Having lived here full time for 26 years I’ve witnessed my share of grief. The loss of community leaders, neighbours, children, elders and lots of people who live on only in our memories. Until my beloved Doug Dailey died, I didn’t understand how losing my person could profoundly change my life and who I am. It’s been two long years and more therapy, counselling, consoling and coaching than I could have imagined.
And through it all, has been my community. Someone once commented that no one north of Lion’s Head has NOT seen me cry in public. That’s who I have always been. Very transparent which can be a blessing and a curse.
And that’s where grieving in Tobermory comes up. On a phone call with a friend who has visited me, he said I lived in the perfect place to grieve. I think I’ve known that from the beginning of this journey, but we decided to go a little deeper to see what that really means.
From my perspective, there is something so sacred about the ruralness and simplicity of this area that invites quieter reflection. And that’s not always what a grieving person needs. I can only speak from what the experience has been like for me as a widow. I know lots of widows up here and I have been humbled by the realization that I rarely said the ‘right’ thing or did the ‘right’ thing when I encountered them. And what I will say is that I did the best I could and that’s what is so special about the people of Tobermory. They do the best they can and they keep doing it which is evidenced by two years of continuing to take time to cry or laugh with me.
But it’s more than what people give me. It’s also about the weight of the earth, the sound of the wind, the steadiness of the escarpment rock, the resilience of the battered trees, the constant changing flow of the water. We sit here between two large lakes that are continuously on the move. Some days the sun makes them shimmer with hopeful anticipation. Other days the wind blows the waves inland reminding us all of our vulnerability. The message is clear – nothing stays the same; change is inevitable. And change is what grieving widows deal with every day.
I watched the lake rise and fall without recognizing that it was a metaphor for my life in this new situation. As I look around me now, I see how it has sustained itself in spite of droughts and storms. In the same way, the cedars that are so prominent on this tiny tip of the peninsula are shedding and sheltering from the natural changes around them. And maybe we are too.
Maybe we are more influenced by nature than we realize. Maybe we are finding ways to sustain ourselves, move and flow, hold steady, start over and whatever else we need to do to not just survive but to thrive.
I didn’t think any of this was possible when Doug slipped away. Now I can’t help but see that what draws so many people to visit Tobermory is also what can support and hold us in place when we are grieving. It is the land that is steeped in culture, history and fierce survival that is the perfect place to grieve. It is the people who are honest, caring and deliberate in their love of community.
It would be too simplistic to point out the lack of support resources when we may not have accessed what is offered to us by the very environment that we have chosen to live in. And this is where gratitude becomes a bridge to healing. When we can accept and be with our despair, we might also be able to stand in the beauty and holiness of the land we call home. The land we call Tobermory where grief lives and sometimes, finds a way to give us hope.
Daryl Wood
