Sacred grief
Most therapists will tell you that grief is a frequent visitor on their couches and in their virtual rooms. If we are lucky enough to live a long life, we will have many opportunities for grief to break us open as we mourn our beloved deceased, reflect with regret on missed opportunities, say goodbye to children who leave the nest, and experience the pain of relationships that end in heartbreak.
My mother died suddenly and unexpectedly last month, right at the beginning of the year. She did not get to celebrate the new year with us. She loved celebrations – they brought her so much joy. And she brought her joy, songs, food and laughter to every gathering, big or small. Mum was a natural connector who would create occasions for people to gather together to pray, tell stories, sing and give thanks. She invested in people and experiences that mattered to her, giving of herself with a heart overflowing with love. She forgave (and forgot) instantly and wholeheartedly. She cared for others and saw value in all people. She lived a rich spiritual life.
Grief as teacher
It is strange to be sitting on the other side of grief as the recipient of this unwanted visitor, instead of as a witness to someone else’s grief. Grief is a sacred emotion that acknowledges and honors the love and bond we share with our deceased loved ones. It humbles us and reminds us to value life.
Grief is also a powerful and harsh teacher. It reminds us of the many times we fell short and didn’t show up for our loved ones. It tells us we could have been a better daughter, parent, friend, sibling. It teaches us (should we accept the lesson) to be more present with the people who are important in our lives, to appreciate their gifts and express our gratitude and love for them.
Grief cracks us open to be more aware of the pain of others. It can deepen our empathy, reminding us to be kind to the next person – they, too, may be grieving. And just when you think you are getting along fine, a huge wave of grief will hit you and throw you against the rocks, leaving you gasping for air.
Staying present
It is said that when an elder dies a library burns down. There are so many things I still need to learn from my mother: so many Kikuyu proverbs and songs I want her to teach me, so many questions I need to ask her about how she navigated the changes that come with this phase in my life.
Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh tells us that any time we want to connect with our parents, we can look at our hands. If we look deeply, we can see our parents right there, in our hands. We are their continuation. We are their legacy. If we pay close attention, they show up here, where we are.
Thich Nhat Hanh also reminds us to stay present with uncomfortable feelings, to take care of them with compassion:
Go back and take care of yourself
your body needs you
your feelings need you
your perceptions need you
Your suffering needs you to acknowledge it
Go home and be there for all these things.
Bittersweet
It was a blustery, rainy morning today. I went outside to get some daffodils that showed up on cue, as they do every February, in our front yard and in the woods behind our house. Then I saw the tiny wet faces of the pansies Earl planted last year, their hardy petals waving in the wind. We thought they had died after last year’s drought, recent icy temperatures and hungry deer snacking on them. But there they are, all purple and gold, my mother’s favorite colors. Pansies were Earl’s mother’s favorite flowers. She had notebooks, sweaters, dishes with pansies decorated on them. She used to press pansies, laminate them and gift them to others. I still have a bookmark she gave me with her laminated pansies. In one of my favorite pictures, our son as a toddler is laughing with Earl’s parents (both now deceased), as they covered his head with pansies from their garden.
Grief is teaching me to pay attention so I see my mother around me. In my hands and hair and skin tone, in my son’s laughter, in purple pansies, in the kindness of random strangers.
Sometimes – when I am open – I see you Mum, even through the tears.
Photo by Nyambura: Pansies on a rainy morning