On Earth as in Ireland, Pt. 3

Part 0 (The Dream) — Part 1 (The Fog) — Part 2 (The Hike) — Part 3 (The Colors) — Part 4 ( The Flu) — Part 5 (The Flowers) — Part 6 (The Cathedrals) — Part 7 (The Rest)

Everyone who ever lived with Cassie knew she dressed well, but never in yellow. I can only remember three yellow shirts she owned while we were together, but two of those were part of her work uniforms and the other she never wore without a dark cardigan or jacket to offset it. Notice the one and only picture I have of her wearing yellow, or at least of the yellow she wore since its hard to even call that a picture of her. In her famous words, “Yellow washes me out.” Sure, it was a running joke, but she certainly taught me how to dress better. And she taught me how contrasts work, because she knew better than I did.

Contrasts can highlight what you wouldn’t give a second thought to otherwise. How often do you want to look at the sky until sunrise or sunset, when half the sky is dark, and the other half has distinct rays of orange, red and pink blazing across the horizon? Contrasts are why grass just looks normal and boring next to the  flowers we consider lovely. Grass doesn’t have anything to offer but a green backdrop to put other landscape elements on top of—if left to flower, there are nothing but spikes of small colorless florets. Flowers, however, have big, bright bunches of yellows, reds, pinks and violets that pop into view, making themselves as distinct as possible from the swaths of green behind them.

Months after losing someone you love, what were once poignant feelings of loss seem to fade into the background while the world just seems more and more monotonous. Everything gets shaded grey. The grief becomes less sharp, becoming more of a dull ache that wells up only occasionally. Before such a tragedy, the world seems full of color. Now that color would be harder to notice—unless there are incredible contrasts.

Let me tell you, the northern coast of Ireland has incredible contrasts. We took a day trip to the Giant’s Causeway, followed up by some time spent around cities in County Antrim, as well as a trip out to the very tiny island of Carrick-a-Rede. Just being on that coast makes a person feel more alive. As it’s one of the windiest places in all of the UK, the cool air rushes across your face, making sure you are perked up to pay lots of attention to the scenery where the Emerald Isle meets the Northern Channel.

The fields on rolling hills are beautiful enough as they are. But they come to a sudden and dramatic end, whether at the basalt columns of Giant’s Causeway or at any of the cliffs across the rest of the coast. And once you do get to that dramatic end, you can’t help but admire how amazing the water looks. Here there are deep, mysterious navy-blues butted against bright and radiant aquamarines, where the rolling waves take on every shade of the colors they pass over. And if that weren’t enough, the pink flowers of clover, heather, and wild roses were cascading across the rocky trail-sides while the yellows of daisies, lilies, and dandelions were brightening our every view as they poked their heads from each stretch of greenery.

I’ll admit, the pretty sites lifted my spirits like nothing else. Though grief has a way of darkening even the lightest moments. C.S. Lewis, after the passing of his wife, wrote:

It’s not true that I’m always thinking of [Helen]. Work and conversation make that impossible. But the times when I’m not are perhaps my worst. For then, though I have forgotten the reason, there is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss… I see the rowan berries reddening and don’t know for a moment why they, of all things, should be depressing. I hear a clock strike and some quality it always had before has gone out of the sound. What’s wrong with the world to make it so flat, shabby, worn-out looking? Then I remember.

Even in places like this breathtaking coast, grief can still make an appearance. I sat on the island of Carrick-A-Rede, looking out over the sparkling water at shoreline cliffs, dotted with caves and arches, crowned with fields of flowers. There I felt unfiltered joy. I also felt sadness. Despite my attention to the presence of so much more than I could ever ask for in God’s creation—the sun, the sites and the silly friends behind me—there was also the awareness of an absence. Maybe it was the contrast of the joy and the sadness, but that moment made me more attune to the impact either of those feelings could have on our trip. For Cassie’s sake, if no one else’s, I worked to settle on joy instead of grief for the rest of that day. I’m glad I did. And I’m glad I still can.

Part 0 (The Dream) — Part 1 (The Fog) — Part 2 (The Hike) — Part 3 (The Colors) — Part 4 ( The Flu) — Part 5 (The Flowers) — Part 6 (The Cathedrals) — Part 7 (The Rest)