My Little Boat

Three weeks can either feel like the blink of an eye or a lifetime. Sometimes both at the same time.

That was how long it had been since my beloved departed the confines of a failing physical body to be restored in heaven. I was happy for him but didn’t know how to deal with the huge hole in my life.

Now, here I sat at an art therapy session for those suffering grief. Was it too soon to be doing something like this? It appeared I was about to find out.

The long tables were set up in a horseshoe formation, with the facilitator and her assistant at the open end. Twelve of us sat around the perimeter. In front of each of the participants was a blank sheet of paper. Behind that was a larger sheet of wax paper. Interesting.

After the introduction, coloured markers were passed out. We were to choose whatever colours we wanted and write words or draw pictures that reminded us of who we were grieving. This proved easy as the words love, fun, family, humour, and many others quickly filled my paper.

These papers were then put to the side and a block of modeling clay was placed on our wax paper. The clay was hard and needed to be softened by the warmth of our hands. As we worked the clay by kneading, pushing and pulling, we were told to put our feelings and grief into it. Some were angry with their circumstances and punched the clay or threw in onto the table. I had only sadness so was gentler in working with mine.

Once the clay was malleable, we were asked to create something to hold our grief. What? How was I supposed to do that? Others around me started creating shapes. I mindlessly worked with mine, hoping to find some inspiration.

I was surprised to see a small rowboat start to take shape. Maybe I could work with that. It needed more definition so I concentrated on the form. To make sure it didn’t look like a strangely shaped bowl, I asked for a little more clay and made a bench seat inside. Then I took two more small pieces and fashioned them into oars, which were crossed and placed on the seat.

Looking at my boat, I knew the shape hadn’t been an accident. I was navigating a sea of grief and needed a vessel to hold me when a rogue wave threatened to pull me under. In times of calm I could relax and float peacefully in my little boat. Turmoil caused choppy waters and the oars were needed as I paddled hard to stay afloat. God had worked through my unknowing hands to create a perfect metaphor for my grief journey.

As the class neared the end, scissors were placed before me. I cut out words from my paper and placed them in my vessel. Perfect! Grief only exists because it was preceded by great love. Precious memories placed in my grief vessel are reminders of the love that will always live on in my heart.

Yes, it seems that I was meant to be in the session that evening.

Three weeks has now turned to three months. My little boat, rough as it is, sits proudly in my home as a testament to a life well lived and the legacy Brian left behind.