Apprenticeship to Sorrow and Grace
It has been three weeks since Hunter died and I feel like I'm in the eye of a hurricane-- an eerie calm descends over me after the raging winds and rains tear through my being forcing me to surrender, to release my hold, to let go of everything I have known about my life and my future. I have been through intense grief before-- I lost my father suddenly when I was 31 -- he was the age I am today. I lost my dear friend Dawnie in 2012- she was 41 years old. In 2016, after an intensely graceful and conscious dying process with ALS, I lost my mother. I've been here, but I've never been HERE. You could say I've been honing my skills, learning that when I surrender to the massive waves of grief, I will be gently placed upon the shore, safely exhausted and exquisitely alive. You could say that everything I've read, learned, experienced, lost, received, and created in my sixty-one years has prepared me to have the capacity to find my way through this most excruciating loss of my only child.
Here is what I've learned so far about walking the path of sorrow and grace:
1) Shame and guilt are natural to how our brains process loss-- everyone, no matter what the cause of death, feels they could have done something to prevent the outcome, the "what if's" and "if only"s crowd our brains and block our grief. I spent the first few weeks battering myself and spiraling into the quicksand of shame that my beautiful boy died and that I failed in my most important job-- to protect my child.
----A healer I work with gave me this tool: put a cup or two of Epsom salt in a bowl, go outside and pour all of your guilt and shame into the bowl-- name it, scream it, cry it into the salt. Then burn the salt (using alcohol or putting it into a wood fire).
2) Rage is also a normal reaction to loss. I have been raging about still not knowing why or how Hunter died (and the toxicology report won't come back for 3-4 months!), about all the missed opportunities that I had to be a better parent, about not being able to take a phone call from him the night before he died because I was on a call with a client, about the reality that I've been robbed of being a mother in physical form and will not get to celebrate his graduation, relationships, children, and growing self-awareness. I rage at everyone that had the chance to work with Hunter, everyone that loved him, everyone that took advantage of him or bullied him, or simply didn't understand his struggle with being in his body with his incredibly sensitive soul.
---Rage requires movement. We have to get it out of our bodies. I write, madly typing in a blur of tears, then I go to his grave and scream. Or I walk, dance, shake-- eventually, I might actually exercise again, but that seems far from here. The key is to release the rage so it doesn't poison our bodies creating illness, depression, or the incapacity to receive love.
3) Creativity is medicine for an aching heart-- I have always had a creative practice. For over 30 years I wake every morning at 5am (I love the still darkness of morning) and meditate and write. This has sustained me through the gravest losses, the most challenging stress, the most confusing times. The benefit of writing is that I can return to it and see that I am making progress, my journey is documented and reminds me to keep going in the darkness because there, in my writing, are glimmers of light and shreds of aliveness even when overtaken with despair. Now I have a new expression of my creativity as I go to Hunter's grave everyday and create with flowers and fabric and rocks. This, too, is a practice-- and the commitment to doing it moves my energy and my heart. It connects me with nature, it calls on source, it gives birth to something I didn't know was inside of me. In my life, creativity is the way I discover who I am and what I'm capable of. When I was 38 and desperate to become a mother-- doing inseminations on my own and going through cycles of hope and despair every month-- I created an image on a 4" x 6" card every day. I gave myself a few rules: a) spend at least 5 minutes- no exceptions; b) focus on an object or feeling from the day before; c) every image gets a name (The Rollercoaster, Fear Fog, My Little Tadpole). Not only did this practice get me through, but it also provides me with a visual record of the journey and reminds me that I can do hard things, that I have already done really hard things.
4) Grace is everywhere when you pay attention. I choose to see grace even in the face of the most unimaginable loss. Grace is when friends and family appear out of nowhere to hold you up as you say goodbye to your beloved son. Grace is the outpouring of love, food, messages, and presence that comes from all the connections you've made in your life. Grace is the butterflies and hummingbirds that dance around your head three times or fly in front of you at just the right moment. Grace is being asked, "can I hold you?" and knowing that if the answer is no, they will not be offended. Grace is my mother-in-law dropping everything to be with us and listening to me as I read the eulogy I had to deliver in just a few hours. Grace is the way Toni and Amy and I navigated all the decisions without a single issue. Grace is my brothers being pillars of heart by my side, so kind, strong, gentle. Grace is having a wife who has always trusted my emotional process. Grace is having clients that show up for Shiva, that send cards and gifts, that give me the space to grieve fully.
Grace is in all of you who bear witness to this journey I'm on.