
07/21/2025
Hiraeth
By Patsy Kelly
The Source Newspaper
Waking from a dream, I was overwhelmed with a longing — and at the same time, a comfort. I had felt the hand, large and paw-like, of my dad’s on my cheek. When I was a child, he would place his large hand on my cheek, wanting my full attention. His eyes would gaze into mine, penetrating for the recognition that he had me in his grip. Then he would lay it on me. It might be a lesson he didn’t want me to miss, or a message he thought I had taken too lightly. More often than not it was a correction to my abhorrent behavior that needed, in his mind, redirection In his last years, the paw on my cheek was more of a tender reminder of his love that required no words.
I have discovered a new word recently that describes that very experience. Having previously gone unnamed, that elusive sensation deserved deeper knowing for me — and maybe a confirmation that I am not crazy. Grieving people often need confirmation that we are not crazy. ‘Hiraeth’ is a Welsh word. According to Wikipedia, "hiraeth encompasses a profound sense of longing, nostalgia, and homesickness, particularly for a place or time that may not exist or be accessible. It's more than just missing something; it's a yearning for a home or a state of being that may never have been. Hiraeth can be associated with grief and sadness over a lost or departed aspect of Wales or its culture.”
It was ‘hiraeth’ that took hold of me that morning, as I was refreshed with the sense of Dad’s touch. Of course, accompanying that wondrous reminder was the simultaneous grief that my dad has been dead now 12 years. Our grief brains do not have expiration dates on them. Our grief extends beyond our mental recognition, at times. Suddenly, as one author said, or surgically, the reminder comes and we are struck with the love and the loss all over again. The love combined with the loss is painful and yet beautiful.
The Welsh have the perfect word for it: ‘hiraeth.’ It is a longing for what we no longer have. Nevertheless, it is within our reach, via the mystery of grief. It comes unbidden. It often refuses to come when I wish it would. This is not déjà vu — the “I’ve been here before, yet I’ve never seen this place in my life” experience that some people describe having. It is a homesickness for what we once had. Yet, it is also more than a longing for what is past; it is outside the realm of possibility yet in mysterious and deeply spiritual ways is somehow altogether possible. Yes, it may have been “just a dream,” a concoction if you will, made up of my longing and sadness. Yet, as I awoke, I still had the sensation of his touch. It was real, in so far, as I know anything to be real. I don’t get it. I don’t need to get it. I’m grateful nonetheless.
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