Listening to Grief

I sit on a moss blanket in a grassy meadow laced with lupine, columbine, and mariposa lilies. Dusk is falling and I can see Venus in the Western sky. I am alone. We meet here every night and yet this time is different. This time I decide to open my eyes as she approaches. I want to know her contours, I want to see what she is made of.

I notice movement at the edge of the forest, a dark shape moving slowly towards me. She seems to have stars or glitter surrounding her, like an electric field or the inside of an atom. Her cloaks billow a bit, revealing many layers of wool and silk in earthy browns, terra cotta, sandstone, slate gray. There are tendrils of long silver hair framing the face I cannot yet make out. I notice that all the sounds of the forest have paused and the hush is followed by the lone voice of the loon singing a mourning song, honoring the presence of this revered elder. Only when she is just ten feet away can I see her face, carved by the chisel of loss, her eyes holding me with fierce compassion. She hands me a gift wrapped in large, soft leaves and asks, as she always does, if she can sit with me. "Yes, Grandmother Grief, I've been waiting," I say, indicating that there is plenty of room for her on my blanket.

It is not easy for her to bend her knees and yet, when she settles in and adjusts her cloaks around her I have the sense that she could sit there like that, cross-legged and solid, for months if that were what I needed. I sit up a bit straighter and notice that she wears earrings that change as she sits there. On one side the sun and the other the moon, and as I watch the moon goes through its phases: full, half, crescent, new, crescent, half, full. She notices my noticing but remains quiet. Then she hands me a small silver cup with a fragrant brew that smells of lavender, juniper, seaweed, and mushrooms.

"I will tell you what you seek to know, but first, let us share this elixir. It will help you see me as I truly am." And with that, Grief wraps her hands around mine and around the cup, offers a silent prayer and takes a sip, then hands it to me. I know to only take a sip before handing it back. It is sweet and bitter, earthy and potent. Back and forth we pass this cup until the liquid is gone and she places the cup somewhere inside her cloak. She pulls out a small fire, already lit, and places it before us. We sit side by side, knees touching, her silks wrapped around me pulling me into her soft darkness.

"You want to know me and so it is time for this unfolding. I am honored to be on this journey with you, grateful that you have invited me into your heart instead of banishing me as happens to so many others. I am with you always, walking by your side, offering support, anchoring you to the earth when you are untethered. Each time you sit quietly, each time you curl up with your dog rather than pushing to do yoga or hurrying off to work, you are opening the door to me, allowing me to hold and comfort you.

I am your ally. Do you see this cloak of mine? I have many tools in here, tools designed specifically for you, for I serve no one else. Every time you listen to my song, each moment that you allow yourself to feel my presence, you are strengthening our bond. You already know that my role is not to help you heal. That is not the goal. My role in your life is to shine a light as you feel your way through this darkness. My role is to hold you so that you know, in your bones, that you are not alone. My role is to call out the nightingale, the painter, the one who shapes ache into the rainbow arch of poetry. My role is to lift the veil of separation between us, between worlds, between what is love and what is not.

I can hold it all-- the burden you carry, the aching hole in your heart, the guilt and shame and regret, the sorrow so vast and beautiful. I can hold it all. My love, do not be afraid of me. I am medicine for your soul, for this journey you chose. Call my name and I am yours."

And with that, she invites me to lay my head in her lap, covers me with a fur blanket, and strokes my head. She sings a sweet song that is wind and whispers, rainfall and crickets, all in one. I fall into a deep sleep and dream I am the phases of the moon, waxing and waning.

In the morning I feel the summer sun lifting my eyelids, warming my hips and thighs. She is gone and all that remains is the gift, wrapped in soft leaves and tied with a vine. I know not to open it. Not yet. I will know when the time is right. In the meantime, I carry this gift close to my heart and savor its fragrance.