Grief, the considering of grief, it is a job for some.
Changing things, from one thing to another, grief into say joy or beauty or maybe … damn this is a big maybe – into better moral actions. Doesn’t sound reasonable does it: that’s because those are reasoned from the past, maybe a job for authority (or maybe anarchists).
There is the changing from the outer growing, reaping time; into the enclosed, restful, time: the seasonal – now. How much trouble should one go through to transform that end-of-the-summer grief … maybe, into beauty. Seems the job of the artist.
As it is – in the changing – gloom descends; it is the low light, cold drizzle time. The pain is now (or else why, or what, would be transformed): now, as in – the past carried forward. There must be something in the quiet of winter; some poetical wondering enclosed, darkened for the soul. Would that transform enough pain if handled by some mystic?
Maybe, the past&now analyzed and checked against some catalogue of disorders for the appropriate cure; there ought to be some skilled consoler.
It seems that the pain, looking backward, is what is knowable, but, considering the new (or renewed if the past is included) moral actions; could they generate … maybe, from thankfulness.