Not Happy
Why
do we think
every birthday or
anniversary or holiday
must be happy
or merry
or full of joy?
What if I do not want
an amazing, fun-filled day
because I am honoring
the spectrum of emotion
that washes over me,
which ranges from
hollow to quiet to feeling loved
in my sorrow?
Joy and happy
aren’t even on the menu
right now.
I think of all the mothers
and fathers that
have lost children
to war, to illness, to suicide,
to drugs & drunks & divorce.
I think of families torn apart
by politics, money, religion.
I think of the hundreds of millions of families
that didn’t get to say goodbye,
that didn’t get to stroke the forehead
or give the last kiss, or whisper I love you in
the ear of their beloved.
They do not want
happy
or merry.
They want relief
from the dense weight
on their chest
that makes it hard to breathe.
They want someone to ask them
How is your heart today?
How is your grief?
Tell me about your loved one.
They want to know that in your presence
they can be devastated or quiet or angry
even if it’s their birthday or anniversary.
Can we just stop
wishing that everyone have a
happy birthday
or a merry Christmas
or a happy new year?
Can we just stop,
Please?
Because each time someone
deep in the arms of sorrow
gets this message
it feels like a barb, a prod,
an unconscious wish
to eliminate grief.
Consider, instead,
that you have no idea
what your Facebook friend or your
aunt or your grandchild might
be feeling.
Consider that honoring
them without insisting
on happiness and rainbows
is the very best way
to love them.
Consider wishing that they
have exactly what they
need most, in this moment.
Consider that your
words have power,
they can build bridges
or roadblocks,
and right now,
if we are to heal our
fragmented world,
we need the highways
to our hearts to flow
unobstructed,
wholly expressed,
in the fullness of
what it is to
be alive.
LJ 2-5-2021
I will be honest. Yesterday was rough. It was made better by the outpouring of love I received, by words of compassion and understanding, by flowers & dinner & gifts. It was made more difficult because to find these gems on FB I had to weed through so many Happy Birthday messages and each one stung. I know. I should just let it slide by. But I'm committed to truth-telling, and the truth is despite knowing good intentions are behind these messages, they brought me to my knees and I felt flattened, unseen, and worse. It's similar to having someone ask how are you three days after the death of a loved one. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Fine? I'm not fine, but I'm also not sure you really want to know how I am. Our social constructs deaden communication and push grievers into isolation. I've become finely tuned to people that can be with me with true presence-- can honor the space I'm in (and not assume they know what that is) and ask gentle, specific questions-- I feel safe with them, I have permission to feel whatever I'm experiencing. I might wail. I might want to dance with a dino (my wife in a T-Rex costume). One minute tears are flowing then the cloud passes and I'm laughing. That's how I grieve. You are different. We all have our own journey. I love learning about how other people grieve. I love knowing what helps you feel seen. The deeper I experience my own grief the more space I have for yours. So thank you, once again, for muddling through this exquisite mourning with me. Your love suspends me over the valley of despair and I know I am finding my own path out, in part because all of you are strings to the parachute of love that lifts the heaviness so that I am able to walk through the darkness. Thank you. From the deepest, truest place in my soul, thank you.
