Last winter, I got the sort of call no one ever wants to get. It was my niece, telling me that my cousin, with whom I was as close as a sister, had died. SAs one does, I started in disbelief. My cousin, Jane, had been in the peak of health, extremely fitness conscious, engaged in care of others, satisfied, if stressed, in her career, with good friends and a multitude of rescued cats whom she adored. She lived in a condominium close to the woods, and was an avid, let me repeat, avid, hiker. I have such vivid memories of our conversations while she was out on the trail, slightly breathy. We would talk for an hour or more, and I imagined her surroundings, trails I had hiked, too, when visiting. She loved the winter, and tried to convince me of the pleasure invoked by the cold and the rewarming nature of hot chocolate, the red of the incipient buds, the colors of starkness that inhabited a resting landscape, the play of light on the snow. While I did, over time, come to appreciate her viewpoint, as you know, I am more of a spring person, currently reveling in the blessing of such long flowering seasons in Yorkshire.
The day she died was especially cold, there was even news of the low temperature in Europe, and she went out for her regular walk, bundled in tech clothing and layers. But that day turned out not to be one of admiration for her beloved woods. Somehow, we do not know how, she slipped/ did not notice the footing/went to rescue an animal? and ended up falling through thin ice, into a pond she knew like the back of her hand, into a pond she swum in every summer, into a pond that was colder than usual, into a pond that took her breath, her strength, and her life. I was, and still am, devastated. The year of mourning has passed, and it still feels horrible.
Mourning is an odd bit of territory to traverse. Each loss is different, and our responses are as well. I was living far from my immediate circle of friends, and the community did not have the practice of supporting 7 days of shiva, so I sat largely with my daughter, and Zoom minyan. When Amalya left to go back to uni, I was faced with the regret and sadness and anger and emptiness with a large and fluffy dog as a consoler, and two cats who also did their bit. As part of the mind calming, I prayed, cooked, went for long walks (which sometimes made me sadder), and discovered a new form of game on the phone.
I am no stranger to small phone games, and have even done larger gaming in my day. I understand that there is a stigma attached to them, though online gaming makes up 21 to 150 minutes of an average person’s day in many parts of the world. I am not talking about event or skill gaming, that is often too hard for me, I like to think rather than react. I engage in what is called casual gaming: a set of tasks that I can play at my own pace, ignore for a day or two, and largely pick up where I left off. I’ve been playing Clash of Clans this way for over 10 years, starting when I had a class of really engaged 10 year olds who were impressed and pleased that their teacher cared enough to join their league. And, from my spiritual perspective of deep mourning, this is just what I seem to have needed to get myself through a bleak time. I learned several things about myself and the world during this process, and yes, I do still play the game I started then (though I seem to be taking a break from Clash of Clans). Over the next few messages, I’ll tell you a little more about what I have learned, and how our odd relationship to the screen or internet has been a comfort, a wonder, a shame, and a mirror for me.