Is grief really the thing with feathers? On measuring grief

A friend recently asked me, “What is the colour of your grief”? I didn’t have an answer then; nobody had asked me that question before. I had never experienced someone using a physical attribute to describe grief. 

In synchronicity, around the same time, I started thinking of grief being measured in time.

He hadn’t known what that meant, exactly, the old adage of “time heals all wounds” ringing in his ears. But that wasn’t quite true, was it? The passage of time might dull the edges, but it wasn’t a cure-all. No, it’d take more than that. So much more.  (Somewhere beyond the sea, TJ Klune)

Our neighbour, the barn owl. We started observing this parliament of owls coming out of their barn a few weeks ago. The county I live in, Devon, has some Celtic roots. In Celtic tradition, the owl symbolises wisdom and a deep connection to the Otherworld. They are often linked to death, renewal, and the transition of souls.

Stretching the bond

When we were younger, I frequently travelled for research fieldwork, leaving Lewis with my ex-partner or parents. He was perfectly happy having a long holiday with other people doting on him, and we always picked up where we left off when I left as if we hadn’t been apart at all. When leaving for Zanzibar, though, I considered bringing him along. I was going to be doing fieldwork for up to ten months, and I couldn’t imagine being away from him for such a long time. 

As a veterinary nurse at the local cat clinic, I had regularly supported people going through the ordeal of immigrating with their cats, so I knew it was doable. However, at the time, I also had a super-senior cat called Mickey with compromised health. I wouldn’t dare take him on an airplane. I couldn’t make the choice to bring one and not the other. So I decided to leave Lewis in the Netherlands with loved ones, and with Mickey.

In Zanzibar, I tried curing my growing homesickness by taking in stray cats and a litter of kittens. I helped the local clinic with the Trap-Neuter-Return program. And I was busy with my day job: doing research. But when, in one week, both my family dog Joey and Mickey died (peacefully, at home, with me present on FaceTime), and one of my stray cats died during emergency surgery, my heart couldn’t take it anymore - I needed to be home. This was about five months into my fieldwork. Fortunately, my employer recognised the importance of me coming home for a bit, and bought me a plane ticket so I could recuperate before returning to the job. 

The amount of time I had been away from home was six months.

Lewis died six months ago, today. 

Messy versus polite grief

In Max Porter’s ‘Grief is the thing with feathers’, grief is described as messy, and violent and dark. It’s a nod to Ted Hughes’ grief for his wife Sylvia Plath, described in his poetry collection ‘Crow’. It’s also a nod to Emily Dickinson’s ‘Hope is the thing with feathers’, a gentler, more polite, and sweeter description of something feathery and hopeful.

So far, my grief has been very polite. 

I am able to function like a normal human being.

I am able to appreciate a long and beautiful life, lived together. 

I am grateful I was able to meet this wonderful person who was my best feline friend.

On average, I wake up feeling extremely sad once every other week. That sadness persists for a few hours, but it’s nothing a good cry can’t fix. Then I return to feeling immensely grateful for having found one of my soulmates in life. I am able to rationalise losing Lewis as him having lived a wonderful and full biological life.

But the last couple of weeks have been different. The grief feels different, more present, raw. 

For some reason, lately my Peloton yoga instructors seem to prefer playing 90’s and 00’s rock ballads, a music genre I physically haven’t been able to listen to for six months. I frequently end up dripping tears all over my yoga mat while holding Downward Facing Dog. I wrote about this sensation before, when I quoted Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ and the scene where Pantalaimon moves further away from Lyra than ever before.

It was such a strange tormenting feeling when your dæmon was pulling at the link between you; part physical pain deep in the chest, part intense sadness and love. And she knew it was the same for him. [...] The pain in Lyra’s heart grew more and more unbearable, and a sob of longing rose in her throat. (His Dark Materials, Northern Lights by Philip Pullman)

So I have started thinking of grief as the invisible elastic between one person and the object of their grief. What if, over a decade ago in Zanzibar, the home I thought I needed was actually the home I described in ‘Homesick’? What if my body is slowly starting to realise that this is not an exercise in boundary testing anymore, but a reality for the rest of my life on earth? 

However much I like to rationalise a life well-lived which has come to its natural end, this also means inching towards mid-life myself, and living half a lifetime without Lewis. 

The elastic has stretched thin. Previously, I could take an airplane and let the elastic bounce back to its original state. Now, there’s no such relief.

Home.

Unconscious processing of grief

I am a big dreamer. I do most of my processing - and “precessing” - in my sleep. For some reason, my dreams always let me know if it’s time to check in with someone. I dream vividly, and often violently. Fortunately, I have taught myself to wake up from distressing dreams.

Until last week, every dream I had about Lewis since his passing saw me referring to him as being dead. Despite me praying to his photos to come and visit me in my dreams, I always knew in my dreams that he was no longer with me. Until last week.

We were back in the courtyard of the studio flat where we lived in our first year together. He was strutting around like he used to do, all silky and glossy fur, hunting bugs, while I was talking to another person. I was telling this person that Lewis and I were trying each other out - see if we were a fit. 

This actually happened in real-life as well. I told my then-partner that we could try living with Lewis for a week in our tiny twenty-square-meter studio flat, and if it didn’t work out, I could bring him back to the person I adopted him from. I knew the moment I said it, that it was a lie, because Lew and I had been connected the moment he lay down on my lap in a house full of cats. It was like our hearts had done a sloppy kiss, and upon retreating, a viscous thread connected our hearts wherever we went.

In the dream, I picked up Lewis and cradled him as I used to each morning, and I whispered to him, “It’s going to break my heart when I have to let you go one day”. 

I woke myself up sobbing. Because it did. The elastic between us, which had cemented one of its ends in my heart, must have snapped there and then, tearing my heart open a bit further. 

Hope

These past six months, I have been trying to make sense of the loss, both in terms of spirituality and in meaning. 

Will I meet Lewis again when I myself die?

What are my spiritual beliefs on what happens to the soul? 

Would organised religion help me make sense of this hole in my life? 

Does he hear me when I pray to his photos and ashes each morning and evening?

Does he hear us when we say ‘Goodnight Lulu’ before we go to sleep?

Can I ask his spirit to visit people who need his gentle support?

I have been losing myself in stories, trying to read into synchronicities and make meaning of the lessons Lewis has taught me. 

The latter really helped me make incredible progress on my senior-pet caregiver coaching and research offerings. Reading stories has helped me make sense of the rest. 

Ever the ferocious reader, hungry to learn through words, two people independently from each other urged me to read a Martin Shaw book (coincidence?) because of his alternative views on the sacred. I stumbled upon the following quote: 

I’m not telling you what to pray to, the celestial-or-otherwise shape of the thing, but find something to adore and keep talking to it. It’ll regulate anxiety at the very least. It won’t remove grief, not useful remorse, but the grind of chronic or acute fear can find its expression as an alchemical progression, not a final destination. (Courting the wild twin, Martin Shaw)

I now feel less guilty for not believing in the creation stories of the major religions, yet participating in rituals perceived as religious. Because it doesn’t mean that my daily prayers to Lewis are hypocritical, or a lost cause. They keep me grounded and connected to a memory of a loved one. And they help me to experience my grief, whether it’s showing up as feral or polite. Each moment I spend with my memories of him is a sacred ritual. So is putting on my necklace with his ashes each morning, and observing Lewis’s tree (a ‘White Angel’ crabapple tree) grow and sustain bird and bee life. Time will not heal the chasm in my heart, but I’d like to think its edges will be gilded, like a piece of Kintsugi ceramic. One day, I will be able to share what my little Japanese Zen Garden taught me, and my patched-up heart, with another furry friend.

Our favourite pastime: brushing

And so I conclude that my grief does not have a colour, nor is it the thing with feathers. It is white. Most of the time it is as predictable and organised as the wet waves of fur on a recently washed cat. Other times it is wild, like it’s just been brushed against the grain - Lewis’s favourite. 

My grief gives me a sense of hope. The hope that our love will not disappear or be forgotten. Because the alternative to that snapped elastic band is a tired love that has been worn out. But I know that this love will always be strong. And I hope we will meet again, one day.

Sies.

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About me

My name is Sieske Valk (pronounced as Sees-kuh Falk). Most people call me Sies.

I started my career as a veterinary nurse in the Netherlands. Following a short stint as a social science researcher in climate change adaptation, I set up an animal home-care company in London called Sies Petcare. This grew into Autumn Animals, the UK’s first holistic palliative and hospice care organisation. Trained as an end-of-life doula for companion animals, I supported numerous families through the autumn and winter of their companion animal’s life and what comes after. 

I currently focus on three pillars within ageing pet care under the brand Autumn Animals:

Coaching pet caregivers with ageing pets, writing about caring for ageing companion animals and research about interdisciplinary palliative care for companion animals.

If you’d like to know more about Autumn Animals, visit autumnanimals.com.

I live on a farm with my husband, Jamie, in beautiful Devon, and have a Lewis-shaped hole in my heart.

A note on AI use: All the articles on this website are written by me. The flowery and long sentences are completely my own. I use Grammarly to correct spelling, grammar and the occasional Dunglish. Claude Cowork helps me plan content and create visuals.