The Wonders Left By Grief
a blog for SPARC by Jimena Yengle
Grief is a word that always seemed daunting to me—so descriptive, yet so simple. For me, grief feels like a strange place: sometimes inhospitable, sometimes fertile. It can feel like an endless labyrinth but also like a wishing well, layered with meanings waiting to be uncovered. In my case, this unexpected terrain gave birth to Mercury Flowers, the most intimate play I’ve ever written. Through it, I discovered that even in pain, we can find beauty, and that art can be both a nest of meaning and a guiding light.
Mercury Flowers was more than a creative project; it was a process of personal discovery. Grief, after all, is a profoundly revealing journey—it demands so much, doesn’t it? As I wrote this play, I found myself exploring corners of my being I had never visited before. I discovered the universality of my pain: what seemed like a deeply personal loss was, in truth, an echo of shared human experiences. When we understand that our creations can resonate with others, we gain clarity and an unexpected sense of confidence. We begin to believe that we are not alone.
Moreover, during my creative process, I found solace in a simple constant: my art would always be there for me. On the hardest days, sitting down to write not only made me feel accompanied but also reminded me that I had something to say—something worth sharing. When we feel empty, we tend to search for certainty. I found this certainty in the one thing that would remain: my art.
Surrealism and Grief: A Language for the Ineffable
Surrealism in Mercury Flowers is not merely an aesthetic choice; it is the language I chose to capture the complexity of grief. This style allowed me to digest contradictory emotions, memories mingled with dreams, and truths that seem unreal yet are profoundly authentic. Everything we experience while grieving can often feel “surreal.”
Characters like Laila, with her intense and dramatic energy, embody resilience and the need to find meaning amidst loss. Meanwhile, characters like The Death Boy, suspended between life and death, symbolize the inescapable presence of memories and a love that never entirely fades. Even the flowers that appear and disappear throughout the story, the empty fields, and the train stations are not concrete places but reflections of the characters’ internal states—a representation of grief itself. This surrealist approach allowed me to show how grief distorts our perception of time and space, transforming them into something simultaneously surreal and, at times, unsettling.
The experience of pain is tangible and universal, and as long as we keep writing about it, we remain connected to our humanity. After a loss, our hearts need time to heal, to trust again, to embrace and believe in the good things life can offer. Writing Mercury Flowers helped me take that step. The play is intense, infused with surrealism and poetry, but it is also a celebration of life, love, and the fleeting moments that leave lasting marks on us.
Art has a unique ability to remind us that beauty never disappears—it is always present and within our reach. Writing this play showed me that while grief can break your heart, it is also an opportunity to open your eyes to the beauty around you and the richness of your inner world. Although grief can feel isolating, there is always a place where we can share our stories and find comfort in the stories of others.
When we create after grieving, we do not only speak of pain. We speak of life, and that is the bravest thing we can do. My art allowed me to see that pain, when embraced, can transform into art, into connection, into meaning.
Today, I look at grief more closely. It showed me that beauty is always present, even when we feel like visitors on the loneliest planet. And as long as we keep creating, that beauty will never be out of reach.
