Again! I have terribly neglected this blog and only seem to return when something kind of big (in the life department) happens. The something kind of big is the recent death of Uncle. My mother cringes with these blogs, because she feels it’s like reading my personal diary. Yes and no.
I’d like to explain that my essay is about how I'm working through it. I do not claim any greater pain, and I'm fully aware that my grief for Uncle pales in comparison to other's. I'm not attempting to portray anyone else’s experience here, only my own. So in a way, yes, this is diary-like. Writing about it helps me digest it. I share it so that if you have ever felt some of these feelings, you can say, “Yes. I know exactly what she means.” Maybe it will resonate with you. Maybe it will connect us.
I recently read the book Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking by David Bayles and Ted Orland. This quote has stayed with me, and I think it helps to explain my purpose here:
"The need to make art may not stem solely from the need to express who you are, but from a need to complete a relationship with something outside yourself. As a maker of art you are custodian of issues larger than yourself" (108).
Not to say that I consider this blog art, but it is about the need to complete a relationship and also about issues larger than myself…
My husband and I just returned from three days in Wisconsin to attend the funeral of his uncle. Uncle died of a very sudden heart attack. He was only 64. He left behind a beautiful and loving wife, two amazing kids and three adorable grandsons (with two more on the way). He was a beloved, wonderful man. The kind of person who exuded a positive, fun-loving energy all the time. He was a man who made connections everywhere he went. His dedication to those people — those connections — helped explain the well-over three hundred attendees at his wake.
It was one of those funerals that was unbearably sad. The kind where no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to stop the flow of tears. The kind that left me feeling battered and raw afterwards. Where I wanted to hole-up and check out for a little while. Hit the pause button so that I could just cry all day long, for many, many days. The kind where I came home and looked at my kids and felt at once, overjoyed and grateful that they were safe and sound and here for me to hug. But also, where I felt a tiny bit angry: How could they just go about their day, carefree and happy, when something so profoundly sad had just happened? I wanted to shake them and say, Be grateful for what you have, because you have so much — you have everyone you ever loved still here! Of course, I would never be mad at them for not knowing what profoundly sad looks like. And honestly, I thank God that they don’t know it — that they can be carefree children and still marvel at the world and revel in the laughter.
As I tried to re-enter life at home, I found myself questioning, why do some funerals hurt so much more than others? Was it the quality of the person who died? Was it the manner in which they died? For me, I think it had more to do with who was left behind. Not just me, but those closest to him. What void was created when that connection was broken?
In my long and unfortunate history with funerals, I’m finding the hardest are those I can relate to the most. Obvious, right? Clearly, I love Uncle and will miss him terribly. I feel so sad for his kids, they not only will miss their father but also grieve that their own children won’t know the wonder of their grandfather. I have been there — am still there — so I understand the various dimensions of that void. But even more than that, I ache for Aunt's void. Knowing how much she loves him and that he’s leaving a massive crater in the landscape of her heart, of her life. All the plans they had, the joys they shared. The companionship and support. It brings to light every fear I have about losing my own husband. I watched my mother lose hers. I know that gut-wrenching sense of loss. Where you wake up in the morning and within an instant your heart drops right through your body, and it feels like someone slams you in the chest over and over. I’m afraid of feeling that feeling again. Uncle’s death hits me there.
When I see people crying at funerals, it makes me wonder: What losses have they had? What chord of fear is this striking? What layer of grief is it uncovering? I also see the people not crying and wonder why not. Maybe they haven’t gotten to that part of the grieving process yet. Or maybe they’ve never experienced the death of someone close. Or do they know it but somehow have come to terms with it? Does a point of acceptance and peace eventually come? Is there hope?
Feeling emotionally black and blue, I was reminded of Eckhardt Tolle’s book A New Earth. I dug it out to reread what he had to say on the “Pain Body” which he describes as: “The remnants of pain left behind by every strong negative emotion that is not fully faced, accepted and then let go of” (142). I must admit, this pissed me off. I mean, I had done plenty of ‘work’ on my own grief; trying to come to terms with it, moving through it, accepting it. And no matter how far I got, and how well I felt, there were moments where those wounds were reopened. The veil was pealed back, exposing it all again. As I read this last night, I wondered if this knowledge of loss, this intimate relationship I had with grief was going to continue to grow as I aged. Would each additional funeral further increase the intensity of it? Did I have a heavier pain body than others? And more importantly, was I doomed to a life of sorrow?
I read further. Tolle goes on to discuss how to break free from the pain body by creating some room around the unhappiness: “That space comes when there is inner acceptance of whatever you are experiencing in the present moment” (166). Not an acceptance of the circumstance or event, but an acceptance of what you’re feeling. Acknowledgment of where you are. He recommends to stop resisting your sad feelings, stop fighting them. [I must give credit here to my husband, who with his own quiet wisdom has often said the same thing!] Tolle states, to recognize it is an unhappy story — an unhappy and powerful emotion. Once you do that, you separate from it, you create a space. That space is a dimension of presence. And being in the present moment quiets that pain body. It all sounds rather philosophical and out there. But I have to say, as I contemplated this idea, I started to feel better. Not great, not chipper or happy, but better. I felt that space. I could breathe easier.
Tolle is not the first person, nor the last, to profess the benefits of living in the present moment. He just happened to be the one I turned to last night. I don’t know if it will help you or if it will always work for me, but it is helping right now. In this moment. Instead of focusing my energy on “fixing” my sadness, or preventing it from returning; I’m focusing on just being here right now, breathing a little easier. And I’m thankful that I can, because there are people in my life, connections, I want to attend to — just as Uncle had always done.
2 comments:
So glad to have stumbled upon your blog again today, Sabrina. I wish we still lived down the street from each other, so many great conversations we could have! I applaud you for sharing the raw alongside the contemplation. Whatever discomforts your mother about such vulnerability must be something from her past, an experience of lack of safety in such sharing -- something she must've managed to protect you from in your own past. I applaud her too.
As for emotion - I'll share my own point of view: I think there is a fundamental misunderstanding of emotional expression in our society. We see it, at worst, as weakness, at best, as symptom of pain, something to be quelled and soothed, when actually it is the very process of healing in action.
A person who, as the result of some trauma is terribly afraid of heights climbs a ladder every day and stays there, quaking for ten minutes at a time, before coming back to earth. But each day there is less trembling. Not because of developing strength, managing or outwitting the fear, or even because of specific attention or memory of the traumatic event, but because the fear's expression - the trembling - is the recovery process in action, the way the fear leaves the body.
Pausing my engagement with the world for three days to simply cry is something I've done; and still do regularly at smaller intervals (sometimes ten minutes, an hour, sometimes alone, but often with a friend's relaxed and caring attention). I can attest to its value. I've been asked so many times how I am so resilient in the face of all the things that go wrong, this is the answer.
As for children, they know grief well, and are expert at feeling it and bouncing back. No doubt you remember from your own childhood and see your own kids move through it over slights that may seem smaller in comparison and from the distance of adult perspective. But at the core, we are (adults and children alike) contending with limitations of relationships and resources, in our flawed families, in our flawed society...
Thanks for getting me thinking (and writing) today, and thanks for being in my life!
Amy! You are such a wise and loving person - and I too wish we were down the street from each other again. We still need to get out there for a long walk with the dogs.
I completely agree that we, as a society, have a misunderstanding of emotion - in particular sadness. A fear of it. And a lack of respect for it too. If only we were allowed to take "Sad Days" from work as well as sick days. And yes - kids do speak the language of grief more fluently than most adult, moving in and out of it quite often.
Here's to being and finding those kind of people who can hold us and our emotions with "relaxed and caring attention" - we need more of them in the world!
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