The Thin King*
- Christine Laura
- Oct 26
- 4 min read
Updated: Oct 28
First off: this isn't a post about Trump 😂 Though it is a post about grief, and certainly that man has brought grief to more lives - human and other - in this world that we can count. It's a heartbreaking and devastating situation that weighs on me every day.
And, It's also a more personal grief that's bringing me to write this second blog post, in the month (in the Northern Hemisphere) of dying leaves , thinning veils, and a settling in the Earth - and perhaps in our bones - as winter approaches. I hope it can stir in you (in the gentlest of ways) some awareness of your own grief, and the need to tend it.
October is a month full of celebration; in Celtic culture, Samhain is considered the New Year of the Celtic wheel and a time when we can communicate more easily with spirits from across the veil; very soon, too, we will have Dia de los Muertos following on the heels of the North American Halloween. It's also the month my very non-pagan mother left this Earth, 22 yeqrs ago, on October 30th. So for me, the season of creeping cold, frost, compost and dark lends very appropriately to the process of grieving and mourning that continues even after all these years. In some ways, it is sharper than ever. So thanks, Mom, for that timing!
I am also approaching the age my Mom was when she first was diagnosed with kidney cancer. It's a terrifying feeling, to know how young I still feel - and how young my daughter is - and to imagine
Mom must have felt very much the same way - how, at age 55, could you ever be ready to go (even after 7 years fighting the cancer). Each year, as I set up an ancestors' altar, go through old letters and pictures, and often write a letter to her "beyond the veil," death feels closer (as it no doubt is) and also somehow more abstract and un-knowable, as if all our thinking and maturity are nothing when faced with such a timeless, existential concept. To think that it cannot be known, as an experience, except perhaps by those who have crossed over briefly, then returned: my love of the mystery encourages me to pay attention this impossible, liminal space. To embrace curiosity with whatever spiritual, ritualistic practices I can, for as long as I can.
So, in my own small community in rural BC, I will head down to the stony beach and choose the biggest rocks I can find - really it is a matter of finding those stones who speak to me - to form an imperfect circle by the water. A Grief Circle, where all are welcome to come, leave a stone or other natural object as a memorial gesture to whomever or whatever they choose. Some years I will light candles. Other years, there has been a bonfire in the centre of the circle. Perhaps this year I will encourage notes to be left (safely tucked under stones) for our loved ones to hear us, or for our losses to find voice, and belonging, in the intangible world that exists so vibrantly all around us.
It's also a time of year that feels like poetry to me - when the world quiets a bit so that the less logical and practical needs can seep into our souls like mist through the veil. I've found an old poem of mine that I'd like to share, as well as one that I found while searching out some of the poetry in and inspired by Traditional Chinese Medicine. In TCM - and in the Qi Gong class that I am currently loving - we learn that each of our organs holds emotional energy as well as serving a physical purpose. The emotions of the lungs are grief and anxiety, and their "virtuous" counterparts are acceptance, courage, and self-worth. As I dive deeper into my appreciation of this fascinating and healing practice, I'll be meditating on these qualities - which can I let go of, and which need to be nurtured - as I prepare my annual ancestors' altar, and reflect on the preciousness of life (even EXACTLY as it is).
*November
(from Brinking, published in 2021)
by Christine Parton
Shedding bark,
pine needles,
misplaced trust
and someone else's
scribbled out thoughts
on how life should be,
The thin king
retires
to make space
for lines that don't erase themselves:
Blank pages,
hours into breath.
Three Poems
© Chris Noonan
A meridian is a line that encircles the world
Connecting me with you
From head to toe
From heart to lung
Mouth to word and on and on
Forever spinning around the sun
Swearing promises in the cold
That we’ll hold on
As our heads spin and we grow old
Forever attached to our meridian
The sun set
Shortly after it rose,
Eight minutes warning
With twenty seconds to spare.
The next time we see daylight
It will be all the more rare,
A dwindling supply
Rationed and closely guarded.
Our children’s children will stare
With unseeing eyes
At a world devoid of anything
Not carriable in a plastic bag.
The sun has moved on
Leaving repeated exposures
Shadows on my mind.
With a tilt it comes back
And my eyes are flooded
Gilded with fire born
Eight minutes and twenty seconds ago.
We were all younger when the day began.
Finally, if you're still reading, I'd love for you to check out my new seasonal art and nature program, The Living Edge. It starts soon - in November (flex start date) - and will be a self-paced gathering of souls who wish to connect with themselves, with others and with the Earth, alongside the rhythms of season, story and landscape. You can find more information here: https://www.firesidearttherapy.ca/the-living-edge.
Wishing you all a blessed autumn. May you nurture and release what you are needing to at this potent time.
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