How We Can Create Universal Meaning With Our Personal Story

I was recently tasked with writing a eulogy for a friend. 

I started by making a list of all the things that made the loss of that friend difficult. Grief is universal after all. But you might not know that when I hear the word grief, I can smell grapefruit and nail polish remover. When you think of grief, you might think of your child moving off to college or leaves falling. The point is… the word grief has a universal meaning… but it is also a very complex thing with multiple definitions that differ from person to person. So when writing this eulogy I wondered, how do I make my own internal struggle of losing my friend have a more ubiquitous meaning that everyone who was sitting in that room could resonate with? 

I started writing the eulogy like I would write an essay. I talked about the grief, and I sprinkled in moments of joy—inside jokes, happy memories. What I ended up with was pretty good… but I realized that nothing I wrote was going to land with anyone in the room, other than myself and a few close, personal friends who knew my friend as I knew him. I asked myself: How can I create universal meaning through my own very personal experience?

The answer? I share the tiny, tender details.

The fact is, the most compelling parts of our stories are often the things that are the most dramatic. The traumas. The break-ups. The triumphs. The acceptance letters. The heartaches. The losses. The falling in love. 

But what about all those little moments in between the big stuff? What about those minute details that make up a life? 

That’s what I want to write about. 

When combing through my favourite poems and essays, I find those tiny, tender details are what make art the most challenging and the most memorable. I find the more often I write (especially poetry) the more often I become an observer, and the more likely I am to absorb and record these tiny moments that make for an interesting life. I’ve also discovered that the more of those moments and details I can include in my art, the more universal meaning it will have.

One thing I started doing was carrying around a small book that I can record these details in. The only rule: no moment is too big or too small. They all matter. During a walk to the supermarket, I might write about the man sitting on the bench, feeding the birds and I wonder if he misses someone. While I wait for the bus, I observe a couple hugging and write about the ease with which she slides her fingers into his back pockets, and wonder what that kind of love would feel like. Later that night, while my girlfriend cooks me dinner, I write about the colour palette in the pot, how the vegetables darken, how it reminds me of the bruise forming on my left calf. 

These details on their own aren’t that interesting, but when I connect them to grief or joy or loss or wonder, they become a poem almost instantly. They become art and they develop meaning.

I recently heard Ocean Vuong say that he has an “allegiance to wonder,” and I believe that is what makes his poetry so beautiful and palatable when he is often discussing very difficult subject matter like racism, grief, loss, and shame. Instead of coming right out and talking about those moments, he creates universal meaning by blending his own internal drama with those tiny, tender, gorgeous details to create something anyone who reads it can resonate with, drop into and create meaning from. 

Like anything, developing “wonder” is a skill… and the more we work on our curiosity, the more it will develop. I have found that the easiest way to do this is to take a walk outside and just observe. This works if you live in a big city, or if you’re in a quiet forest. What do you notice? What about this scene is a common experience? What details are inescapable? What about this moment brings tears to your eyes? What makes you laugh?

Creating meaning through our art is more simple than we think. By getting curious and allowing the smallest of details to land on our pages is not only enriching to our work but compassionate to our own processing of events.

In the end, I wrote an entire eulogy about the time my friend went a whole week letting his teacher call him the wrong name because he didn’t want to embarrass her. I told the story and extended every single detail of that story and ended it with, “that’s the kind of man he was…”

I watched everyone nod in unison because they knew…. that’s the kind of man he was.