And, I truly feel the source of many inner and interpersonal woes is death/grief avoidance. I realized something very soon after Chey's death in 1994: I had to be me, moment by moment, I had to be me. I could not pretend to be anything other than me. And the secret that the dank, dark corners of my closet shared, deep into the middle of the many sleepless nights, was that death is the great teacher of life. I could learn to live, to really live, by being with my grief. I needed to call her to my heart to be whole. That also meant calling to my heart deep pain that reverberated from the tips of my hair to the tips of my toes.
Oh yes, I resisted. I wanted to heed the advice that "it's time to move on" and that if I "just had another baby then everything would be better". But I knew, unequivocally, this was not my truth. I could not live a lie. Grief did not become my most adored companion over night, but slowly, slowly, as the wind carves mesas and as dripping water rends great caverns, Grief and I came to know and understand and respect one another. Now, nearly two decades later, I'm happy to invite Grief in for a cup of dandelion tea. We sit at the table, often without words, staring into one another's eyes. Grief reminds me who I am, who I have been, and who I will always be. For that, I am truly thankful. I do not wish to amputate or exile parts of myself into the netherworld.
And to forget them, our beloved dead, is to fragment pieces of our selves, to disconnect from self and other.
To remember them is to be whole, to connect with self and other. It is entirely possible to be broken and shattered, with a hole in us that is wider and deeper than we could have imagined. And yet, even in our brokenness, we can remain whole and centered by calling them to our hearts. I will always call her to my heart.
10 comments:
It's a long road to this space. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and writing; it reaches a tendril inside me and reminds me I'm not alone.
Thank you for reading Lisa... I know that 'tendril' <3
...and, Joanne, and a couple other "pioneers" I could have written what you wrote...maybe not as well...but surely with as much certainty and depth and commitment. Thank you for showing so many of us the way. Peace to your heart, Mary
And peace to yours dear Mary <3
Thank you, Joanne.
It is so true. Grief hurts, it burns, it tortures. It is pure and honest. And yes, grief demands or somehow makes us be true to ourselves.
After 5 1/2 years I've lost some of that. And while I do not want those early days of grief that rendered me so broken and torn, I do sometimes miss the honesty to myself that was present. The layers of grime were stripped away. Some days I feel coated in the grime of life again.
Grief is beautiful in it's ability to bring honesty to our lives. it hurts. Oh it hurts. But as you said the hurt, the pain, the stripping away of all else teaches us to live.
Oh what a beautiful comment. Yes, yes, indeed.
Joanne, I read and re-read this. This is what I too have "become"
Thankyou for sharing your words. I feel like the heaviness in my heart, not only reminds me that to live is to experience all in our bodily forms,.but asks of me to exist in a deeper place, where I see that I have a choice about how I can respond to you (other). I want to choose compassion. I have less tolerance for drama. Less tolerance for self doubt. The heart is strong. Is it broken or open? I must believe the latter, and not run like a flock of startled butterflies, flying, fleeing, without a place to land.
Rachel- thank you for sharing this. Thank you.
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