This blog post—if it ever gets written—has been one of the tougher pieces I have come up with for this website. To be honest, it often feels tough to put something together that I feel comfortable allowing eyes other than mine to see, but these sentences mark my fourth attempt at this writing this post. Having discarded the first three, once again the glaring question raises its head as I stare at a mostly blank Word document: what now?

I do not know where I am going with this. I know, however, that I missed putting anything up last week because everything I wrote just didn’t work. Something was missing.

I have read in several books on writing that if a piece lacks heart it shows immediately. There needs to be some real human emotion behind the words to give it a pulse. Even in fiction, something has to be at stake for the author, that allows him or her to breathe life into the characters, that drives events into being in just the right moment, and makes the story that which it is. In other words, if the writer is avoiding something it will show, even in pieces that do not resemble his or her life whatsoever. Furthermore, you must have genuine interest. You cannot expect readers to be interested in what you have written if you are not.

I do not claim to always interest my readers or to consistently infuse what I write with pulse and passion, but I do aim to write authentically. Sometimes that is more challenging than others. The closer we get to deep fears, the more resistance builds. The closer I get to revealing dark and tender places inside me that still wince when touched, the more I suddenly find I don’t know what to write about. Writer’s block: an infuriating hurdle but also a very effective protection mechanism. There is no risk of revealing myself—and facing the fear of disapproval, rejection or indifference—if I don’t know what to write about.

But the truth is, this week I do know what I want to write about; I just don’t know how.

I don’t know how to write about death. Some of my earliest memories include death, although one may be an image I created upon hearing the story so many times, that has come to represent something that I feel more than remember. The effect of those early losses—of my great grandmother, from a stroke while she was dancing with me, and then my Gram, from cancer, a few months later—must lie at the root of my at-times frantic fear of losing loved ones. I remember times as a child running to my room to sob my heart out when either of my parents was late coming home, imagining all sorts of terrible accidents that could have taken them away from me. It has required patience, trust, conversation, therapy, awareness and simply time to come to the point where I can speak about this fear of loss calmly, without going to pieces.

When I was in grade 11, a wonderful teacher of mine died suddenly and unexpectedly. He was an excellent and creative educator, and a seemingly healthy and active father, husband and musician. He collapsed one day while going for a run and never woke up again. It was a sad shock, and I remember writing messages along with hundreds of other students in memorial of him, on a huge piece of paper that was taped along the hallway. Then a few days later we had an assembly to honour him, which finished off with photographs and some of his favourite music. This last part struck some deep chord in me and I lost it. I cried and cried, and could not stop. His wife was there and came over to comfort me. I remember thinking, it should be the other way around! Get it together! But I couldn’t. I missed my bus home and one dear friend stayed with me the whole time, as other teachers came up to me, compassionate but somewhat perplexed. They didn’t know we were so close, some said. We weren’t. I admired him and loved his classes, but I didn’t know him much better than most other students. It’s just there is this river of grief inside me, and when it is tapped, it surges up and overwhelms me. I must simply wait as it runs its course, until it recedes at last and calm returns. But even then I sense that somewhere inside it continues flowing, ready to surge up from the depths in response to this world’s sadness.

Just last week I discovered that a young man from my hometown took his life. We went to school together, for a few years in elementary and then in high school. He was very close with some of my best friends, and known by nearly everyone in the community thanks to his talent as a musician and environmental activist. I never knew him near as well as I would have liked, and in hindsight I wish I had said hi more often. Death makes everything look different in hindsight. If only this, if only that. And the shock and sadness of losing someone to depression adds a whole other layer, a deeper shade to the regret that death often initially gives rise to. Imagining the suffering that leads a person to end it all is awful.

He was not the first person I have known to commit suicide; sadly both one of my Dad’s best friends and his close cousin had their lives claimed by depression in late middle-age. Though there is no comparison in loss, there does seem to be another layer of remorse when hearing of the death of someone very young. In this mysterious world, every minute of every moment new life surges into being, and every minute life leaves. But every life is so precious, and one of the most basic human reactions to death is a shocked and surreal disbelief. We cannot contemplate the end of consciousness. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe that’s because death is not the end, at least not for our essence. I hope not.

Whatever the case may be, I send my love and compassion for the families and friends grieving the loss of a loved-one, and do my best to honour the river that swells up inside my chest upon hearing such news. I hope too, with all my heart, that whatever happens to us after our lives end, it is filled with love, peace and belonging.

Everyday new life
Everyday new death
but every life is precious
as is every breath
Every loss is gaping
a chasm we must cross
Salty river of sorrow
among the stones and moss

The grief for the old
Flows deep and strong
but there is peace in deep water
and in having lived long
The water runs wild
when someone dies young
We cannot accept that
their song has been sung

Perhaps inside all of us
the sea of every loss
is kept
Entrusted by the universe
to guard each tear
ever wept

Could it also be that in each heart
the joy of every being lives?
The universe’s roots of love
The endless love that always gives

My heart opens to yours
And your heart
to mine too
We are made of the same
Ancient stardust
it’s true.