Easter Sunday

I did my best yesterday to haul myself out of a deep sense of grief. I felt lost. I missed being with my children and grandchildren on this holiday weekend. I could not shift it. There was grief in my body, in the news, in the atmosphere. It would not go away.

I have walked the road of Grief alongside my psychotherapy clients and been my own companion on the trail of tears. I know Grief carries the seeds of transformation—nonetheless, when grief comes knocking, I still resist. I fear it will overwhelm me, swallow my joy, and spit me out.

My heart aches when Grief comes to visit. My chest hurts. The night before last, my heart was so full of love and creativity that I thought it would burst with joy. What a difference a day makes on this roller coaster in the Time of Corona.

Grief feels bigger than sadness, more all-encompassing, threatening to retrieve every shard of loss and sorrow from the past. It can feel like a weight on the chest, leaden limbs, dulled thinking. It veils the eyes and shutters out the light. It's physical; it yawns open its maw like a Grand Canyon slash in the earth. There is no crossing from one rim to respite on the other rim without going down into the wound.

I woke at 3:45 am—Grief was back. I reached for my phone for a meditation I could listen to that might help. Tara Brach's mediation for pandemic fears was a salve. Her RAIN practice, an easy-to-remember acronym and tool for practicing mindfulness and compassion, helped.

R: Recognize what is happening
A: Allow the experience to be there, just as it is
I: Investigate with interest and care
N: Nurture with self-compassion

I said hello Grief. I opened the door, invited Grief in. As we hung out together, my hands on my heart, a memory surfaced of a lone cheetah on the Maasai Mara with a storm brewing in the background. It was the end of the day; we were heading back to camp. We heard her before we saw her, a plaintive mewling—short bursts that carried the piteous sound of unbearable loss across the savannah. It was obvious at once she had lost her cubs and was calling, calling for them to come to her.

Cheetah mothers raise their cubs alone. The only way they can sustain their family is to hide them and go off to hunt for food. This leaves the youngsters completely vulnerable to other predators: jackals, hyenas, lions, leopards. We waited and watched. She'd call, pace, sit, call again. No small balls of spotted fur tumbled out of a burrow or bush for a happy reunion. The rain came; she remained alone in the downpour, crying. It broke my heart to leave.

I wept remembering the sound of her loss, connecting with my own sense of loss. I miss seeing my family a lot. I miss my mother who died in August. As I lay there, my hands over my heart, I felt warmth spread in my chest. Another image came to me of the elephants in Amboseli. The hundreds of elephants who silently approached me and passed by in that endless parade like mourners to the bereaved. I felt their compassion again. I felt comforted. I felt Grief take a quiet exit.

When we feel the waves of grief we are not lost—we need to trust we are safe, exactly where we need to be. Grief will carry us through, it is not the rock in front of the tomb. It is the gateway to new life.

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

—David Wagoner (1999)