On Grief, On Love, On Life

I was terrified of pain, of falling, of losing at the game of life when I threw myself off the bike in 1989.

Me in 2011, by Canter’s Deli in Los Angeles, channeling Joan Didion

As many of you know, English isn’t my first language. I learned to write in English reading Joan Didion.

I moved to the United States in 2010, and my then-mentor suggested I’d read Didion’s Blue Nights. I had never read her before.

The second book I read of hers was The Year of Magical Thinking. I haven’t stopped reading her since.

I didn’t quite know the depth to which that book left a mark on me; I didn't know, back then, why grief was something I wanted to know more about, why I was so drawn to it, fearing it, expecting it, rejecting it, all at the same time.

As I grew older, I thought that — perhaps — my preparation for grief was just another way of enacting a protection mechanism I had been having since I was a young child.

Some of you, who have been reading me since the early ‘Didion days’, may know the story, but there are now so many more of you, here on Substack, that I will share it again:

I don’t have an actual memory of this, but my father tells the tale that, when I was 7, learning how to ride a bike without training wheels, during our summer vacation in Puglia, visiting his side of the family, I would throw myself off the bike as soon as I’d gain some speed.

Riding freely scared me.

I was a bubbly little girl, so excited about life, so talkative and full of love to give, and yet I remember being scared of being too much, the love and passion I had inside too much for the people around me to handle. I was scared of hurting, scared of making a mistake.

So I would hurt myself before “life” could.

When I was sick with the flu, a few weeks ago, I watched Dan Levy’s new movie, Good Grief, on Netflix.

“I loved it,” I told a friend.

The Christmas party scene was so beautiful, framed by a quintessential London corner window, with a glimpse of decorations, the sparkle of the Champaign flutes, the laughter and the music, the elegance. It made me want to be there for all of it, the friendship, the love, the warmth, the beautiful city in the winter, and also for the death about to happen, for the rebirth that would come after.

The anticipation of rebirth scared me as much as the anticipation of death. My rebirth, someone else’s death,

Good Grief tells the story of a young man losing his husband and, through the several stages of grief, finding himself anew.

Look at the photo in the middle, which is also the official poster of the movie: there is so much packed in their laughter, in the way the move and walk the streets of Paris; all of it makes me cry. You can tell it’s a winter day, but that warmth it emanates is almost overwhelming: it’s liberation, profound sadness, disappointment, fear, joy, familiarity, unknown, life. Isn’t it terrifying and something you also want to embrace with all yourself?

Even as he (Levy’s character) could’t bear the weight of life without his husband, I could feel a sense of strength; I felt a sense of possibility. After watching the movie, I knew that the hardest most painful parts of life have the opportunity, if I don’t throw myself off the bike, to become the deepest, the richest, the ones I will remember as the most important, the ones during which I can feel alive the most.

Close your eyes: can you sense the wind brushing against your skin as you ride a bike freely? Doesn’t it smell like a Christmas party, like a kiss when you least expect it, like a last goodbye, like the most painful ache deep in your heart, like total loss, the birth of a child, or black tea with just the right amount of milk?

I was scared of loss when I read Blue Nights, and then when I read The Year of Magical Thinking.

I was terrified of pain, of falling, of losing at the game of life when I threw myself off the bike in 1989.

I was terrified of losing Ben when he got sick, last January, 2023.

“Why am I so preoccupied with grief?”

I asked my therapist.

“Am I preparing for it?”

She carried me through when Ben was having his first surgery. I will never forget the walk we had by the beach when he was in surgery, it was a long one and then we went to her house. She knew I was terrified, and helped me get through that long day.

I know this is part of life, I know this moment would come.

The level of pain I feel now for her transition is why I used to drink.

I want to share with you the gratitude I have in this precise moment, when the pain is strong, but I am able to embrace it fully, as part of the same coin that is life. All of it.

What a blessing to have this experience.

I wrote this to a friend last night. Someone we love deeply is transitioning, in the most beautiful, serene way I have ever witnessed.

I am starting to understand that maybe, my preoccupation with grief wasn’t really about grief; maybe, it was part of my journey toward reclaiming my passion for the complete experience of life.

The year that bridged from 2023 to 2024 has been a rough one for me, so I am writing a new book about it all. I feel so much right now. I feel it all deep in my stomach, I feel my heart bursting with passion and stories, and unlike the little girl in Puglia, I know I am not too much.

I never was.

“It’s a mayflower,” she tells me. “It’s the good stuff that comes after too many storms.”
― Allison Larkin, The People We Keep