One method is to let it bounce off its constituency like a cartoon, cannonading the
human fireworks into delayed despair. Sorrow does not approve of this method. Gravity
won’t finally let go.
Another method is to find a primitive location for the ceremony, complete with
flagellation and tribal wailing, and observe carefully the participant hidden by the nature
of his observation. You might choose The Village of Not Me for this theme. You might
already be living there.
Another approach is to start somewhere else, somewhere far, and come back
slowly, using “until the sea salt crusts on the iron gate” as a welcome instead of a
landmark. Clever distraction can ration the local abundance, but the gateway of its excess
won’t let you pass undisturbed.
Sleeping on the haunches of a very old dream coaxes out the camouflaged
emotions. Place the new sorrow among the old. Don’t forget how much you’ve aged. To
return you must travel through bones. It’s true that some of the sorrow belongs to all of
us, but that becomes a virtue only if it shows in the knowing gratitude of the smile and
not the pleading parade of the mouth.
Sorrow is a temple of worship that shelters its congregation from augmentation, a
territory of passage waiting to become a country of burden. As soon as you are
comfortable there, it is time to leave.
But the larger world of pervasive sorrow swallows all other worlds. Its digestion is
poor. Follow its rude trail in innocence. Something has been imperfectly returned. A part
of the outside on the inside.
From this point on, the external quickly vanishes.
One way to claim all that you’ve lost is to talk to the past.
Another method is to travel without words.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.