What we have lost deserves our attention
This is how much I don’t want to do the grieving. Two months ago, with a courageous heart, I signed up for what promises to be a powerful weekend of creating an African tribal grief experience with Sobonfu Some’. (Thank you to SOIL for sponsoring this.)
Tonight at 7 pm we begin. Several days ago, as the time neared, I felt the part of me that wants to grieve rising up, and I thought: okay, this is good, I’ve reserved time for you to come forth this weekend. I’ve allotted a safe time and place. Just wait until Friday. I am a good person because I have set aside this weekend to grieve.
Now Friday morning arrives and one of the first things on my mind is: I should make that trip to the big-box store to get discounted office supplies. It seems truly urgent to knock that off my to-do list immediately…although I’ve been running out of paper and ink since April.
What I want to avoid is being sad. Being sad is a waste of time in a life that is predicated on creating a to-do list, being productive, continually focusing on the future…but as for grief, grief is never done; it is merely set aside, put on pause. Grief is easy to forget it, like the dog we don’t walk, the relative we don’t check on, the recycling we ignore.
What we have lost deserves our attention.
What is most precious in the world cannot speak for itself, and grief is among these things.
The grieving brings me into the present moment. Here, in this moment, I hold the photograph of 12-year-old Corey with me, her arm around the back of my neck, her broad cheek pressed to mine, and I feel…loss and joy. I feel who she was walking on this earth on those petite feet, long blonde hair waltzing in the breeze, starsparkle in the blue of her eyes, a joyful smile to offer every face that met hers. And I hear her voice: “Mom, I’m right here. I still have my arm around you, my cheek is still pressed to yours. Feel me, right here, loving you. I am here.”
I don’t know how to grieve. But I know there is more grieving to do. All I can manage is to sit in this unknowing, call on the angels of love, and wait.
Tonight at 7 pm we begin. Several days ago, as the time neared, I felt the part of me that wants to grieve rising up, and I thought: okay, this is good, I’ve reserved time for you to come forth this weekend. I’ve allotted a safe time and place. Just wait until Friday. I am a good person because I have set aside this weekend to grieve.
Now Friday morning arrives and one of the first things on my mind is: I should make that trip to the big-box store to get discounted office supplies. It seems truly urgent to knock that off my to-do list immediately…although I’ve been running out of paper and ink since April.
What I want to avoid is being sad. Being sad is a waste of time in a life that is predicated on creating a to-do list, being productive, continually focusing on the future…but as for grief, grief is never done; it is merely set aside, put on pause. Grief is easy to forget it, like the dog we don’t walk, the relative we don’t check on, the recycling we ignore.
What we have lost deserves our attention.
What is most precious in the world cannot speak for itself, and grief is among these things.
The grieving brings me into the present moment. Here, in this moment, I hold the photograph of 12-year-old Corey with me, her arm around the back of my neck, her broad cheek pressed to mine, and I feel…loss and joy. I feel who she was walking on this earth on those petite feet, long blonde hair waltzing in the breeze, starsparkle in the blue of her eyes, a joyful smile to offer every face that met hers. And I hear her voice: “Mom, I’m right here. I still have my arm around you, my cheek is still pressed to yours. Feel me, right here, loving you. I am here.”
I don’t know how to grieve. But I know there is more grieving to do. All I can manage is to sit in this unknowing, call on the angels of love, and wait.
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