heart?

Why does my pain,

My heart,

Matter less than yours?

My medium is different.

This is true.

But my soul,

Like your soul,

Is the soul of an artist.