Inishbofin is a quaint island with a population of about 150. It’s home to a few hotels, one s

Inishbofin is a quaint island with a population of about 150. It’s home to a few hotels, one small shop the size of a public restroom, and loads of sheep. As such, it was the perfect place to go wandering. My cottage was about a half-hour walk from “town,” and I passed by a beach, a cemetery, a lake, sheep, cows and pigs to get there each day. Overall I covered about two-thirds of the island in two days. There were times I’d walk for twenty minutes and not see another person, and this was on the main road. So I had a lot of time to look around, breath the fresh air, listen to the birds, talk to farm animals and think.I suspect a lot of people come to Inishbofin to do just that. I encountered one man who was on an annual pilgrimage there – it was one of his friend’s favorite places, and after the friend died he was partially buried there, so the man came for a visit every year to honor him. The man asked me, “Why are you here?” I told him about my dad, and he shook his head and asked me another question: “Was he a great man?” \At that point I was grateful to be wearing sunglasses, as if they could hide the sloppy, blubbering mess on the verge of pouring out.I’ve had conversations like this a few times over the past week. As my lovely B&B hostess in Cleggan drove me to town, she shared unprompted that she had gone on a trip by herself recently because her husband is fighting cancer and she needed that time to brace herself for the battle to come. Maybe somehow I’ve been nonverbally broadcasting that I’m here for a specific reason, or more likely, these people recognize in me what they’re going through themselves. Regardless, in the moment it felt easy to open up to them. In fact, I didn’t even think about it; the truth just spilled out automatically, coaxed by their own vulnerable honesty and kind demeanors. As you go through the grieving process, you’re forced to carry on in a world that looks the same to everyone else, but shockingly different to you. This reality can make it an extremely isolating experience. I’ve discovered firsthand that the grieving process is awfully lonely, even for an introvert. But I know I am not special in this, or alone in this. There are so many other people who been forced to embark on this journey – members of a club that no one wants to join. Many of those people – some casual acquaintances, some strangers – have reached out to me with their own stories off loss and struggle and have shown me empathy that can only be offered by those who have been shattered by bereavement themselves. Together we’re crossing the chasm of grief that’s inevitable on our path as human beings. All the while knowing that we can never go back to rejoin all the people who live in the glorious rose-colored bubble that shelters us before we encounter our first great loss. I am thankful for those people who are standing on the other side, who in experiencing deep loss themselves have embraced me with a compassion and pragmatism and wordless understanding that helps me realize that I’ll get through it somehow, just as we all do. But I also hope to find that strength within myself to be that beacon for others, as those people have been for me – to work through my own pain so I can be a witness to the pain of others. To confront my grief while walking the trails of Ireland so I never again feel awkward or turn away when confronting the grief of others, but recognize it as it truly is: an inescapable, fundamental part of living, loving and being human. -- source link
Tumblr Blog : wanderkammer.tumblr.com

More pics about