What are you yearning for?

The National Parks of Emotion project and the connections I’m making with so many of you who have participated give me a sense of purpose and meaning during these uncertain times when I have no idea what’s happening next—among so many other things, when I’ll be able to see my family or close friends who live in the states. I’m in Canada, and I haven’t seen my parents since February 2020. My dad’s 80th birthday was this past week. They both received the vaccine, and I’m incredibly grateful for that, so it just feels like a matter of holding on and being patient. But it’s still really hard. I know so many of you are dealing with similar separations. I’ve received a couple submissions about the National Park of Yearning, and I related instantly. Here’s one that really hit me, I feel like I could have written it myself:

It’s a deep valley and I’m at the very bottom, waiting to get out. I’ve been here since March. There are times when it feels like I have climbed for so long and I’m nearly out, nearly at the top. Like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. When I reach the top, I will get to see my family that I have been so desperately missing for 9 months—the US-Canada border keeping us apart.

But then the camera pans back out, and I see that I’ve still got a long way to go. The cases keep rising, the lockdowns continue, the border remains shut. I long to be reunited with my family. I think of how magical it will be when I see them again. 

I’ve experienced a particularly intense loss of a loved one before, so I am not completely unfamiliar with these feelings of missing and yearning and longing.

I yearn to be close to them, to hear my niece laugh again, to hold my nephew in my arms for the first time, to embrace my mother, to hear my dad tell a bad joke. We connect nearly every day virtually, but I yearn for real connection again.

— Anonymous, age 28

Yearning is an interesting emotion—given the current circumstances, I instantly think of it as an unpleasant feeling, but one of the participants wrote to me about how it can also be a pleasant feeling of longing. Maybe it’s a mixed emotion, in some cases, or perhaps it depends on what you’re yearning for, and why.

It’s been about a month since the last National Parks of Emotion Art Lab. So many of you have told me that you’re eager to hear about what’s happening with the project since then, and I’m eager to share. I’ll tell you what’s happening over the next while, as a series of Art Lab reports.

Meanwhile, what are you yearning for? Is it a pleasant or unpleasant feeling for you?

Where did you play as a child?

I loved playing outdoors when I was a kid. This is a photo of me from when I was 6. You gotta love the jean leisure suit: 

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I remember that day, exploring in the woods and wading in the river on a day trip to a neighboring town with my parents. And it was fun. But when I started looking for a photo of myself for this post, I realized that of course I don’t have photos of the hundreds of other times I played outside, because I was with my friends, and there usually were no adults around.

And that was even more fun.

There's no doubt that some of my most joyful childhood memories are of playing outdoors, when I created lots of imaginary worlds and adventures away from the watchful eyes of adults.

There have been many inspirations for Play Passages, but one of the primary ones is that since I had kids (I have two of them, they’re 8 and 5), I’ve became increasingly frustrated that it’s so difficult to give them the same freedoms and play opportunities that I had. And I don’t think it needs to be that way.

Fear in many forms seems to have trumped remembering what it felt like to really play, to take risks, to sometimes get hurt, to have a sense of wonder and possibility that wasn’t necessarily “productive”.

I found myself wondering what would happen if I started asking people to remember, what stories would come up? And if I asked them to play a little bit, take a small artistic risk, what would that process be like for people?

It’s not just about nostalgia (although of course thinking back on our childhood play can be very nostalgic). I don’t want to look at childhood play through rose-colored glasses—play is complex and it isn’t always a positive experience. 

I’m just extremely curious about so many things: what are our most vivid memories of playing outside and why do we remember them? What is the relationship between how we played as children and who we became as adults? How do we stay in touch with play over the course of our lives? And how do we give those same opportunities to our children?

I’m hoping this project will spark some of those conversations. And as usual, I’m drawn to making work anchored by a sense of place. I think asking about where we played as kids might lead to some interesting discoveries. (Side note: I also had many amazing play experiences indoors of course, but it’s the outdoor play that kids seem more deprived of, so I’m focusing on that for now).

I want you to start thinking about your play memories. If you can steal some time over the weekend, take a walk by yourself and think back to your childhood. Where and how did you play? With whom? How did it feel at the time? And how does it feel to look back on it now?

I’m really excited to see where this goes.

Wedding Ring

 

Wedding Ring, 2016

 

Name: KS

Tell me about the person who died: 

My husband was on a mountain climbing trip when an earthquake hit. Large pieces of the mountain fell and crushed several climbers, and he died. 

He was my best friend. We had known each other for 15 years before we got married, and had similar values and temperaments. 

He was also a supportive partner. I am Asian and many of us are still pretty traditional. Even among my generation, there are certain traditional expectations that remain in many of our psyches, such as the onus of housekeeping being on the woman, whether she works or not. Given this, I really appreciated his non-traditional view that both partners play an equal role in housekeeping and child-rearing. Because I had his full support, I was able to pursue a demanding career and yet feel secure as a wife and mother.

Part of my regret is that my children will never see what a good man their father was. Though I know they can also see good values embodied in other people like myself or their aunts and uncles, I wish they could experience what it is like growing up with a father who truly believed in gender equality and the need for female empowerment in our society.

What has your experience of grief been like since your loss? How did it change over time?

I felt completely lost for a while, regarding my identity, purpose, priorities, what needs to be done, and how to do things that were usually his job, like the bills. Now I am in the middle of forging a new sense of self, and learning how to do things I never knew how to do before. It feels overwhelming at times, but I just tell myself, “Who would have thought I'd know how to do this?” and press on. 

For a long while I couldn't feel much of anything apart from grief. Often I would smile at or play with my children, while being conscious of feeling numb inside. Though this sensation remains, I have also begun to able to feel grateful about the little blessings.

Most of all, I feel that my grieving is... stunted? I felt as though I never was able to mourn for him properly as I was pregnant and then busy with caring for my children while working and settling all the necessary and numerous post-death matters. I look forward to the future when my children are grown up and I can go off somewhere just to mourn for him for as long as I want.

If you had to describe your grief as a literal landscape, what would it look like and feel like at different points since your loss?

I associate my grief with darkness. It is nights that I miss him the most; when we would come home and be with the children, when we would put them to bed, when we would have our quiet time together. It is nights now when I finally have some quiet time to mourn for him, to grieve and think of him, to pray for him.

When I look forward to having the time and opportunity in the future where I can go off somewhere to finally mourn for him as long as I want, I imagine it inexplicably as an airport hotel overlooking the runway, or a chalet by the beach. Maybe it is because they remind me of places we often found ourselves, or maybe I unconsciously find something soothing about planes in flight and the sea.

Tell me about an object that reminds you of the person who died, and why?

Due to the nature of his death, I couldn't see his body. Also, he died in another country, and when his body arrived, he had to be buried almost immediately. I literally had only minutes with him during the funeral. 

But before the funeral began, someone passed me his wedding ring. It was a simple and broad titanium band. It was badly chipped. When I saw it, I broke down. Part of it was grief, but part of it was gratitude to that person who had thought it important to return it to me. 

How have the people in your life supported you in your grief? What was helpful? What was frustrating?

I found people who gave me space most helpful. I found people who imposed themselves on me frustrating. And I found people who belittled my feelings hurtful.

How did people who were grieving the same person respond to the death compared to you? What similarities and differences did you notice?

Some people talked about him or their grief about his death openly. That was how they coped. For me it was different. I could not and did not like to talk about it. A year on, and I still dislike talking about it, though I am better able to now.

How has your private grieving related to your public mourning?

They are unrelated. Generally I do not show my grief publicly and go about my life as usual. But that makes living exhausting.

Was there anything about your cultural or religious background that affected the grieving process for you?

I am a Muslim. We believe that while God gives us free will, a few things are predetermined like our time of death. That helped stop me from dwelling on thoughts like, "If only he hadn’t gone on that trip.” I also took comfort that he died on a day and in a way that was described in the Quran as a “good” day and way to die. So that helped me to be less self-absorbed in my grief as I reminded myself that there are signs his death might have brought him eternal bliss. I cannot know for sure, of course, but since he was destined to die that moment, it could have been worse... God took him in ways that seem blessed, and for that hope I am thankful.

Were there any personal or public rituals or structures that helped you in your grief?

Scheduling, time management: this helped me to manage my life and my children better and gave me some sense of control and accomplishment, reinforcing the belief that I can do this on my own.

Having my own time at night, after the children are asleep or between night feedings. To cry, to mourn, to talk to him or to God.

Putting my phone away when I feel particularly weak. Communicating “normally” with people or surfing the web somehow sap my energy. So staying away from my phone helps me to conserve energy and I get back to it when I feel stronger.

How has your loss and your experience of grief changed you?

It shifted my priorities—how I live and why I live. I used to want it all: family, career, friends, everything. Now I just live for my children, and have very little desire for anything else. 

It has made me weaker, and stronger. Before, I could never have imagined the dark depths my mind has gone into, and yet my ability to come out of it each time has made me better realize my strengths.


This post is part of Grief Landscapes, an art project documenting the unique terrain of people’s grief. Participants share an experience with bereavement, and I photograph an object that evokes the person who died, transforming it into an abstract landscape inspired by the story.