#grief — Public Fediverse posts

"...I haven’t moved.
How could I?
Without you?..."
The Love I Always Dreamed Of by No Blabs https://medium.com/lit-up/the-love-i-always-dreamed-of-912378fa8ab8
#poetry #micropoetry #love #loss #grief in the Lit Up press #litpub and #poetrycommunity

"...I haven’t moved.
How could I?
Without you?..."
The Love I Always Dreamed Of by No Blabs https://medium.com/lit-up/the-love-i-always-dreamed-of-912378fa8ab8
#poetry #micropoetry #love #loss #grief in the Lit Up press #litpub and #poetrycommunity

Re: Helping Men Learn to Grieve

31 min

Men often have difficulty giving expression to their emotions, especially older generations. Feelings such as pain and grief are hard to let out, with consequences for mental and physical health. Experts believe that this must change and are using unexpected methods to teach men how to grieve properly.

Country: Germany
Year: 2024

arte.tv/en/videos/116706-008-A…
#artetv #documentary #investigation #man #emotion #grief #health

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

✮ A Sliver in Eden’s Wall ✮

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✮ A Sliver in Eden’s Wall ✮

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Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

✮ A Sliver in Eden’s Wall ✮

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A quotation from Shakespeare

MARCUS: Sorrow concealèd, like an oven stopped,
   Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet
Titus Andronicus, Act 2, sc. 4, l. 36ff (2.4.26-37) (c. 1590)

More about this quote: wist.info/shakespeare-william/…

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #shakespeare #williamshakespeare #titusandronicus #concealing #emotion #grief #hiding #repressing #sadness #sorrow

A quotation from Shakespeare

MARCUS: Sorrow concealèd, like an oven stopped,
   Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet
Titus Andronicus, Act 2, sc. 4, l. 36ff (2.4.26-37) (c. 1590)

More about this quote: wist.info/shakespeare-william/…

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #shakespeare #williamshakespeare #titusandronicus #concealing #emotion #grief #hiding #repressing #sadness #sorrow

A quotation from Shakespeare

MARCUS: Sorrow concealèd, like an oven stopped,
   Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet
Titus Andronicus, Act 2, sc. 4, l. 36ff (2.4.26-37) (c. 1590)

More about this quote: wist.info/shakespeare-william/…

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #shakespeare #williamshakespeare #titusandronicus #concealing #emotion #grief #hiding #repressing #sadness #sorrow

A quotation from Shakespeare

MARCUS: Sorrow concealèd, like an oven stopped,
   Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet
Titus Andronicus, Act 2, sc. 4, l. 36ff (2.4.26-37) (c. 1590)

More about this quote: wist.info/shakespeare-william/…

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #shakespeare #williamshakespeare #titusandronicus #concealing #emotion #grief #hiding #repressing #sadness #sorrow