The faces of grief.

    A friend of mine sent me a picture of an artist's interpretation of the weight of grief.  A wire frame human shape kneeling and filled with rocks.  It's like that.  The weight is so great that every breath, every step, every word uttered seems impossible.  I couldn't express to friends how weighed down I felt.  But the artist captured it perfectly.




That night I began to search for other artists' depictions of grief.  Not surprisingly, most are in cemeteries.  Here are a few samples:

 



   


   

Like the weighted down human, many of the statues are bowed over in grief, unable to stand upright.  I know this feeling.  Even when walking or standing, I never fully feel like I'm standing upright.  My shoulders still feel weighted and bowed over.  Notice that several are actually prostrate in their grief. In the past months, I too have physically fallen to the floor overwhelmed by the power of grief. 

I also find it interesting that many of the faces of the statues are concealed, covered in their hands. I thought about this for a while and came up with several explanations. Perhaps it is because so much of the grieving process takes place in private. I often make it through an event only to cry in my car on the way home.  Or turn my head when something triggers the grief so no one can see.   I'm sure I'm not alone.  There comes a time in the grieving process that people no longer know how to respond to your tears. It's odd but somehow you see a look and just know that from that moment forward, your grieving will be something to keep to yourself. Oh how much easier would it be if this was not the case?  If you could continue to share the weight of your grief with others.  But unfortunately it becomes a lonely, singular burden that only you must find a way to bear. Finally, I thought of another possible explanation for the covered faces.  Perhaps the artists wanted to allow each of us to place our faces in the blank spaces.  To impose our own persona on the faceless griever.  Well it worked for me.  Each photo I found seem to be a mirrored reflection of my own grief.  I shared their plaster tears.  And as I searched, I felt compelled to keep searching for more images, more likenesses of my pain.  I suddenly didn't feel so alone.  Obviously many others across time had shared in this process.  And they understood.  I can't explain the comfort of seeing those images, but in some twisted way, I am now a part of this strange stone family.