Yesterday I listened to a conversation Nick Cave had with Anderson Cooper for his podcast ’Is this all there is.’
As always, Nick Cave’s unique perspective on grief is an interesting listen. He has lost two sons and knows a thing or two about it. What stood out for me was his outlook on joy and hope. As we here know, after the death of our children, we become unrecognisable to ourselves.
Nick Cave found that after the shattering catastrophe, he came back together more complete as a human, more able to experience the reality of life, which he previously hadn’t. Now seeing how precious and frail humans are, all creatures of loss, his capacity for empathy and joy has grown.
I stopped to take this in before I didn’t believe in death and its permanence. I didn’t understand the magnitude of how utterly precious life is. He goes on to say that hope is an act of defiance.
How is it possible to hope after everything we parents have lost?
Hope for what exactly, now that our future has been wiped out?
I struggle with hope. I read a poem this week about a plum that will grow and ripen especially for me to eat next year.
It made me wonder what other gifts are being formulated for me and whether my son is behind them. Nick Cave calls on his sons’ energy to take him to the place he needs to go when he’s exhausted. One for joy, one for chaos. I too call to my son; he often replies with the love and affection he always showed me.
Liz Atzori (Cody’s mum)
Listen to Nick Cave: Grief’s Jagged Edges. All There Is with Anderson Cooper podcast here.
The plum you’re going to eat next summer
doesn’t exist yet; its potential
lives inside a tree you’ll never see
in an orchard you’ll never see, will be touched
by a certain number of water droplets
before it reaches you, by certain angles
of light, by a finite amount of bugs
and dust motes and hands
you’ll never know. The plum you are
going to eat next summer will gather
sugar, gather mass, will harden
at its center so it can soften toward
your mouth. The plum
you’re going to eat next
summer doesn’t know
you exist. The plum you are
going to eat next summer
is growing just for you.
Gayle Brandeis, 2024.
