Grief as a portal

Where does our grief take us?

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A song I’ve been loving:

Branches and sky on 35mm film, 2007

I have been trying to think of what to write all week. It’s now Saturday evening and I usually have the following day’s Sunday Letter written by now. And here I am, 7:00pm right after putting my baby to bed, wondering what to say after the week we’ve just had. The blank screen feels even more empty than usual. So do I.

I don’t want to add to the noise or re-hash the traumatic and devastating details of the latest mass shooting. I don’t want to share resources you’ve probably already seen a thousand times this week (and if you truly haven’t seen any, this might be a good place to start). I don’t want to share the faces of those babies or the amount of time I’ve spent with tears streaming down my face this last week, thinking of each of them and their families, of the lives lost in Buffalo just days prior that we’ve already moved on from, of all the systems that continue allowing this to happen in so many ways.

And I don’t want to create an expectation of how poetic or powerful or impressive this week’s letter will be, because I truly don’t have much in me right now. Yet what I do have is a calling to write, so I am doing that — without needing it to be anything other than honest.

What feels most present right now is grief — something we’re all carrying so much of in our own ways, some more than others — something we don’t always collectively know how to hold, process, or be with — something I easily bypass in myself by trying to be helpful, by automatically seeking to serve, by quickly assuming the role of space-holder so as to avoid sitting with the empty space inside of me. I’ve been programmed to do this — many of us have — yet I don’t want to avoid the emptiness. I want to feel it. And I want it to point me toward what matters.

I’ve been grieving for years. I’m sure many of you reading can relate. It’s so easy to shove it down, deny it, or not even want to acknowledge it’s there. It’s easy to see grief as a problem to be fixed or a weakness to be covered — as something only reserved for a short period of time — as dwelling or stagnancy — as the opposite of aliveness. But I’ve come to see grief as the ultimate signifier of just how alive we are… as the most potent reminder of exactly what we’re moving through when we refuse to look away.

We grieve what matters.
We grieve what matters.
We grieve what matters.

Lately, and the last 2.5 years especially, grief has felt like a portal. It has transformed me, shaped my cells, rearranged my very insides, molded what matters to me and mended what I long didn’t know how to mend. It has moved me from one version of myself to another. It has shown me the fragility of life, the loss that is woven into so much of change, the fear of death and thus the numbing of it, too — grief has become a source of transformation I no longer want to stay stuck around, but instead remain open to.

Francis Weller, a psychotherapist and writer, is one of my greatest mentors from afar on the world of grief. He says, “I’m not sure how or when I began my apprenticeship with sorrow. I do know that it was my gateway back into the breathing and animate world. It was through the dark waters of grief that I came to touch my unlived life. . . . There is some strange intimacy between grief and aliveness, some sacred exchange between what seems unbearable and what is most exquisitely alive. Through this, I have come to have a lasting faith in grief.”

This so poignantly describes how my relationship with grief has shifted recently. It’s like the deeper my grief takes root, the more expansive my aliveness feels. The more I allow grief to pour over me, the more truly alive I feel. The more I confront grief as if it is a partner instead of an enemy, the more present I am able to be. And the more I recognize grief as an ongoing, natural, and necessary part of being here, the less afraid I am of it. The more I can let it do what it needs to do — change what it needs to change — shape what it needs to shape — remind me of what I am needing to remember about what it means to be alive.

A new level of grief has been activated in this past week. A new level of loss, not only of innocent human life but also of humanity — of what should be — of all we don’t have as a collective — of all we’re missing out on because of where we find ourselves as a people. I grieve the connection we don’t allow ourselves to have due to the persistence of difference as wrong. I grieve the countless lives lost to violence and the systemic issues that lead to the loss. I grieve the political landscape that continues blocking us from seeing the humanity in one another — from seeing their children as ours — from knowing human life matters more than power, more than money, more than being right. I grieve what could be but isn’t — the goodness we could create in our world if we’d all commit to unlearning separateness and relearning love — something I’ve learned so much about from bell hooks. I grieve. I grieve. I grieve.

When grief feels like a towering home in my body, I know it’s because it has accumulated, built up, created residue in the crevices of me that are usually clear. There is build up right now, and I do not blame myself for this. If you feel a build-up of grief in you, too, I hope you can remind yourself how understandable it is. We are not given many places for our grief to go. We aren’t given many opportunities to be poured into as we continue having to pour, pour, pour. And things like the Uvalde shooting continue happening, in a pandemic that continues taking life from us, in a world that continues to expect us to just move on. As if any of this is normal.

I know how easy it is to become overwhelmed by grief — to let it morph into a numbing agent instead of letting it deepen us into life. I know how quick we can brush aside weeks like this one… pretend like we forget they exist, all while they continue nuzzling up inside the home our grief has within us, whether or not we choose to look at it. I know how understandable it is to want to numb, hide from, minimize, gloss over, distract, over-function, and busy ourselves out of feeling.

Yet in moments like this — in a life like this — feeling it is perhaps the only way we can change it. Feeling it is perhaps the only tool we have to knowing something needs to shift. Feeling it is the only way we can access our own humanity and that of others. Feeling it is the only way we can know just how inhuman it all is. Feeling it is the only way we can find what we need within us to create something new. Feeling it is necessary, and in so many ways, we have been conditioned out of feeling.

In a world that doesn’t want us to feel it (because not feeling = not changing), letting ourselves feel it when we are able to is a gift.
In a world that makes it easy to want to numb out, feeling it is a gift.
In a world that urges us to move on and keep going, feeling it is a gift.
And, in a world that often bypasses our humanity, letting ourselves step away from feeling it when we need space, a break, a pause, is a gift.

I sit here in tears and with no idea how to wrap this all up into something you can take with you. I’m angry. I’m so sad. Not just about this week, but also about everything that has led to it. And I’m trying to let myself feel it all so I can do something with it — so it doesn’t become more stuck energy. I’m trying to acknowledge it and not quickly put it away like I’ve been taught to. I’m trying to let my grief take up space — the space it deserves and the space it needs. I’m trying to let myself be human so I can see the humanity in others, too — so I can keep showing up in the ways I’m able to, big and small — so I can continue unraveling from the myth of not feeling being mightier, stronger, better. I’m trying to not jump into helper mode so I can stay human in all of this.

May we let ourselves be with all of it.
May we step away from feeling it all when we need to so we can find sustainability.
May we not try to feel it all alone.
May we use our feelings to push us toward right action.
May we recognize grief as the only reasonable response.
May we honor the ocean of grief living just underneath our skin.
May we engage with one another from our shared humanity.
May we find our unique role in creating a better, safer world.
May we tend to ourselves, our families, and our community.
May we be gentle, compassionate, and loving as we do it.
May we let ourselves be human imperfectly so as to not turn away.
May we keep going without leaving our feelings behind.

I am thinking of each of you, hoping you are able to find a depth of care and connection during times like this, hoping you are able to find some source of nurturance within and around you to hold you as you move through what often feels impossible to keep moving through. If it feels like a lot, it isn’t because you are failing or not trying hard enough — I promise you that. It is because it is a lot, and feeling that way means you are right here, alive, awake to it all. I am with you from afar.

Only a few links to share this week.

△ What gun violence does to our mental health

△ These words from Prentis Hemphill

prentishemphill

A post shared by Prentis Hemphill (@prentishemphill)

△ Two places to learn from/donate to: Everytown and Moms Demand Action

△ How gun violence impacts Black, Indigenous, and People of Color

△ bell hooks and Thich Nhat Hanh on building a community of love

△ This reminder:

Just Tav @TavNyongo

Consider the possibility that the constant fatigue you feel might be accumulated grief.

△ Francis Weller on grief — a beautiful offering if/when you have some space.

△ Five Mary Oliver poems for grieving hearts

With deep care,
Lisa