A gentle nudge to those who say nothing
A Gentle Nudge to Those Who Say Nothing:
You matter. It's easy to think that the person in your life who is grieving or ill has plenty of love and support. And while that may appear to be true that doesn't mean that your particular presence isn't essential to the fabric of community that weaves hope and meaning out of grief.
I know that I've been this person-- I've felt inadequate, unprepared, or wordless in showing up for friends going through difficult transitions. I've stayed on the edges, reluctant to jump in, help out, offer a gesture of care-- and I've also noticed that with some people I easily find a place where I can help, and with others, there's an awkwardness and inertia that's hard to overcome.
Now I'm on the receiving end of this experience and I want you to know that I feel those that show up with a simple text, a flower, a rock, dinner, a card AND I equally feel the absence of those who have said nothing. Our culture is so devoid of ways to honor those in mourning as a community. Last night I read in David Kessler's book, Finding Meaning, that in an indigenous village in Australia the tradition is that when someone dies, on the first night after the death, every family places a piece of furniture outside so that when the mourners awaken they see that nothing remains the same for anyone in the village. In this way, they share the loss, the disruption, the tear in the fabric of their community.
What I'm noticing is that right now I feel most connected to those that know and (this is important) have allowed loss/grief to transform them. I suspect that those who hang back and say nothing are afraid of getting too close to the flame, as if acknowledging my pain will break the dam of their own undigested grief. I also think it's easy for parents to project their terror at losing their children onto me. How do you sit with a friend's suffering and then go home and hug your children? Perhaps it's not surprising that five of my closest and most present friends during this time do not have children.
In the past ten years, I've experienced this strange dance of who moves in and who moves out of my life as I celebrate, face hardship, grieve. The more vulnerable I've become, the more I notice this phenomenon. The first time I became keenly aware of this was when I did my Kickstarter campaign for Wild Money (published two books in 2013). I expected my closest friends to generously back my dream, after all, this was the biggest thing I'd ever done besides giving birth to Hunter. But what happened was that some friends/family chose not to participate, or gave very little, while others that I didn't know at all were wildly generous (Elizabeth Crouch!)-- I felt so hurt while also feeling miraculously supported. It was confusing and stressful. This happened again when we went through the fire at Sacred Money Studios in 2019 and when my mom was dying in 2016. And now, with Hunter's transition, I'm again noticing the incredible presence and generosity of my community/family while feeling the absence of significant family members and friends.
Here is my message to all the quiet ones-- "I miss you. I get that you are at a loss for words. How do you comfort a mother who has lost a child? You can't fix it, and no doubt, my emotion scares you. Yet, do you realize that not hearing from you hurts? Do you realize that you are part of the net that holds me and without you showing up, there's a hole in that net? Do you know that there is no right way to support someone who is grieving-- and that honesty is the very best salve for this pain? You might say, "I'm thinking about you-- I have you in my heart" or "I don't know what to say-- I care about you and I hate that you have to go through this" or "This sucks. Can we take a walk tomorrow?" The truth is, we need each other. Our time here is short, unpredictable, miraculous. Can you put aside your trepidation and let me know you care? You matter to me and I need you right now."
