[I’ve been writing this in my head since 4:00 this morning; I hope not to ramble too much.] About 20+ years ago, my dad died. Except for losing our beloved Maggie, the family dog, who died at 16 when I was 17 (my childhood buddy), I had not yet experienced a major death. I remember sitting at my desk after my father passed away, staring out the window as I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Mom died 16 years ago (age 88). It was not unexpected as she was ill. That process of loss and grief upended me; my feelings were so painful and intense I worried I was losing my mind (she was a difficult woman and we had a bumpy relationship). I managed to find a grief support group for women whose moms had recently died and discovered my feelings were completely normal and similar to every other woman in that room where we gathered to heal. What a relief. What I am experiencing today, and remember well from the mom-grief, is frustration as our culture allows very little room for intense grieving. Basically you get about 3 weeks, and then you’d best move on and get over it as it makes people uncomfortable. Shut down that heart-pain. Hurry up. It’s not comely. It’s practically unAmerican.
So I am finding I need to somewhat ferociously carve out space for my grief. To create a safe container where I can thrash around and weep and express rage and shock and heartbreak. The death of my two sisters, both by suicide, within the past six months, has shattered me. My pain is normal, healthy, and even welcomed, as it heals me. This grief is a treasure and I “cleave to it as it cleaves to me. I don’t have a choice about feeling it but I do have a choice to deeply learn from it” (quote from a friend). It is often unbearably lonely.
This extends my post today into the too-long territory, but I feel this poem is important:
On Pain by Kahlil Gibran
And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
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10″ x 7″ watercolor, pen on paper = $90
