for mom
what i have learned about the intricacies of grief and the tending of tender hearts
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
—Emily Dickinson—
I visited the Dearly Departed exhibit at the State Library of Queensland over break.
I met up with uni friends and we got to ‘meet’ death through history, performance, and art, documentation of rituals and practices, and recordings of stories that challenge society’s relationship to dying.
It was dark. It was deep. It was celebratory.
Per the exhibition’s description, this was meant to explore: “what it means to live well, die well and honour those who came before us.”
Unsurprisingly, I turn to the memory of my mom’s death, its impending anniversary.
I’ve learned a lot about grief in the last nine years.
I’ve learned how many shapes it can take, how many places it can hide—and still I am surprised by its stubbornness, its tenacity often matching my own want for a break from the feelings.
Grief finds its way into the everyday. Grief about how the world has changed, how things are lost too easily, how safety is not assured, and how nothing feels as steady as it once did.
Here is what I think I know about grief. Today, anyway.
Grief is not a problem.
Grief is not a stepping stone.
Grief is not a savior.
Grief is willing to teach you if you are willing to feel it.
Sometimes, when I am sad, a friend will try to comfort me. They will remind me how I will get through ‘it’ and come out stronger on the other side.
(My history of loss has already taught me this, several times over.)
Nearly a decade after that shocking loss of my mom, instead of nodding and hoping the cheerleading session ends quickly, I turn toward the discomfort, hold its hand, and ask the well-intentioned consoler, “Can I be sad right now?”
Grief is not a problem nor a stepping stone nor a savior.
Grief will teach you everything, if you allow yourself to feel.
Grief can teach you about the depth of love, the inherent risk.
I have learned how to hold grief, even in the moments where it washes over wounds I thought were closed up. I know how to speak for my grief, even when I know it is the uncomfortable topic, it’s also a necessary vantage point.
Stop here.
Stop where the loss has a shape that outlines the dead person or dream.
Trace your fingers around it.
Someone lived here.
Something breathed here.
Something important happened.
Something mattered.
You do not need a prayer for this moment.
You do not need offerings.
The one who grieves needs your humble willingness to step into the awkward, where longing is unmet. Where comfort is unrecognizable. Where each day offers reminders that the last time was the last time.
To my mom, I wish you were here.
And you are.
Because I am here, remembering you.
Loving you beyond the beyond.
Classes & Events
Pantheon: Stories of Love, Power & Magick from Greek Mythology - online - TBD
HEARTists Way: Connecting to Creativity & Inspiration - online - TBD
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