Death is universal. If there is anything that binds us, it is the indisputable fact that we will one day die. Facing our own individual mortality means facing, and ultimately embracing, our humanity.

Death brings the question of identity. Who are we, if our loved ones are no longer with us? In seeing a loved one dead, there is a shock. Wordsworth’s A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal reminds us of this. Suddenly, the person who laughed, cried, breathed, was full of colour and life, is motionless, cold, colourless, and, to us, slightly deformed. In our memories, and in our lived experience, our bodies, our minds, our souls have their imprints, their lives. To see them motionless is to accept that they are “a thing that could not feel.” Nothing we say or do—our touch, our tears, our cries, our desperation, our longing, our grief, our loss—none of that can reach them.

And yet, as much as the poem speaks of the ontological shock of death, it equally portrays the grief and loss in a calm, almost rational, way. It does fully capture that horror of being lost, the particular feeling of not knowing quite what to do, where to go, how to be. In Fleabag, the main character, having lost her mum, captures this beautifully:

Fleabag: I don’t know what to do with it.

Boo: With what?

Fleabag: With all the love I have for her. I don’t know where to put it now.

It is the physical absence that is unbearable. We need a person to relate to, in flesh and blood, so they can receive and hold our love. Without it, we are suddenly empty. Eventually, of course, that love will find its path to someone and something else. But there will always be a part that aches for the return of the person and for the love to flow back to them.

I remember the day my mom died. It was an early, cold January morning. The room she was sleeping in was oddly silent. I knew it was all over just by the absence of sound. My sister was sleeping in the other room. “Mama je umrla. Ajde, moramo …” I don’t remember what I said after, just the blank expression on my sister’s face. We prepared for this moment for months. We bought the clothes, the essential oils and the ointments, all to prepare her for the funeral. We bathed her, dressed her wounds, and dressed her in what we thought would be nice clothes she would like. We even put some makeup on her. We did, however, forget to put some shoes on. She is roaming the afterlife barefoot, we joked later.

It was very much like a scene from the Japanese film Departures, just that it was the two of us and not a third person doing it. I understand now the absolute necessity of a third person to prepare you and your loved one for the final goodbye. I say final, because that is the last time I was able to touch her. Almost five years have passed since that day. And not a moment goes by that I do not miss her. No matter how many beautiful people enrich my life, there is a part of me that grieves and will likely always cry for its mom to return.

Death is a rupture. It questions not only our sense of self, but our sense of belonging. Suddenly, there is an experience of being outside of the ordinary flow of time. The world carried on; no matter how lost I was in my grief, the world carried on, and I was forced to eventually carry on with it. But not only did I feel out of time, but I also felt out of place. Every time someone shouted “mom” in the street, or I overheard someone talking with their mom on the phone, or saw someone with their mom, were all a painful reminder that there is a circle of experience I no longer belong to. People are kind, and they mean well, but the experience of death separates us. They cannot relate to the depth of loss, and I cannot relate it to them.

Even after the shock of loss and grief subsides, there is a period of in-betweenness. And in many ways, that in-betweenness remains, mediated by the otherness that the experience of death gives. Love repairs the rupture, or at least it does to a certain extent. I found love in different people who have taught me how to practice love: a practice of care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust. Grief can be seen as a situated, interpretive, and communicative activity.

Situated encapsulates the social function of mourning as it unfolds in a given time and a given socio-cultural context. Interpretive captures the meaning-making process; put all of those moments differently when we question the meaning of life, death, love, or critically reflect on values and practices that were central in our lives to give us meaning. For some people, that is art, for others it is religion, and for others some other spiritual practice. Communicative reflects our interactions with others, in written, spoken, and non-verbal forms. Activity means that grief is something that we do as opposed to something that happens to us, and we endure. It is similar to the idea of love as a practice, as an activity, that requires a conscious decision and evolves around central values, such as trust, communication, honesty, and integrity.

In reconstruction, grief is transformative. And it is not just the bereaved that are transformed, or their relationship with and within their social community. It is also the relationship with the dead that is transformed. Continuing bonds add to our lived experience of grief as a framework to understand both our individual relationship with the loved ones we lost, the difficulty of grief and mourning, but equally the importance of such a lived experience for the meaning-making process. Reconstruction of ourselves, or making meaning of our experience, is at the core of bereavement. Klass, citing Attig, emphasised:

As we address the tasks of grieving…we reestablish coherence in our present living; we reestablish continuity in the ongoing stories in our lives; and we recover old meanings and find new ones in the larger wholes in which we are, or become, parts.

As they are intersubjective, they are also relational. We engage in meaning-making activities also by considering the social and communal belonging. That is why rituals are so important. They provide a space for engagement with others. Sinking “into somebody else’s hell means experiencing the reality the bereaved are experiencing.” (Klass) The relationality within a community of bereaved or in support of bereaved requires openness, presence, and availability that create trust. It is a community bound by a practice of love.

Continuing bonds do not mean severing the bond with our deceased loved ones, but a transformation of the bond. We reconstruct ourselves, and as we find a place for ourselves in the new reality marked by the absence and presence of our lost ones, we are able to find a way for them to stay present in our lives.

The relationship between the living and the dead, therefore, is a fabric of our individual and social life. This series will explore the complexity of that relationship as it is bound in experiences of death, love, loss, and belonging. I will be reading and reflecting on the works of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and film. The task I have set for myself is to have an outlet for these thoughts, but also to work towards some coherence, or thread, that will connect my lived experience of loss with that of others. So the series is really my way of working with and through the idea of continuing bonds.

About an hour ago, D. and I moved out of Pittodrie, a flat I have been renting for the last three years. As we carried out the last bits of bags, boxes, and various bits and bobs, I sobbed inconsolably. Since we decided to move, I knew that, despite feeling excited about the charming process of nesting in a new home, I needed to say goodbye first.

From the outside, Pittodrie is not a remarkable place. One of the old council houses turned into a rental. Despite its appearance, it is warm, spacious and bright, surrounded by trees and gardens. On good days, if you listen carefully, you could hear the sounds of waves crashing on the Aberdeen shore. On football game days, you could tell if Aberdeen was winning or losing depending on the cheers of the crowd. On sunny days, you could take out a blanket, choose a tree to snooze under, read, or watch the clouds pass by.

I moved to Pittodrie with a suitcase, some boxes, and my cat, Helga, in September 2023. On the move-in day, S. sent a message saying he had thought things over and wanted a divorce. I unpacked, put all the items where they belonged, and then sat down on the sofa and cried. It didn’t matter that I did not love him and wanted to be out of the marriage as much as he did. What mattered was that, at that moment, I felt alone, abandoned, and so far away from the warmth and safety of a family home. Pittodrie didn’t feel like home yet. It felt like just a place that was more convenient than the previous one. The situation with S. dragged on for a while before it finally ended. By then, as I was changing, so Pittodrie changed with me. It got several new bookshelves, a new rug, lots of plants, books, a record player, and a salt lamp. It felt cosier and more mine. I also met D. at that time, who brought colour to what was otherwise a very dull existence.

Not all of it was easy. Therapy certainly was not easy. Breaking myself into parts to see where each part came from and where it belongs meant months of depression, countless hours of crying on the floor because the ground was the only place to be, numbness that permeated all waking moments, a sense of meaninglessness, and a desire to just turn around and run like in the movies. It also meant anger, regret, frustration, and a painful realisation that I will never know who I could have been if things had played out differently. Pittodrie was a safe place where all of this could unfold. The house took in everything and gave so much in return. It was a home I built for myself as I emerged from the transformation of the last three years.

As we said goodbye to the house, D. and I had our last meal there, watched something on the telly, walked around the block, and slept in our bed for the last time.

We counted our firsts: the first non-date (we had a number of those, each a story for itself), the first lie (mine: “I’m not looking for a date”), a late-night walk by the sea, stargazing, “walk me home” to the door, whisky tasting, our first kiss (after almost three months), our first proper date, panic episodes (his, then mine), heart-holding, sleeping next to each other, an afternoon at Codona's, first time we had sex, our first argument, a trip to the Highlands, Helga’s first escape (D. left an open window, Helga became an indoor-outdoor cat), the 24 hours she went missing, the first bird she brought in, the mouse she caught in the field and ate in the living room.

I counted my firsts: crying on the floor for three hours, naming my deepest wound, a depressive episode that pinned me to bed, allowing myself to feel anger for lost time, grieving my parents deaths, a photography class, my first analogue camera, my first printed black and white photograph, an online course in literary theory, an acceptance letter for a master’s programme in English Literatue and Cultue, a writing retreat where I sketched an outline for a novel, collaborating with an artist collective, first oblished piece of writing, a planned pregnancy, a miscarriage, life after the miscarriage...

We counted countless kisses, hugs, dances, meals made and shared, cups of coffee, mugs of hot chocolate, movie nights, walks at the beach, days spent under a tree behind the house, snuggles with Helga, yoga mornings (mostly D.—I sleep), arguments, fights, laughs, dark jokes, flowers bought, hot showers, long conversations with A., long conversations with friends (old and new)…

So much life went through that home. I will miss it deeply.

I know I am moving into a flat that will become a new home. But it is not just that. A lot is changing at once. I am pregnant again, and I don’t know if a new miscarriage awaits down the line. What will life look like after little munchkin arrives? Will there be any space for me? Will I be able to continue chasing my lost time? Things at work are not any better. The crisis of Higher Education in the UK may require some sacrifices and difficult career choices. It also means more of my colleagues and friends might leave. What will my intellectual home look like? Will it remain in Aberdeen, or will I need to create one somewhere else and do it differently? What will that look like?

Intuitively, I know this is the start of a new chapter. One that will ask more courage, commitment, and trust from me. Of course, I am terrified, to the point I almost refused to leave Pittodrie. But moving forward is inescapable, even if I am caught in the middle of overlapping swirls of change.

The best, the only thing to do, I suppose, is to take a deep breath, close my eyes and remind myself that home is where I am and all shall be well.

I want to write, but I do not know what to write about exactly.

Well…that is not exactly true. I have too many topics that I would want to write about. The trouble is, these essays, draft short stories, humorous (or less so) descriptions of my day-to-day ruminations, all remain firmly sealed in my head. Part of me, unsurprisingly so, believes I could not possibly even write anything that is any good. When I say good, I mean that beautiful harmony of style, mastery of language, and the depth of human experience. There are such masters around the world; if you are an English Literature student, perhaps Virginia Woolf or James Joyce would be closest or Sylvia Townsend; if you are more attuned to the ex-Yugoslav literary scene (as I am), Ivo Andrić or Meša Selimović come to mind. Before you, my dear reader (assuming you even exist), roll your eyes at this self-deprecation with a generous sprinkle of self-pity, let me assure you: I am fully aware of the standard and pressure I put on myself and the impossibility of ever getting remotely close to it without trying. So, this is me trying.

What is it that I am trying exactly? To start with, I am trying to have a regular writing commitment that I can sustain over a longer period of time, even when life becomes too much. And life tends to become too much, or I tend to make it so for myself. To give you a sense of how I make my own life difficult: after three years of therapy, I spat a big part of me out and was left with a whole space that needed to be filled. I decided to fill it with a return to literature, photography, and, more recently, a leap into pottery. There is a special place in my heart for all of these, and I cannot possibly imagine a life where I am not reading, taking photographs, experimenting with printmaking, or making wobbly pots. However, I almost ruined my soul-nourishing practice by being impatient and trying too hard too soon. So, I burnt out. It never occurred to me that creative practice can lead to burnout. Clearly, I missed something, a kind of memo that went around when I wasn’t paying attention.

After some very much needed hard, long look in the mirror, I realised that I tried too much, too hard, too soon. I burned from an unfulfilled desire for a creative outlet and a desperation to catch up with the time I lost. The worst thing (or the best thing?) was to recognise the limits of my abilities. No matter how devastating that realisation is, there is very little, if anything, I can do to make myself younger, more agile, have more energy, focus and clarity. Slow is the way.

Now I am back at it again with an intention to, against all of my instincts (and panic that comes when I act in contrast to them), take it slowly and see where the road takes me. Writing a blog nobody will ever read is a huge step for me. Because it is not about who reads it and what they think of it, it is about me sitting in front of a laptop and typing out 1000 words of some sense. Ultimately, I am doing it for the part of me that wants to be a writer.

What tipped me over to this side? Burnout was the wake-up call. But the question of what I missed remained. Some seemingly small things stacked up to bring me to this point. I met a lovely man at a writing retreat. Devoted to poetry and writing wonderful poetry, he does not seem to have any inclination or desire to publish them. It is addictive, indeed, the permission to write for oneself, for the love of the act of writing.

At the same retreat, we share our work from the week. It took some convincing, but I read a letter I wrote to my mom, who passed away from cancer in 2021. The entire room cried with me. The support, encouragement, and kindness these people showed me broke some barrier inside. My writing, no matter how clumsy, can extend my being and touch another. I realised one can find joy, meaning, and belonging through writing. So, I have decided to become a lover of the written word, an amateur if you will.

What will I write about? Well…there is a whole range of topics that interest me. I want to write about my experience of novels, poems, short stories, but also photography, films, music, and fine art. My recent repertoire includes Iris Murdoch (and her exploration of love as a way to see the other), Vladimir Nabokov and his masterpiece Lolita, Sophocles’ tragedies. I also want to give philosophy and psychoanalysis a go. Having completed courses on Introduction to Literary Theory and Critical Reading, I want to practise crafting literary essays. I have two sets of pre-assigned poems and short stories that I will work with. In conversation with these authors, I want to write about things that bind us, like love, loss, grief, and belonging, both as I have experienced and been transformed through them in life. Then I want to write about ordinary day-to-day experiences, like moving house, discovering BTS, turning forty in a year, pressures of academic life, yoga, joys of photography and pottery. The list is long, and that’s the beauty of it. I did not want to put myself in a cornered framework that would make writing a chore. I wanted it to be playful in its explorations, keeping an open mind that some coherent theme may emerge.

Some last remarks. I aim to publish one post every week. I don’t know what next week’s post will be, but as I said, that is what makes it fun. With time, maybe even my writing will improve. If you find yourself reading this post or one of the future ones and want to reach out, please do. I only ask that you be kind and respectful in your approach. With that agreement, we can disagree or agree to our hearts’ content.

With all that said, I guess what is left is for me to introduce myself. My name is N. I am 39 years old. I now live in Aberdeen (Scotland) with my lovely cat, Helga, and my partner. By day, I work as a law and humanities scholar at the University of Aberdeen. By night, I dream of publishing a novel, having a curated exhibition of my photographs, making unique pots and coffee mugs for my friends, and successfully growing a sourdough starter. It sounds like a cliché, but once you get to know me, you’ll see I add a lot of charm to the whole thing.

Thank you for reading, and until next time,

N.