What a week.
First David Bowie died, then Alan Rickman. Both giants of the arts, both 69, both quietly battling cancer.
At times it’s seemed like the whole world is in mourning; collectively, frenetically sad.
It’s easy to seek solace in mass grief in a time when the outpouring of strangers is only a click away. But the anonymity of the internet also makes it easy to lash out when we see people behaving in ways that we don’t like, grieving in ways that we wouldn’t.
There’s been a fair bit of that this week, and it has made me very uncomfortable.
I am so very lucky. Few people I know really well have died. The ones who have were mostly all very old, having lived long and rich lives.
I don’t know how I would react if I lost a parent, my brother, a close friend, a dear cousin. I don’t really even want to think about it.
But I do know one thing. My grief would be my own, and how I chose to display it would be up to me.
There is no right way to grieve.
So what if the vast majority of mourners didn’t know the deceased personally? Why does that matter? Someone can be a significant figure in your life, without ever really being present. Losing the people who inspire us, encourage us and reassure us can be shocking and sad. And those emotions are real.
In some ways it seems incredible to me that anyone would think it’s OK to admonish someone for their response to a friend or family member’s death. Or that anyone thinks it’s useful to get on Twitter and complain at mass public outpourings of grief.