I see you
My friend shared yesterday a story Mark Nepo told in his book the book of awakening.
In it he told the story of this people group that, when someone was suffering a great loss or death, during the night their friends and neighbours would go to their home and change the location of objects outside their house so that when they awoke the next morning and went outside they would know that everyone around them knew that everything was different now. that the pain had changed everything.
She went on to share that there is a way that we can hold space for people who are grieving that doesn't require words and that is full of love.
It reminded me of a quote by Glennon Doyle, which I have been reminded of many times over the last few weeks as others have struggled with finding a way to approach us during this season of loss.
Glennon says "When her pain is fresh and new, let her have it. Don't try to take it away. forgive yourself for not having that power. grief and pain are not like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. they're sacred. they are part of each person's journey. all we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am alone. that's the one fear you can alleviate"
I know the things that have been said to me since my loss have been for the most part well meant. People say these things from a place of love and because maybe they aren't sure how to respond to someone who has just lived through something so traumatic and horrible.
But I think there has to be a better way. Rather than an explanation for why God allows things to happen or the assurance that this is more common than I think or the urging to get back to my old life as quickly as possible what I need is for people to say "I see you. I know that this loss was great and that everything is different now. I see your pain."
We need to find our own way to move things outside the homes of the grieving, to let people know that we see everything is different now.
What I need is for someone to sit in the dark with me, not in an attempt to bring the light but as a way of holding vigil for this great loss, holding space for my grief in all its complexities, to say "I see you."
I've moved things around in my own home since returning from the hospital because I feel so different and it is painful to look around and see that nothing had changed. Its not the same but its that physical representation of "Something great happened and now everything is different."
This morning I returned to my meditation practice for the first time since I found out I was pregnant. I'd been avoiding it, mostly because moments of sitting still and not actively working on distracting myself have usually been filled with a level of grief I'm not sure what to do with. I picked a meditation on grief specifically for this reason.
And as I sat there, breathing, I thought about all this time I've spent at home. I've been unable to return to work as I'm recovering from surgery, unable to sit or stand for more than a few hours. So I've spent a lot of time laying in bed, and in those moments when light hurts my head and I cannot turn to Netflix as a distraction I've participated in my own kind of meditation practice, my own mourning vigil.
I'm normally very active so the news that I would have to be on limited activity for 6 weeks post surgery was hard to take in. But I think its been a gift too. Not only because its allowing my physical body a chance to heal but because the solitude and forced stillness has allowed me to create a sort of grieving vigil.
My friend often reminds me to not move on too quickly and this feels like that.
Everything changed. And this feels like honouring that great change, letting it happen and not rushing to move past it, letting myself be changed by love and loss and grief, letting it open me in new ways.
This time of being still, it feels like a gentle whisper to Paris, to my body, to everything I lost and everything I don't yet know I lost I see you.
In it he told the story of this people group that, when someone was suffering a great loss or death, during the night their friends and neighbours would go to their home and change the location of objects outside their house so that when they awoke the next morning and went outside they would know that everyone around them knew that everything was different now. that the pain had changed everything.
She went on to share that there is a way that we can hold space for people who are grieving that doesn't require words and that is full of love.
It reminded me of a quote by Glennon Doyle, which I have been reminded of many times over the last few weeks as others have struggled with finding a way to approach us during this season of loss.
Glennon says "When her pain is fresh and new, let her have it. Don't try to take it away. forgive yourself for not having that power. grief and pain are not like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. they're sacred. they are part of each person's journey. all we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am alone. that's the one fear you can alleviate"
I know the things that have been said to me since my loss have been for the most part well meant. People say these things from a place of love and because maybe they aren't sure how to respond to someone who has just lived through something so traumatic and horrible.
But I think there has to be a better way. Rather than an explanation for why God allows things to happen or the assurance that this is more common than I think or the urging to get back to my old life as quickly as possible what I need is for people to say "I see you. I know that this loss was great and that everything is different now. I see your pain."
We need to find our own way to move things outside the homes of the grieving, to let people know that we see everything is different now.
What I need is for someone to sit in the dark with me, not in an attempt to bring the light but as a way of holding vigil for this great loss, holding space for my grief in all its complexities, to say "I see you."
I've moved things around in my own home since returning from the hospital because I feel so different and it is painful to look around and see that nothing had changed. Its not the same but its that physical representation of "Something great happened and now everything is different."
This morning I returned to my meditation practice for the first time since I found out I was pregnant. I'd been avoiding it, mostly because moments of sitting still and not actively working on distracting myself have usually been filled with a level of grief I'm not sure what to do with. I picked a meditation on grief specifically for this reason.
And as I sat there, breathing, I thought about all this time I've spent at home. I've been unable to return to work as I'm recovering from surgery, unable to sit or stand for more than a few hours. So I've spent a lot of time laying in bed, and in those moments when light hurts my head and I cannot turn to Netflix as a distraction I've participated in my own kind of meditation practice, my own mourning vigil.
I'm normally very active so the news that I would have to be on limited activity for 6 weeks post surgery was hard to take in. But I think its been a gift too. Not only because its allowing my physical body a chance to heal but because the solitude and forced stillness has allowed me to create a sort of grieving vigil.
My friend often reminds me to not move on too quickly and this feels like that.
Everything changed. And this feels like honouring that great change, letting it happen and not rushing to move past it, letting myself be changed by love and loss and grief, letting it open me in new ways.
This time of being still, it feels like a gentle whisper to Paris, to my body, to everything I lost and everything I don't yet know I lost I see you.
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