I was quite ready for my daughter to leave the country last February. She had come and gone a bit, quite amicably. She had some good reasons for moving. We kept in touch online. It was all good.
Then someone asked me how I was doing. And I said, spontaneously, 'I am suspended in an aspic of white grief'.
Because, yeah, I actually talk like that sometimes.
I realised I had seized up. I had an inescapable image of myself suspended, immobile. It was as if I was hanging in a white fog, in silence, almost blind. I has stopped reacting to anything. I was, in fact, actually suspended in an aspic of white grief.
Traditionally melancholy has colours, and white is one of them. I figured, I know what this is. People write poetry about it. It's not unique. White melancholy isn't violent or self destructive or reddened with anger or fear. It's just paralysing. Everything just - stops.
Led by a dream, literally, I have used my past personal and professional experiences to walk consciously and spiritually with death. These blog posts have been written over several years, as life has changed for me and my purpose has become clearer.