Once again, I feel like I’ve climbed a very high mountain, in the company of wonderful people. Once again, I feel honored to be the presence of people who are grieving the loss of someone they love.
Each group has been different: Different people. Different losses. All at different points in their grieving process.
Some are still in the raw, ferocious early stages, reeling from their loss. Some are caught in the soul-numbing middle stage, struggling to remember what “normal” even looks like. They are sure they’ll never feel “normal” again.
They fear if they let go of the grief, of those last difficult memories, they will truly lose their loved one forever.
And then there is this stage, where a tiny glimmer of hope and peace can be seen, and grasped.
The first stage is still scary to me. I remember talking to Lorraine, my supervisor, about taking on this work. I worried about saying the wrong things, or not knowing when to say the right things. If there even is a “right thing” to say to someone whose grief is so fresh and painful. “I’m so afraid I’ll make their grief worse,” I said.
“People are pretty tough,” mused Lorraine. “You’re not going to break them!”
She’s right. And that’s part of the beauty of this work, this writing process.
People begin this writing journey with such pain, it hurts to look at their faces.
We start slowly, with gentle writing “assignments”. We share what we’ve written.
(Yes, I participate, too, and I’m amazed at how it’s helped me. I pick a person I’ve loved and lost for each workshop. This one was for my friend of more than 35 years, Walt Spiller (aka “Walt the Mailman), who died in January.)
We exclaim over the similarities in our “crazy feelings”: “You feel that way, too??”
And yet each person’s journey is unique. Our experiences, the manner of our loved one’s death, their journey, is like no other.
The person we’ve lost is unique. Last night, as we read our last scribblings, one person said, “I’ve come to know who your loved one is, through your writing. I can actually see them!”
Each person has traveled their own road, but yet together. One person said it beautifully: “It’s like we’re on the same lake, in a different boat!”
The same lake…. This is the human experience, after all: We will all lose someone we love. We will all be lost to someone we love. With every birth, there will be a death. To borrow a quote from Canadian painter Robert Genn, “Every puppy begins in joy and ends in tears. So it is with people.
A different boat. Not every death is simple. Some are too fast–loved ones lost to heart attack or accident, no time to say goodbye. Some are too harsh–loved ones lost to suicide or murder. Some are complicated–our feelings for them are conflicted, our love tangled in anger, or fear, or resentment, or worn down to a frazzle after years of care and anguish.
All this, and more, is shared, once a week, in these little groups. Through the power of the written word, ideas are born, feelings are explored, insights are shared. The healing begins. In a safe and sheltering place, people put their lives back together, one little poem and one tiny thought at a time.
How that happens is a miracle. The writing does its work.
For all our frantic scribbling, writing is a meditative practice. It lets us get those swirling, maddening thoughts out of the racetrack of our brains, stops the ceaseless circling and speeding so we can be less reactive, less guarded. We don’t have to worry about the next wreck around the corner. We can slow down and look and see what is in our hearts, and commit those words to paper.
It’s a time to write what’s in our hearts, to say it aloud, to share it with the group. The power of our words–the power of us acknowledging our words, the power of others acknowledging our words–is healing. “I didn’t realize I felt that way!” “What you said is beautiful!” “I feel that way, too! I thought I was alone….” You hear this over and over in this group.
Over the weeks, we build up a portrait of that person. We see the role they played in our lives, and our role in theirs. We remember the times before the loss.
Gradually, instead of the harshness of fresh grief, there is…a softening. Instead of the heavy weight of sorrow, we carry memories–just as strong and durable, but lightweight and supple.
We laugh, we cry, we laugh some more. And we write, and we write.
We are writing down the bones.
There is forgiveness. There is gratitude.
When we part, on the last evening, I see their shoulders, which have been weighted down with grief, set with a bit of strength. I see their new-found confidence, their courage to meet a new day. We hug, we laugh, we cry. And we go home, some to empty houses and shattered lives, but with hope.
So what am I left with, at the end of these sessions?
I’m left with sympathy. Watching people struggle to understand this last, the greatest of human mysteries.
I’m left with amazement at the bravery the courage these people carry, often unaware of their own strength and bravery.
I’m left breathless at the beautiful words they bring forth from their experiences.
I’m left grateful that they trusted the process, they trusted me, to take care of them.
I’m left with respect for the dignity they bring to this journey.
I’m left with peace in my heart.
And I’m always, always left to stand, in astonishment and humility and gratitude, honored to in the presence of these people as they make this difficult, incredible journey.