The Everywhereness of Grief

It’s been a minute since I’ve written. Too late for new year’s greetings – let’s jump in the deep end. I really want to talk about grief. (Oh. I felt you pull back, like when I said that I was doing end-of-life doula training). It’s ok, we’ll be ok.

We all know grief. It looks different for each of us and has different sources and intensity. Our mourning rituals vary. And our ways of moving with it are uniquely our own. Our own grief is individual. Experiencing grief is universal. I’ve had a lot of it lately, and I know from our conversations that you all have too. It shows up in our world, in our work and on our personal path. 

I recently read a Buddhist parable about a grieving mother who seeks to revive her dead son. Buddha says he will make a medicine to do so but needs a special ingredient, mustard seeds that come from a home that has known no suffering. The mother knocks and knocks and knocks, and can find no home without suffering behind its door. Universal. And she gains perspective and compassion.

All this grief yields pain, no doubt, yet, as in the parable, also offers an opportunity to create more connection and compassion. The gain is only possible, however, if we let grief stay out in the light a little longer. From what I’ve experienced, we are all trying to ‘do grief well and right’ and are also eager to make it go away. We’ve read the books….it’s not linear, it’s highly individual, it shows up out of nowhere, it’s not something we finish or get through but something we integrate into who we are.

And then….. we take all that wisdom and we nod in agreement, yes, that’s true. Wise, Wise, Agree, Agree. I do this too – just did it this afternoon over coffee with a friend. And yet, in my own grief, I have often felt such a loud voice in my head to be strong, seem better, move ‘forward’. Have you? And as I’ve reached out to those who are grieving, I’ve been frozen as I try to say or do the ‘right thing’. Lots of doubt. You too? Good intentions, too little practice and seemingly too high of stakes.   

If I believe in the vital importance of sharing our grief, then I best get the ball rolling. I’m experiencing a giant ball of non-linear grief right now. Friendship is family to me and so when I tell you that my dear friend is gone, please know that I’ve lost my sister. A mean cancer grabbed her and in a blink of 6 months, she passed away.

I want you to know that sometimes I hurt so deeply. And I cry most days – even just for a little while. And other times I laugh – and sometimes the laughter makes me cry too. And then I feel guilty. And then I reassure myself that it’s ok. Is that bounciness familiar to you?

Sometimes I can focus. And sometimes I feel untethered and aimless. Sometimes I feel like a lifelong friendship is entitled to so much grief, and other times it feels over-played. And then I know that’s wrong too. It’s busy in my head and I wonder if you know this cast of characters? Sometimes I want to share a funny incident with her, and then remember that I can’t. And then sometimes I write it down, say it out loud, or swear and pound my fist. Sometimes I feel alone and other times I feel understood and supported.

I bet you resonated with some – maybe all – of what I just wrote. You know grief. In some form. I wish you didn’t but I bet you do. And your ‘sometimes’ list probably has a whole lot of other stuff on it as well. My many griefs shape who I am and how I live. That seems unavoidable – and I’m grateful for it. Grief and love are sisters – I wouldn’t want to live without the love part simply to avoid the possibility of the pain. How has your loss and grief shaped you?  

So what might happen if we just made a little more space for this conversation? Oh how I wish I had a long list of tips, I don’t. I’ve been told to ask ‘how are you doing – now, in this moment’’ – that the specificity lightens the pressure on the answer. I use it often. I know it’s hard to walk right up to grief’s face and offer condolences, I push myself to go there. Acknowledging loss is important. Listen and pay attention. There are stories waiting to be told, if we invite them and keep an ear out for them. And when people courageously share about the ups and downs of grief, meet that courage with compassion. There’s a gazillion articles about how that brand of vulnerability strengthens our relationships – personally, professionally, all the ways.

And along the way, we’ll probably open up a little more kindness. Certainly some patience. And maybe our world will spin a little smoother. Even a little could feel like a lot.

I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry for my loss.

You are not alone. I am not alone.

And may our collective memories be a blessing, a comfort and a guide.