The Uncomfortable Gift
As the world returns to social gatherings, in-person retreats, and conferences, I find myself in an awkward position. I have been sharing my journey through social media-- hundreds of poems and essays exploring the landscape of grief posted most mornings-- a sacred practice that has, quite literally, saved my life. The interaction with those, known and unknown, that read my words has been as nourishing as food delivered to our doorsteps, as thoughtful as cards and gifts that arrive at just the right moment.
I notice that I'm anxious about attending a women's gathering at the end of the month-- I feel exposed, like I will arrive naked while the others are wearing their colorful skirts and shawls. Will someone run up and say "Oh, Luna, you're naked! Here let me wrap you up in my sarong?" Will everyone pretend I'm not naked while whispering behind my back, "Doesn't she know? What should we do?" For months people have been reading what I post, and I've discovered that many never leave a trace of their presence, not a thumbs up or a heart or a comment-- yet invisibly they are there. How many, I will never know, but it's an odd feeling-- this not knowing who I've let into my heart, who has peered into my soul. And I understand that any writer who shares at this depth feels this way.
But, when in a group of forty or fifty women, will I be open or will I pull away to the safety of my shell? How much space do I have inside myself to entertain the experiences that my community has had in witnessing my journey? What if I snap or begin to wail or slump in disappointment?
Into this gathering, I carry an uncomfortable gift. It demands tending and seeks those that can see it. Not all will be able to see it. This is a truth. I wish we had traditions in our culture for being with a grieving mother. I wish to be understood, witnessed, asked permission (as much as I long for physical touch, I find hugging people overwhelming especially when they are trying to convey their heartbreak over my loss.... it can feel crushing).
How different it would be to live amongst people that honored those deep in grief as portals to the sacred. Where the gifts we carry are welcomed despite their dark wrappings and torn edges.
I will not leave the gifts of grief in the closet to rot from lack of air and love.
No.
I will carry these gifts tucked inside my skirt and allow them to unfold in their own time. I am not afraid. And if you are... if you are afraid of the moist, dark lands I've traveled, please do your best to name that rather than wronging me for bringing to light the soul-changing lessons of the underworld