How do we communicate with those who have "gone?" Is it even possible? In this episode of Great Grief, Nnenna Freelon sets about asking the moon, the sun, and even the leaves how she might get in touch with her beloved Phil. If grief shows us that time isn't linear, maybe sorrow is more than a season—perhaps it's actually a portal.
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Episode Transcript:
[Music]
Can you hear that?
♪ Can you hear that? ♪
[Music] [Manual pencil sharpening sounds]
Identify the sound. Is it familiar?
I'm transported to another time by the rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—blade against wood. The flat tops of my orange hexagon sticks, transformed into smooth cones with pointy tips.
Not too pointy, as would cause a collapse, but sharp—and satisfyingly so. There's an art to this practice, taught by trial and error—twin sisters. One turn too many and the tip cracks below the surface, or breaks itself jaggedy-edged, totally unsuitable for the task at hand. And one must begin again, begin again.
♪ Begin again. ♪
You soon learn the nature of individual sticks, some being soft, requiring light pressure and a turn or two. Other stubborn and hard, many revolutions later resulting in a too-short stick.
[Music]
So much here to remember. The paper-thin wood shavings tinged with orange, spiraling away, carrying that distinct dry and woody smell. The opposite erasure end of pink rubber, ready, waiting. Never again in life would mistakes so easily come into correction. It was the best.
The sharpener makes the stick into a useful tool, carving away all that's not needed. Poof, just like that. And here's a magic wand ready to commit itself to paper.
[Music]
I was thrilled to be chosen from the classroom bouquet of eager hands, raised, waving, pleading: "Pick me!" "Pick me, oh, please, please, pick me!" Oh, happy day. Oh, happy day. Nnenna, the teacher deemed you worthy to be the one! The one who sharpens all the pencils.
[Laughs] I don't know why Grief shoved me toward this interrogation of pencil wood. I hadn't actually used a pencil much since the kids were small. Now pens? Yes. They are adult instruments, which presume you'll get it right the first time. But eraser tip pencils are naturally given to smudge and impermanence. Nope. Not so much.
Yet, there was something calling. Something important? Interesting? Something sounding from the perspective of pencil itself. To get at this transformational magic—magic of ideas—it was necessary to ditch the computer and ask the pencil for its story.
You see, there was a fire. No one knows how it began or whether or not it could have been prevented. All I know for sure is that one day, Phil noticed, what appeared to be fire on his right leg, near his ankle.
At first, it was just smoldering. But it was concerning to see what looked like glowing embers under the skin. His running had slowed and so we went to the doctor—lots of doctors, actually—until we found one who, upon examining his leg, explained that this was a rare type of electrical fire.
He'd apparently seen this type of thing before. And then he added that there was no effective treatment or cure. It would, in time, he predicted, get worse, flames reaching higher until—well, we didn't want to hear anymore, but just had to ask: How long before, you know? "Three to five years," he said. Three to five. Maybe more? Maybe less. We left the doctor's office stunned, wisps of smoke slowly rising from Phil's right shoe.
Over the next weeks and months, we tried various cures that others struggling with electrical fires had suggested. Perhaps these off-grid cures worked for some, but for us? Nothing. The fire was spreading. Now it was possible to see actual flames moving up his right flank and arm. His hand.
This caused considerable challenges to Phil, who was right-handed. But in typical Phil fashion, he then taught himself to use his left hand, and he never complained about the flames' interference with the way he'd learned to live in his body.
This strange electrical fire that burned, but did not consume as regular fires do, became a part of life. All too soon, it became impossible to walk without assistance. But whether cane or scooter or wheelchair, Phil kept a positive attitude. He viewed the challenge that the fire presented as a design problem—and design problems, he said, always had multiple solutions.
♪ More than one way. ♪
Always multiple solutions. That's my Phil. Days and months, years passed, and the fire continued to spread—to his left side and beyond the borders of his body. We saw evidence of scorch in his car, his office, and even in certain rooms of our home.
The flames rendered these places unsafe, so we decided on alternatives wherever possible. It seemed the fire could not be contained, much less extinguished. And if one were to feel the ground shortly after Phil passed by, it was unmistakably warm.
Ordinary things one might take for granted—things like cups, bowls, pens, remote control devices—were now burnt, melted, impossible to use. And when the fire eventually reached our bed, I had to move to a cot right next to the bed.
[Sighs] That was hard.
Some nights, we'd talk about our lives before the fire began, and how rich and wonderful that was. Other times we'd discuss what might happen when the flames rose high enough to become a funeral pyre. He said he knew that would eventually be the case.
One night, in particular, in the flickering glow, Phil seemed very restless. So I climbed into our bed with him and held him close. The heat was radiating from the mattress, sheets, blanket, pillow, everywhere.
"I'm burning up, you know," he said. "It won't be very long now."
"How do you know?" I asked, hoping that what he said wasn't true, but knowing deep down that it was.
"I know because there isn't much left of my body to burn. Soon, and very soon, I'll need to leave the burning for what's next. This fire burns my body, not my spirit."
"This fire burns my body, not my spirit." I held him tightly, breathing the smoky air between us, knowing the truth of his words. Even fire cannot burn fire.
[Whispering]
Stars collapse, fire inside. Who lights the match? Fire inside. Burn, through burn, through burn, fire inside. Fire inside.
[Singing]
♪ Stars collapse, fire inside. ♪
♪ Who lights the match? ♪
♪ Fire inside. ♪
♪ Burn, through burn, through burn. ♪
♪ Fire inside. ♪
♪ Fire inside. ♪
[Music]
This story was a literal download from my spirit pencil, perhaps another truth to lay on my questing heart. Phil's fire still burns, somewhere.
[Music]
Everything comes and goes. We live, and we die. It's the natural order of things, right? But it's more than a notion, learning to live with those truths. And so I wonder, I wonder, I wonder: There's definitely a wandering vibe in the wondering heart and mind. It's a ziggy-zag motion, where you're kind of hoping to bump into what feels like the edge of an answer. Or, if lucky, a real, real good question.
I like it. I like it, the word question. It has a suit-up-and-ride-in-search of quality. This, in my opinion, makes it a useful tool in the grief-walk. I'd lay my money on a really exquisite question before a stone-cold answer any day.
Remember a time "when the world is flat" was the answer that got checked yes? Right now, life is chock full of things that seem really hard for me to believe. It's true, in some ways at least, that my husband has passed on: is deceased, dead, gone. I'm not sure about all of what these words mean, but they're applied without fail to the mention of Phil's name. And the universe appears to nod in agreement: "He's dead."
But what if? What if? That's my question. My burning, burning question of the moment. What if he isn't gone like I thought gone meant? A short while ago, "gone" meant at the office, on vacation, down the block, or maybe out fishing. Gone could mean existence in an altered state of consciousness, walking to the beat of a different drum. You know, a real gone cat, or something else entirely. It's a real mystery.
I've been referring to Grief as a season. "This is a season of grief." I'd actually say that, imagining her loathing figure moving through the calendar year. But of course, it's not as simple as that. With Grief, it never ever is.
Thinking of grief as a season, a phenomenon of time associated with certain predictable experiences, now, that isn't working for me at the moment. She's acting way more like a verb. And I'm feeling seasoned by her.
[Singing]
♪ Oh, oh, oh, oh, to season. ♪
♪ The stew. ♪
♪ Sprinkling memories of me and you. ♪
♪ I, me and you, season the stew. ♪
♪ Season, the stew. ♪
♪ Sprink, sprink, sprink, sprinkling memories of me and you. ♪
♪ ♪
Yes, Lord, yes, seasoned by grief. Now, the calendar tells me it's been 110 weeks since the day Phil died. As you see here's the deal, Grief doesn't own a watch, and she only glances at her compass occasionally. This must be why they say grief isn't linear, because while we're constantly looking at our watches, Grief is going by her business doing her thing—oblivious to our relationship with time, our fascination with it.
The clock can only tell one story. Days, weeks, hours, moments. But that's just it, a story—as much a fairy tale as Goldielocks and the three little bears. And you really can't blame the clock; iit was only designed to tell one story. Tick, tock—that's all you get.
[Music]
Now, I've heard that Grief carries a satchel, a very large one. Nobody, nobody knows all the stuff she has inside of it. But in my case, she's pulling out lots of questions, penetrating difficult ones, and some of them quite beautiful to ponder.
What's normal conversation with Grief? Well, for me, it might be just a bit of the lyric from a song played over and over, on repeat in my head. A direct quote from lady Chaka Khan: "Through the fire, through whatever, come what may. For a chance at loving you, I'd throw it all away. Right down to the wire, even through the fire." On repeat in my head.
Or, a grief conversation could be a fully developed idea rushing through so quickly that stopping to write it down risks losing it altogether. Oh, that Grief. She pulls vision stories rewritten from memory—scraps, spaces, moments—and presents them as allegory to accompany the journey.
So was this a vision? A waking dream? A room full of letters. An alphabet soup room. They were of different sizes, leaning against chairs, stacked on the floor, hanging from the ceiling. They were everywhere. Some were loosely arranged as words, simple ones, but most were randomly scattered about.
And somewhere in the distance, a voice—a teacher, perhaps—was saying, "Okay, now, spell boy. Sound it out now—buh, boy." I, we were asked to find the letters that made the word. Each letter you picked up was supposed to utter a sound, the sound associated with it. Now, in this dream, this waking dream, Phil was there, and now I watched as he picked up letter after letter after letter.
The letters he picked up did not make the sounds one would expect. Some of them grunted, others burped, or were totally silent. I could feel his frustration rising. He turned the letters this way in that, trying to figure it all out. W, for example, mooed like a cow when he held it aloft, and when turned upside down, uttered a soft whistle. Impossible to sound it out or spell the word, "boy."
I turned away from his struggle, it was difficult to watch. But when I turned again, I could see Phil. He was busy working on these incredible structures, beautiful buildings, forms of various shapes and sizes. He was hard at play, designing an entire city from those letters, fascinating living buildings which seemed to defy the laws of perspective and gravity. They floated luminescent and seemed to embody a kind of vital force. And there was no concealing his sense of accomplishment and joy.
[Music]
[Sigh] So, what am I supposed to do with this waking dream, this whatever it is? How am I to interpret this experience? I'd been trying for days to write a letter to Phil. I faced quite a bit of inner resistance. Draft after frustrating draft. Why couldn't I just write the letter?
♪ Why, oh why, why? ♪
What was stopping me? What would really be nice, I thought as I remained stuck in my writing, would be to get a letter from Phil. Yeah, that'd be real nice. Letters written by hand were part of the early foundation, the sacred geometry of our relationship. When we first met, we quickly built a bridge of spoken words. [Sigh] Our conversation was magic.
And later, because we lived at a distance from each other, we entrusted to the letter our declarations of love and desire. Our truths, and the delivery, was given over to strangers, uniformed men and women whose mission it was to carry such things as love letters, bills, and packages.
Was this vision, this waking dream actually some form of letter from Phil? A grief-attannuated opening of the veil between two worlds? Well, was it? Surely, the rules over there must be different—no paper or pencil to be found, and no hand with which to write even if there had been. So what then? What strategy to communicate joy and accomplishment? Over, overflowing? What shared information that only we lovers new?
What slice of experience and personality belonging to Phil and Phil alone? That he struggled as an early reader? A boy? That letters did not easily give up their magic to him? That he viewed the world as a builder from the start? And ultimately used thoughts, ideas, visions, and yes, letters to build a brand new world? This was Phil, letting me know that it was him.
I had to write him back.
[Music] [Singing, scatting]
I know it was him. I had to write him back.
My dearest Phil, thank you, my love, for reaching out. I know it was you. Yes, yes, it was perfect. The room, all those letters. Yes, I did get it. I did! Just perfect. Oh, my love, how beautifully and artfully crafted your buildings. It is hard to describe them in words—luminous? I don't know. Babe, you know how much I miss you. Moments like this that assure me you're doing well are everything. I'm learning to trust the process. You're teaching me, it's about layers. Yeah, like in music. I'm digging you in the subdivisions. You, for real, pulsing beneath, around, and within the experience of normal life. I'm so happy right now for the glimpse of your presence. Thank you, my love. I had no idea that gone could be so full.
[Music] [Singing, scatting]
I wanted answers. Answers to my questions, turning to gone gone gone. I asked the moon, and she confessed: "I don't know." The sun, too, was silent glow. And so I asked the trees, the trees: branch, limb, trunk, and bow. All these suggested I asked the chorus—the chorus of the leaves.
[Singing]
♪ And so I asked the leaves, the leaves. ♪
♪ They'll surely know of turning things. ♪
♪ One by one. ♪
♪ How do you learn to trust the fall? ♪
♪ How do you learn to trust the fall? ♪
♪ My beloved love is gone. ♪
♪ To somewhere far beyond, beyond. ♪
♪ Tell me, please. ♪
♪ Please, please, leaves. ♪
♪ How they just laughed at me. ♪
♪ We come together and apart for we are members of one sacred heart. ♪
♪ With crimson and golden tongue. ♪
♪ We sing as one. ♪
♪ ♪
Scalawag knows that for many of us, our grief is simultaneously never news and the only news.
Listen to the latest season of Great Grief with Nnenna Freelon, available now on all podcast platforms.
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