How to Grieve in Community during COVID

It began with a post two days after Hunter died. It was a plea because I couldn't handle the borage of flowers and messages that said, as if there are no other words in the English language, "I'm sorry for your loss". Fuck that. Honestly. There is something so hollow about that saying and in the intensity of my grief, I wanted to throttle anyone that uttered those words. A small blessing of Covid was that I didn't have to be around as many people as I would have if we still owned the pie shop or were out and about. I wanted to curl up in a ball, bury myself alongside Hunter, and remain there, maybe forever.

What prompted me to tell you about the pain of grieving in a culture so inept at holding the vastness of this most basic human emotion? I think it was the way you responded to that first, slightly pissed-off post. Things like this: "Hunter is the candle of light, you and your partner are the love that tended the fire! I honor you and your pain, and your broken heart. I will hold you in my mesa (medicine bundle) for support and love. May he be free may he be by your side as you walk through time."

I found myself returning your words over and over. People I didn't even know were lighting candles for Hunter, for Amy, Toni, and me; you were holding space on your altars and in your hearts for our sorrow. Little by little, as I moved through the blur of those first days and weeks, I found that if I opened just a bit further and showed you what I was feeling especially when it was raw and angry and disappointed, that your responses were soft, embracing and full of love. I realized a few months into this journey that I knew many people that had lost spouses, siblings, parents, children, but I had no idea what grief looked like for them. I began to understand that oddly, what I was sharing was revolutionary. By opening up and cloaking myself a tapestry of vulnerability interwoven with courage, I formed a community. You began to share your own stories and your responses deepened into revelations.

Each morning I write to learn about myself. I write because it has saved my life over and over again. And I share it, with a bit of trepidation, because the only way we build muscles of compassion is by allowing others to see us on the inside. In-to-me-see. In a world where intimacy has been replaced with memes of never-ending happiness, we have to remember that the only medicine that relieves heartache and loneliness and grief is the salve of community-- of being witnessed and accepted, of belonging during your darkest moments. Community heals when we make space for the truth to be spoken; when we understand that no one is broken and that what is called for is the holding of sacred space. Love is a verb (thanks Patti Digh) and when a community gets it right it is felt in our bones. The message I have received through the mosaic of your engagement is this: "We are with you, through all of it. We will sit with you. We see you and honor you. We know you feel lost. We will be your eyes until you can see again. We are wrapping you in a cocoon of love."

Slowly I'm dipping myself in a wellspring of brave, slaying the dragons of my inner committee that would prefer I stay small and safe and tucked away, and opening the portal to being present to this exquisite moment, whatever it brings. I'm immensely grateful for those of you that have been nourishing me on this marathon of grief-- your words of love and encouragement, your presence (even those that never say a peep), the way you see me-- all of this has given me strength and purpose. To know I've impacted you and your own experience of grief is a blessing. I am still learning how to be with my loss and in the process, I become better at witnessing yours. These are the gifts of agony. Without you-- all of you whether I know you or not, I would not be here, able to share as I have. Thank you for all the prayers, candles, tender words, and cards. Every single one makes a difference to me. Your light carries me forward, gives me hope, reminds me that I am loved.