Spring Preview Offers Grief’s Promise

In the Pacific NW come February, early March, we get our annual spring preview. Clouds practice social distancing, the Sun teases us with a splash of warmth and we shed at least one sweater layer as light streaks through the blue expanse. Some even brave laying on the grass—arms, feet and legs exposed. Sure, it will be below freezing in a few days, but the reprieve is luscious. The trees know it is temporary and keep bud tips closed except for the cherries. Their vulnerability is our delight. Sure enough, the rain returns with a winter bite. But the first rain after “preview” offers a promise. As I step out my door and inhale, the aroma of daffodil and daphne odora saturates the air. It is a shift from a winter rain, reminding me of when Grief makes that shift from deep, early loss to something more bearable. The pungent scent has traveled in the droplets. Little Hope sacs splashing at my feet.

Recalling Losses From the Pandemic

The solemn recognitions of the pandemic’s anniversary are ebbing. Posts about “I remember hunting for toilet paper and hand sanitizer,” are waning. Sharing YouTube videos about “How to make a mask out of old t-shirts” are gone. Reliable information about how we contact covid-19 (do we even use the “19” anymore?) and how to remain safe is readily available and updated frequently. Recalling how we honored healthcare workers as heroes/sheroes and adding to that list those who worked in essential jobs, such as grocery stores clerks seems to be fading, sadly. Unless you are someone who delves into the intricacies of health and health policy (I do wade into this) or are concerned about the effects of trauma on not just our healthcare workers but those who were marginalized due to inequality, I can understand why you may want to see the worst of the pandemic in your rearview mirror. Just move on already. I know I am eager to receive my vaccination(s) and to move about with less concern. But there is Grief associated with the past year that will linger and inhabit our bodies, emotions, psychological, social and spiritual spaces if we do not create room to grieve. There are already many articles addressing the need to grieve the losses from the pandemic and those other losses that became enveloped within the pandemic. I am not the first to note this.

Hope Means Grieving

What does hope look like these days? Hope means Grieving. Hope means sifting through our piles of losses. Bundling them up. Reverencing them. Gathering together. How to be together may depend on your family. Your culture. Your community. An assortment of factors. Or perhaps it is time to create/combine new rituals.

Until the last century or so grieving collectively was what we did. (I know, that’s a blanket statement and there are exceptions.) It varied depending on where your ancestors came from. Each root rich with meaning and connection. In my background, I am drawn to the Irish concept of keening due to my British Isle roots (though per Ancestory.com I have no Irish DNA, no matter how much I wish for it) and have begun learning more about this powerful community practice. Per poet David Whyte: “Grief is held very powerfully in the Irish tradition especially in the tradition of deep lamentation and mourning known as ‘Keening.’ There is the understanding that your ability for real joy is connected to your ability to feel real grief. That if you cut off one edge of the spectrum of life where you feel the real pain and absence of the world, you cut off the opposite, symmetrical balancing of your ability for the deepest kind of joy. The fullest experience of life only exists in the dance or conversation between our ability to experience the two poles; untrammeled joy and heartbreaking grief.”

Unacknowledged Grief Festers Like an Untended Wound

I sincerely believe if we move forward from this pandemic and do not individually and collectively acknowledge and tend to our Grief, our suffering will fester under our skin. Our bodies will be harmed. Our societies—harmed. Our Earth—harmed. And next generations—harmed. A phrase I’ve heard from several wise ones lately is we are ancestors. Once you are born, you become an ancestor. Even as I type that, I feel a powerful responsibility to be an ancestor that leaves a legacy of healing, not harm. As you read this, say it out loud—“I am an ancestor.” What stirs in you?” Even if you don’t have a direct lineage of children, you touch lives. You are an ancestor to someone.

Grieving Openly is Vulnerable

I wintered hard this year. Fell into the dark of the season with a daring attitude. A sense of apprenticeship with an edge of “give it your best shot” winter. And the dark obliged. I hunkered down. Crept into my shadow. Honored the darkness. Read about the qualities of dark that affirm going underground. I was reluctant to come back to the surface. Honestly, it was comfortable down there (and I was dancing with depression, too.) Grieving openly is vulnerable, just like the first shoots of spring. The ones that dare to risk frost.

Grief Expanding Joy

Vulnerability is not a quality that is affirmed in our society. We mask our vulnerable selves under violent language. (One invitation I have made to myself is to try and use less violent words in my writing and speech. For example: “I killed that presentation.” “Let me grab that for you.” “Try using bullet points for clarity.” It is quite challenging. I invite you to try it.) Grieving is a vulnerable undertaking. It rends the heart wide open and leaves one nowhere to hide. And yet when we invite Grief to the table, into our communities, Grief does not hover like a gray cloud that never rains, only darkening the sky. Like that first hint of spring that scented the air a few weeks ago, it sends splashes of “Hope sacs” as the air clears and Joy offers its own infusion into the mix.

I continue to be an apprentice of Grief, which includes listening to experts in the field—not only those we typically think of (researchers, psychologists, etc,) but also those who share their hearts at readings, and poets, plus sitting with my own intuitive self. Just this morning I had this insight: Joy and Grief are like lovers. Joy embraces Grief. Grief expands Joy. The embrace of Joy provides a safe place for Grief to explore all the places of sorrow without judgment. Down to the depths of the ocean. To the soft showers of summer. Through the cracks of the sidewalk. Grief allows Joy to see Beauty through every prism of light and on new moon nights. The full spectrum. So yes, lovers that complete each other.

Spring Gifts

An owl calls in the stillness of pre-dawn as I set out on my walk. Soon it will be light before I rise and I’ll miss the quiet of the dark that accompanied me in winter. But spring has its own gifts. Besides the daffodils and daphne odora that announced spring’s arrival are miniature irises, green leaves and buds on every branch (abundance!) and at the tip-top of my remaining beloved Sister Trees (see previous blog about that deep Grief,) birds have returned, deciding where to build nests. Grief and Joy. Joy embracing my Grief at my three fallen Sisters. Grief expanding my Joy in all the Beauty I see.

in gratitude,

anne

For Your Reflection

• How have you acknowledged the anniversary of the pandemic?

• What does Hope mean to you these days? How does look? Feel? Taste? Smell? Sound?

• Have you taken time to list your losses from the pandemic, including those that may have not been recognized as a loss? For example a difficult diagnosis of a loved one or yourself that may have occurred even without the pandemic. As you look over the list, what feelings arise? Note: numbness is a legitimate feeling. Can you think of a way(s) you would like to honor these losses, if you haven’t already?

• Do you have a culture or cultures you connect to that offer you Grief rituals? Are you aware of them or are you interested in learning more? What might that look like to connect with other folks from similar backgrounds and share ideas? It can also be helpful to hear how other cultures respond to Grief. To listen and learn. To sit with and honor.

• What could it look like to create new rituals around Grief and Loss in your community? Perhaps starting in your family or friends and working outward. Or even a small ritual for yourself.

• What stirs in you when you say, “I am an ancestor”?

Upcoming Grief Workshop

Journeying with Grief: An Invitation to Explore Loss Through The Labyrinth & Writing [online]

Register Today. Space Limited.

We all experience grief and loss in life, from the time we leave the nurture of the womb to the leaving of our body at the end of our life, with many other losses, small and large, along the way. The ongoing pandemic and all its associated losses has surfaced our modern society’s hesitancy to engage in healthy grieving in favor of quick fixes. In the past year numerous articles have appeared addressing this noticing, some reflecting a lifetime of unresolved grief lingering in silence just below the surface. Grief that is asking for a chance to be heard. The labyrinth, an ancient archetype representing the metaphor of journey, provides one honoring way to reflect on loss.

In this workshop, you’ll be introduced to the archetype of the labyrinth as one tool to journey with your own losses in combination with written expression. Using both the metaphor of the labyrinth journey and “walking” with finger labyrinths (downloadable labyrinths provided,) participants will be given opportunities to give voice to losses in their life through poetry and open writing reflections. This workshop is in partnership with Portland Women Writers (http://pdxwomenwriters.com/) and is for women and those who identify female. No writing experience is necessary to participate! Workshop is limited to 12 participants.

Please click on the link for more detail.

What’s peaking my curiosity these days.

Perhaps it will interest you too!

Not all my reading is about Grief, Loss, and Trauma (though the bulk of it is.) Sometimes it is whimsical (I just finish Brian Doyle’s Martin Marten: A Novel and loved it.) I thought I would include what I’m listening to, reading, watching that encourages me to have deeper conversations, both within and with others:

• The Book of Delights, essays by Ross Gay. Yes, delightful, thoughtful, and as a writer, his writing encourages me to think about the words I want to place on the page. It is the 2021 Multnomah County Library’s 19th annual community reading project. To attend the online author lecture and interview go to: Literary Arts, Everybody Reads.

• Hands down the podcast and series that asks me to dig deeper is OnBeing, which was quoted above. I am rarely disappointed.

• I recently watch the documentary Tightrope: Americans Reaching For Hope,” where “Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn explore the causes and costs of addiction, poverty and incarceration plaguing America, from the inner city to small towns like Yamhill, Oregon. While pockets of empathy and aid exist, are they enough to rescue the thousands of Americans in despair, for whom the American Dream of self-reliance is impossibly out of reach?” Part of it was filmed close to where I grew up and where I spent part of my time as a hospice chaplain, so it felt personal in many ways.