Walking with Grief

considering empty paint cans and unwanted sofas

Double Vision, Self Portrait 2024

“You’re not even 60,” people say.

“Why are you moving from this place you love?”

Because it’s a large empty nest that needs a family.

Because we’re mentally and physically fit enough to manage the process, now.

“But how can you leave?” They persist, disbelieving.

I go for a walk.

“What about all your wonderful stuff?” they ask.

Yes, what about it, I think, as I curate our garage for the weekend’s yard sale.

And then go to the garden, pick a glorious stem of purple iris, and photograph yet another “Flowers in the Window” still life.

I remember napping on Pam’s wicker couch that first weekend I visited D’s family, and my future father-in-law putting a scratchy blanket over me…and then embroidering an old dress while sitting in these funny swivel chairs.

And I remember all those holiday afternoons watching our kids assemble legos and American Girl accessories…

But I also notice that all those amazing fabrics from around the world were gifts from others - - I have no memory of where they came from or who made them.

They are graphically stunning and the colors intoxicating, but really, do they belong to me?

And I go for a walk in the woods and Lilly wants to play fetch.

And then the moment arrives and the kids show up and touch everything and adults ooh and aah…

“You have the most beautiful gardens.”

“This is our favorite house in Hanover.”

and walk away with a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

And I sit in the shade and look up, seeing our Black Locust in full bloom, framed as I have never seen it before.

I am out of sorts…But this tree filled with the hum of hungry bees reminds me why we are doing this…

…To perhaps slow down and stop buzzing around so much ourselves…to take the time to sit with scrambled letters and pendulous blooms.

And over the course of two days, the chairs and tables and shelving disappear from the driveway.

And I create a colorful distraction in the yard, assembling all of this week’s blooms and sprinkling the petals in the grass.

Distractions are good.

But then I have to prepare for the next stage - - the “Clean Out” people. They take paint cans, but only if dried.¹

So I gather them from the basement and pour in the kitty litter and love the colorful display they make in the garage.

I guess that’s what I do.

In addition to creating a home and a garden and a life for me and my family, I see colors, shapes and patterns everywhere…

And I notice the purple flowers and the purple dried paint swirls and my purple walking shoes at the foot of my now dismantled composter created with so much love back in 2009.

Then the “Clean Out” people extricate what is left of the rotting wood from behind the garage and load it, along with the unwanted sofas, into their truck…taking it all...away.

Apparently no one wants sofas anymore, unless they are in perfect condition, and rotting wood with nails and wire still attached is not useful either.

So being me, I grabbed my landfill boots and cameras and headed to 370 N. Plainfield Road in West Lebanon, NH…I haven’t been there for over a year, but all I needed to climb the mountain was my reflector vest and a wave to the crew.²

By the time I got there, our two sofas were askew…

…and within minutes, they’d been smashed.

I’ve documented this place for years, but it had never felt like this…other people’s discarded detritus is one thing, but when the smashed pile contains our sofas and my beloved composter…well…It was too much.

…So I walked away and did what I do - - look down, notice the details.

Crocs. There are always broken crocs at the landfill.

And when I turned around, it was just another day…with another pile of objects and memories added to this mountain of waste along to the Connecticut River.

I admire the shapes of humans at work…harvesting rock on one side, burying waste on the other.

“All Gone,” I say in a sing-song voice, as if talking to a young child, trying to see it for what it is…willing myself to go.

Heading back to the car, I take one last look to see what remains…and there’s the sofa, smashed, torn and broken.

I wish I could stay and be with this mass burial, but it touches too many chords, making me think of the loss and grief associated with all that has been smashed in recent months and years around the world - - not just a single sofa here or there, but entire neighborhoods, cities and societies. Smashed. It makes me weep.

Just beyond ‘the’ pile of ‘my’ stuff, there’s a single photograph of an empty table, set for a party…a scene that belongs to a stranger and is not mine, and yet it is.

So many tables set, so many sofas sat in over the years. The human story, laid bare…and I know I am not alone with this grief, which is at once so specific and universal.

Knowing I can share this experience within my Kinship Practice Group next week makes a difference because being in community with sadness matters.³

Can we ever be alone when we see our lives in community? I don’t think so.

I wonder what stories these sofas and photographs and composters will tell each other when they are left to settle into the mountain of garbage we have created.

To keep my balance, I visit my favorite places at the landfill, including the new glass recycling section, and wondered, again, at the shapes and textures and colors in this place.⁴

Later, when I saw this image of my reflection in the bottle while editing in Lightroom, the textures of the clouds reminded me of the dried green paint swirls I’d just witnessed in our garage, but which were now also buried somewhere in the landfill.

There is such beauty in the strangest of places…

and there are such odd associations between objects, colors and meaning.

That lone can of blue paint so like that lone blue door in the scrap pile at the landfill…They mirror my sense of isolation, but each is surrounded and supported.

And the lone blue door, at that strange angle, reminded me of that place on my grandmother’s 1970’s red corduroy sofa where the wooden piece broke through…

And I wondered if maybe I had patched that section and hammered that piece back together, if someone might have taken this love seat and rested there for a while…as I did and so many members of my family did over the decades.

But this is just me longing…holding on to what has been…unwilling to let go…

and yet I did let it, and so much else, go…but even so, I, like this plant attached to the composter wire, hold on…even if for just a few minutes or hours longer.

“Wait,” I wonder. “Am I ready?”

And in writing this, I know I am ready because there is such beauty in these objects - - The life-energy embodied within them, incalculable, whether a peony or old paint - - and I have the privilege to witness them all…and share them with you.

Design, Dried Paint & a Peony, 2024 Photos by Lyn Swett Miller

And so we ‘rightsize,’ making room for a family where we have lived and loved for two decades.

We re-imagine our lives, where, as always, compost, climate and creativity will continue to converge…though at the moment, I don’t know how, except that as long as I keep showing up, staying grounded in where I am, I will continue to find light and love and beauty…even if, at the moment, things feel a bit off.

As always, thank you for sharing your time and this space with me.

With cheers and gratitude for you being you,

Lyn

This topic of grief and letting go is huge. It’s interesting how specific my particular story feels, yet how universal the changes and losses are. If you care to share your own experiences, or if this resonates with you in some particular way, please comment below (just click on the comment button) or, if you know someone who might find this narrative of interest, please share this post. Take care, and thank you.

1. We are so grateful to KIS Clean Outs for what they do - - helping people like us ‘clean out’ in a thoughtful and caring way, making sure what can be re-used is salvaged and what belongs in the landfill goes there.

And I love that they have founded a non-profit, The Simple Store, in Hartford, VT, where they resell that which they can.

2. Between April 2019 and April 2023, I documented the Lebanon Landfill at 370 N. Plainfield Road in West Lebanon, NH. The resulting exhibition at AVA in June 2023 celebrated the place and those who care for it. I still have an open invitation to visit any time.

3. Since January I’ve been facilitating a “Practice Group” within the Kinship Photography Collective “Between Bodies” call for engagement. Our group met for once a week for six weeks. We now meet once a month to support each other as we “Reimagine Loss & Grief” with words, images and connection. I invited others to join me during this time, knowing that this year would be filled with loss and grief of all kinds in unknown ways. Who knew paint cans and sofas would be the trigger this week?

4. The town of Lebanon is now integrating crushed glass into roadways, reducing costs and adding to the permeability of the surfaces. So cool.