Grief is the experiencing . . .
Mourning is the process,
when we take the grief we have on the inside and express it outside ourselves —
writing, planting, burying, burning, rising up
ceremony, ritual, community[i]
As long as I stayed here, I could keep you with me . . .
Time suspended in the two weeks after you died – the only expectation to prepare for your farewell. There were photos to gather, an obituary to write, a service to plan, a eulogy to pen, meals to plan, accommodations to make, miles to travel. And then we gathered, in your home – each arriving in turn -- your husband and son and his wife, myself, our niece and her friend, then your older son, wife, and their many shared children and grandchild, your younger son’s children, and finally my son. You would have loved to have seen us all gathered together in your home that has been so empty of your presence and was now so full.
The next day we gathered again, this time at the church you have attended for so many years, the pews of late mostly empty as the congregation has dwindled, now filled with family and friends. This time there were more of us, family that hadn’t seen each other for years, little ones you never even had the chance to meet. Paul sang for you, Johnny played his cello, your sons and I spoke our love to you as your grandchildren wept -- they loved you so. Downstairs your friends shared stories, and laughter, and love.
In the evening we gathered again – your children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, husband, and I. All we needed was to be together . . . but you are missing from the family photo.
And then we parted. I headed north, to this home we have shared for sixty years. We had so often sat on this hillside together, with our morning cups of tea, or watching the sunset, or chatting away the afternoon. This lake where you’d sailed and canoed and so loved to swim, and patiently taught each child in turn how to swim as well. This dock that held generations of our children and dogs all crammed together, where we’d lie in the sun or sit late at night and watch the stars come out, or cuddle up in blankets trying to catch a bit of the sun’s warmth on windy, fall days. The piano where we played duets; the table where we played endless games of Yahtzee with Mom, canasta with Nana, Flinch with the family; the circle of couches and chairs where we played telephone Pictionary, charades, and CatchPhrase – you’d always place the beeper in your lap so you could use both hands to express what you were describing, even though you needed to pass it quickly to the next player. So much warmth and hilarity here. The kitchen chair where you always sat facing the door and the hallway so you could greet each person every morning with such welcome and delight as they straggled out of bed. The big table outside where we’ve shared countless meals and you’d ask each of us to share what had been our favorite part of the day. The porch we reclaimed from the storage closet it had become, and made inviting and cheery with the final touch of the strawberry candle. The bedroom where you’d slept, a bedroom we often shared with a dog between us, and where we’d snuggle and talk about our lives, where I’d tuck you in to keep you warm and where I’d given you one final hug the last time you were here. The road where we’d go for family walks – eight, ten, twelve of us all together, and always two, three, or four dogs. The roadsides where we’d pick wildflowers – Mom’s favorites of Queen Anne’s lace and chicory. The driveway where we’d greet and hold each other with great gladness after months of separation, and where we’d hug and say goodbye, and hug again, and say goodbye, and then hug once more because in the back of our minds we’d always be wondering if this was the last time. . . . until it was.
On my final morning the sky and lake were a soft pink, the clouds in the west reflecting the light of the rising sun in the east. A seagull flew round the lake then disappeared over the hill. All that time you were still with me. As long as I stayed there, I could keep you with me. . . .
But as I closed the cottage door one last time, I felt my life, your life, our together life closing behind me, and the sobs that I’d contained for days rose loud and hard, and accompanied me as I left you behind and drove away.
For mile after mile, hour after hour, in what felt like a funeral procession, the trees appeared, dressed in their brightest finery of reds, yellows, oranges, and greens, lining the roads as if to pay their respects. I could sense them bowing, silently paying homage, all of them inviting my grief to flow.
But here, returned to the world, there are schedules to keep, mail to sort, bills to pay, clients to see, appearances to keep up. Life has gone on as I stepped out of time and now must run to catch up, but I am out of step with its demands and rapid pace. I am better suited for the days when people wore black armbands for a year, maybe two, after the death of a loved one and people, like the trees, understood.
In the indigenous grief ritual, the circle is divided into eight parts, we name our griefs and place each in one of the parts of the circle. We color each piece with the hues our sorrow evokes and place on it the medicines – the herbs, berries, leaves, flowers, and feathers -- we need to heal.
Today each piece of the circle would be filled with you. I’ll color each one like the leaves outside my window, slowly turning from the green of life to the yellow you loved – how fitting that the earth is bathed in yellow right now – and on each one I’ll place a feather for you who so loved birds. In the days to come, I will gather each feather that crosses my path and place it in my circle of grief, my circle of arms now empty of you, each one a token of my love for you.
The medicines that crossed my path today -- gifts from the earth -- a feather, a yellow buttercup, and a forget-me-not.
[i] From my Indigenous Focusing-Oriented Trauma therapy handbook section on grief. This writing is the ceremony, the feather-gathering my ritual, and you who are reading this, my community. With gratitude.