I ask the Divine each morning to guide me on what to do for the day. Maybe nothing, my bereavement counselor says.
That’s hard for me because I’ve been a “do-er” all my life, my to-do list at the ready.
But maybe doing nothing is what I need right now, she says. I’m in deep grief, she reminds me.
Sometimes I forget. I know that sounds like a “duh” statement, but some days I want to go on as normal, as if nothing momentous has happened.
It has. It’s only been four months since dear dad died. One year and six months since my dear partner and love, Joe, died.
Time. A strange thing, isn’t it? Dad and Joe are gone these many days and months and I am still here. I tell myself that I should be moving on and forward. And I am in a way. Meeting friends again after caring for dad for six years. Doing “fun” things.
But they aren’t always fun. In fact, they feel at times like another thing on my “to-do” list to move through grief.
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The truth is, I am heart-deep in grief and I either sit with it, allow it to be what it needs, or I squirm with impatience at it.
To sit with it means that some days I do nothing but stay in my pajamas all day. As uncomfortable as that makes my type-A personality, it’s a visible reminder that I can’t really accomplish or “do” anything worthwhile in my pajamas.
My PJs give me permission to grieve.
Some days I putter. I attempt to focus on reading a book or tidying the kitchen, and then I am distracted and want only to nap. In grief, I sleep a lot. It seems to be the only respite from sorrow and the exhaustion of caregiving and loss. A friend normalized this for me the other day when she said:
“I cared for my mother for three years and after she died I slept for an entire year.”
Matthew Fox, an ex-Dominican, theologian and proponent of creation spirituality, says grief is like a boulder on our hearts and stops creativity. Yes. He is so right about this.
This is what grief has felt like to me in the wake of Joe’s death and then dad’s. The boulder squats itself, unmoving, over my heart, smothering it. I want it to roll away so I can write again. But it doesn’t budge. Won’t.
Fox also believes that we are grieving collectively right now as a nation. He believes we need more healing rituals.
He suggests one ritual for grief is beating a drum. The resonance of the drum somehow enters our heart chakra and moves that stuck, sorrowful energy. I am in search now of a drum and safe place to beat it, to feel the vibration and weep, sob and splinter some of that unyielding rock.
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I rarely allow others to see my grief. To look at me, others wouldn’t notice anything unusual and might think: “Well, there’s a nice, functioning woman. Isn’t she pleasant?”
That’s a shame, really, for me, for our society. In many ways, public displays of crying and sorrow are still seen as somehow unacceptable. But we are human and we do cry, whether alone or with others.
So like many in the grief process, I weep and sob in private or with my bereavement counselor. She again keeps reminding me to be gentle with myself. You are in deep grief, she says. As I said, I forget.
For now, I must let grief be whatever it wants. I — the one who always likes to control things — have no control over it. At all. It comes when it wants and leaves when it wants, sometimes allowing me a day or few hours of blessed respite.
But it’s always in the backdrop of my life, a steady thrum of loss.
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I write this, not because I want pity or comforting words. I’ve had enough of that from others. No. I write these words because, for one, I want that boulder to shatter so I can write again, allow creative expression to bloom again.
And I write these words mostly because I want others who are grieving to know they are not alone. That being human means we will lose someone, if we haven’t already — a spouse, a sibling, a parent, a friend, a pet — that we love. And we will grieve. Each in our own way. On our own timetable.
That is all OK. Pajamas all day is OK. Sleeping is OK. Whatever we need to do to nurture ourselves on that path to healing — all is OK.
I know I will always miss Joe and Dad. I will always love them. But some day I hope to wake and feel the sun in my heart again, perhaps not brilliant, but shining a bit brighter. A bigger and wider smile. A giggle here and there.
And it will come. In its own way. In its own time.
I have only to be patient and trust. And unclench my to-do list on grieving, offer it to the wind and watch it waft its way to the heavens.
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(Blogger’s Note: If you are grieving a loss, please see a counselor or join a bereavement support group. You are not alone. You’ll find support there. And if you’d care to comment on this blog, please scroll to the bottom of the page.)