C’est mourir à ce qu’on aime: / It is to die to that which one loves:
On laisse un peu de soi-même / Everywhere and always,
En toute heure at tout lieu. / One leaves behind a part of oneself.
C’est toujours le deuil d’un vœu, / It is always the mourning of wishes
Le dernier vers d’un poème; / The last verse of a poem
Partir, c’est mourir un peu. / To go away is to die a little.
Et l’on part, et c’est un jeu, / And one leaves, and it's a game,
Et jusqu’à l’adieu suprême / And until the final farewell
C’est son âme que l’on sème, / It is one's soul that one scatters,
Que l’on sème à chaque adieu / That one scattters with each farewell
Partir, c’est mourir un peu. / To go away is to die a little.
~ Edmond Haraucourt ~1856-1941 ~
The last few days the title of this poem has been on my mind. Perhaps because my mom said it on Friday when I'd just said the see-you's to my lovely family who were going to their home in Nederland."Partir, c'est mourir un peu." The more I live the more I go. The more I go the more I meet. The more I meet the more I leave. The more I leave the more I die. It is reality, nothing shall change this fact. Over the last couple of years I have wondered if I leave more than others do, if I die more than others do. Okay - I know it is a little dying - a little mourning, but still it is...
Mourir and mourning - it looks to me that the French and the English have the same root - one is dying the other is a sorrow, a pain that comes with leaving something behind and having to let go. Death of someone you love is painful - you have to let go - they are no more and there is an emptiness. I remember clearly when my grandparents passed away. Opas and omas are supposed to be there, they're your parents' parents and they belong; they're family; they are related; they are yours. And then they're gone, they're seat empty, their voice silenced, their step stopped. Then you realize what you miss. No more can you get a hug or kiss, no more phone calls or visits. No more grandparent. Only the memories, the part that lives on in us - where a little of them has scattered into our own lives.
Mourir and mourning - it looks to me that the French and the English have the same root - one is dying the other is a sorrow, a pain that comes with leaving something behind and having to let go. Death of someone you love is painful - you have to let go - they are no more and there is an emptiness. I remember clearly when my grandparents passed away. Opas and omas are supposed to be there, they're your parents' parents and they belong; they're family; they are related; they are yours. And then they're gone, they're seat empty, their voice silenced, their step stopped. Then you realize what you miss. No more can you get a hug or kiss, no more phone calls or visits. No more grandparent. Only the memories, the part that lives on in us - where a little of them has scattered into our own lives.
Mourir sounds so tragic. So big. So deafening. Mourir it is so harsh and so final. It is the end. And yet...
The first time I really remember saying goodbye was when we moved to Canada. It was Nov. 2004 and I was 13. A teenager being 'transplanted' to another part of the world. Awful. My sisters didn't help me any (and I didn't help them either), as we all 'hated' Canada and everything that had to do with it. Plus we were leaving ALL our family and friends behind. We were leaving everything we knew in Holland and moving to a place we only knew from maps, stories and our geography books - to a place where we knew NOTHING. That flight across the Atlantic was long, very long. I felt empty inside. I cried until the tears couldn't roll anymore. I sniffed until I couldn't feel any more. I thought and broke inside. I - or what I knew was 'I' - was left behind, on the other side. My life had just ended. Mourir. There was no more to do than to start over. It felt like my being was still on the other side. On laisse un peu de soi-même/En toute heure at tout lieu.
Over the next months it seemed like slowly the life was breathed back into me... that which was scattered before started to 'seed' and germinate once again, but also new things started to grow. New relationships and experiences added to the at once so somber colour scheme, slowly adding more happiness.
There are the small farewells in life. The 'see you tomorrow's and the 'bye's we say on the phone. Then there are the bigger farewells when we tell the other we hope to see them soon or know it will be in a week or two. There are also the farewells that are long term. They are goodbyes that feel like the end. The goodbyes that leave you empty and weak, wobbly and alone. It is those goodbyes, those farewells, those leavings that leave me deep in thought so often. The same are they that make me feel that I have left part of who I am behind, or have given it away - scattered it. Part of me goes with them that leave me, or part of me stays in the place that I leave.
It is hard, very hard.
I left Holland for Canada.
I left my school for another, for another, for another, for another, for another.
I left my grandparent, and another, and another.
I left my friend and another and another and more yet.
I left my brother, a sister, a mother, a father.
I left my family,
I left my grandparent, and another, and another.
I left my friend and another and another and more yet.
I left my brother, a sister, a mother, a father.
I left my family,
I left my home, my abode, my comfort zone for another.
I left my life to find it a new.
I died a little with each leaving; part of me scattered over there, with you, with them, or right here. Scattered - for you to enjoy and perhaps to remember me by. Scattered because such is life. Scattered because that is life. Scattered because that is how things happen.
You come; you go. You live; you die. You sow; you harvest. You live; you grow. You hurt; you heal. You cry; you laugh. You embrace; you let go. You break down; you build up. You mourn; you dance. You throw things away; you gather them. You seek; you find; you lose; you seek. You keep; you throw out. You tear; you sew. You hate; you love. You are silent; you speak. You are at war; you are at peace. (Eccl. 3)
You don't know; you go to He Who knows.
I don't get it, never have and doubt I ever will. But know that partirs are part of my life (and of yours too). Just because I have lived in multiple places far from each other I have friends and family - loved ones - who I can't just visit and embrace. Those same lovely people I see only for a time. Like when my family was over from the Netherlands this past month I embraced and cherished those moments. Then they left and I had to let go. When I am in Alberta for the summer months I try to live it up - I dance and gather and laugh and love and live and grow. Then when Fall comes I have to let go, mourn a little, hurt a little, cry a little, seek a little, tear a little, hate a little, only to go right back to dancing, gathering, laughing, loving, living, and growing. Just to do it over and over again. To you it may seem like a cycle - never ending and always always going. A game perhaps? because it certainly feels like un jeu sometimes That is exactly how it is - we live and part of life is letting go or leaving or partir. Part of life searching for where you belong and while you're searching you're finding where you don't belong and letting things go. While you live you leave and while you leave you die a little.
It's painful. When you say your 'see you's and you don't know when that see you will be (but know it won't be anytime soon). It is painful when you have loved from closeby and have to let that go only to do it over a long distance. It is painful when you have to let go and let the other's live on - knowing you're not there to live with them. It is like you're leaving yourself with them - and you can't live or something. Obviously that isn't true. I still have a lovely life to live right here when I am not with you - here where I am and you where you are. We're doing our things - separate and yet connected - but in different parts. We our living and remembering and cherishing that which we did have and that which we do have.
Each time we leave we die a little - because a little of us goes with the others.
Each time I leave I die a little - because a part of me goes with you. So that you - whom I have met and then left - can live with a bit of me scattered in your life.
There is indeed - a time and season for everything. And all things will be made beautiful in His time - even the 'mourir un peu's. What a comfort that God knows, and knows best. When I die He gives life (Ps 139). When I cry He dries my tears (Ps 22). When I am hurt He heals (Ps 30). When I am lost He guides me through (Ps 23). When I am in the dark He is the Light (Ps 119). When I feel alone He is with me (Ps 23). When I question He soothes (Ps 79). When I cry out He hears (Ps 37). When I am afraid He comforts (Ps 55). When I am wild He calms me (Ps 42). When I don't know I trust that He knows (Ps 46) and will never leave. (Heb. 13)
My prayer then is may God be with you till we meet again!
