I'm not sure if it's the harsh 'gr' blend in the beginning or the way when you say it too much, it starts to sound weird, made up. Or if it just reminds me of Charlie Brown.
The word grieving is better. Grieving is an act, a verb, an action. And yet, the process of grieving is comprised mostly of in-action.
There are many analogies describing grief. Trying to paint a picture of this complex process of 'deep sorrow'. To me-grieving is like being covered with a heavy, weighted blanket. Or stuck in a choking, thick fog. You are seemingly able to breathe, to move, to live under these conditions- only, everything seems so heavy, so difficult. Every breath you take is suffocated by the fog, but only you can feel that. You live your day to day life under this heavy blanket but only you can feel how weighted down life is. Your breaths are shallow for fear of choking and your eyes are clouded through the fog.
Though I've lost many loved ones, I never understood grieving until my father passed. Likely because I choose so often to eat my feelings rather than feel them. His death gave me cause to stop and understand what was happening. What this grieving process was. To honor it and to breath through the fog.
Despite the challenges, the tears and numbness, the anger and hurt. This grief allowed me to learn many lessons, there were gifts in this grief. Here are just a few:
1- Perspective. Probably the biggest lesson of grief is perspective. You may be having a bad day, a bad morning, a bad moment- but nothing is worse than that day you got the phone call or the test results or when the police showed up at your door. The moment when the bottom fell out. I can close my eyes and remember exactly how it felt to hear my mother say that my father had died. I'll never forget the moments following as I frantically called my husband and rushed to her house. THAT was a bad day... Perspective makes it almost a crime to make a big problem out of a little one. Makes it a sin to sweat the small stuff. That sort of perspective changes the way you look at your life and this world.
2- Empathy. I'm not talking about greeting card empathy. I'm talking about punch you in the gut and knock the wind out of you empathy. The PTSD kind. The kind that brings you to your knees beside a friend or acquaintance or stranger and whispers "I've been through this and it sucks and I'm here for you". The kind that leaves you sobbing at a wake. The kind that knows it doesn't matter what you do or say when someone is hurting from loss, as long as you do or say something. As long as you show up. Prior to my father's death, I didn't know. I didn't realize how important that showing up is to those in pain, in hurt, to those grieving. The people in my life who showed up for me are the ones who pulled me through when the fog was so thick. One step at a time, they helped me find my way.
3- The finite-ness of time. Today. Now. It's all we've been promised and it's all we've got. This lesson is a difficult one especially for someone who loves plans and dreams of the future as much as I do. But its helped me realize that today we can start. Today we can do- something, anything- for today is all we have. I recently overheard a stressed-out, overwhelmed mother say "I just want today to be over" and it was all I could do not to reply "but what if today was the last one you had?". Would you wish it away? Would we make mountains out of small problems? Would we complain about the size of our thighs or our husband's socks on the floor? Or would we just take it all in. Would we just open our hearts and say the things we've been wanting to say? If today was the last chance you had, what would you do with it?
4- Gratitude. It seems odd that my greatest lessons on gratitude would come from death, but alas, they have. Directly related to learning how precious all our moments are comes appreciating them- the moments. The tiny, magical things that happen every day. It may be when your child smiles at you, or when a student you've been working with makes a breakthrough and the light bulb goes on. It may be something funny or something mundane, like your mother finishing a load of laundry for you while at your house. But it is in seeing this moments, acknowledging them and appreciating them- that is where joy lives. The kind of joy that gives you goose bumps and makes you tear up. The kind of joy that allows you to whisper a "thank you" to the universe. A deep sense of gratitude for the moments. As a long time student of Oprah, I've kept a gratitude journal for years. But these days, my entries look much different. I look deeper to find the good things and I take a moment to remember them, to sit with them.
5- Faith. This is a big one. Perhaps the biggest. The greatest gift that grief has given me is faith. Faith that he's still here. Faith that despite his body being gone, his soul continues to linger. He shows up in his powder blue Mercury Grand Marquis driving slowly in front of us during a snow storm. He shows up when the grandkids mention their "Papa" seemingly out of the blue, or when a Roy Orbison song comes on the radio. This faith has been my savior. It has pulled me out from under that heavy blanket and allowed me to breathe again. The kind of breath that fills your lungs, opens your heart and heals you.
As we approach the second anniversary of my father's passing. It's hard not to look back to see the grieving as you'd see the sunset in the rear view mirror of a car. It was just last year when I realized how heavily that blanket weighed on me, how that thick fog suffocated my joy.
So with the encouragement of a friend, I stepped out of the fog. I allowed the grief to pass through me and I took that blanket off.
I began to reconnect, with myself, with my family, with my husband. I became present. For while my father's heart had stopped beating- mine has not. And while his voice was silenced- mine is not. The light inside me started to glow a bit brighter. I could laugh without feeling guilty and watch my children, feeling only joy. Instead of grieving, I was healing.
The 'deep sorrow' of my father's death will always rest in my bones but now, I can breathe. And more importantly, I can see the lessons and appreciate the gifts that came with that.
It's been a journey but I'm lucky to have learned a bit along the way.
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