We just passed the second anniversary of my brother’s death. Those words still feel incomprehensible to me. This year I can finally admit that I miss him because I loved him. As difficult as our relationship was over the years, in spite of the ways we didn’t understand each other, I loved my brother.
Though we say all the time, “I’m in grief,” I don’ t think we are ever “in” it. It is not a place we enter and then one day leave. Grief comes to us. It visits and it doesn’t leave. My takeaway from Grief’s Second Year: it is harder than the first. Harder because this is the year you understand, finally, that the loss is here to stay. You work towards that first anniversary, first birthday, first Christmas, first spring, and the day comes and . . . you’ve made it. Then the next day comes, and the next. And now you see. Sorrow is parked in your driveway. It’s got nowhere to be.
Francis Weller, a psychotherapist who specializes in grief and sorrow, was interviewed several years ago in The Sun magazine. I was struck by the sad news that grief defies the intellect. We cannot understand it: “Grief doesn’t need to be solved; it needs to be tended . . . . You cannot figure out grief. Knowledge cannot help you metabolize it.”
Weller goes on to discuss societal griefs like climate change, slavery and the Holocaust. Great losses that cannot be made right, can never be worked through and never end. He mentions the idea of “redemptive grieving,” which is the process of learning how to live with sorrow. We are changed, he says, by time spent in sorrow. The happiest people he has encountered in his travels and studies are people who cry a lot. Also note, shame is part of untended grief. We feel we ought to be happy, we should be able to shoulder our way through bad days and all days. And when we can’t because we are sad, we are ashamed.
The Rip Van Winkle effect of spring is something that comes every year. I suspect this is a phenomenon particular to northern climates, places where seventy percent of the year the season is some form of winter. I’m talking about the sleepy, eye-rubbing sensation brought on by warm weather, creeks rising, birds chirping before dawn, and the stunned sensation brought on by the sight of all this life. So many people! Windows are raised and noise pours in. Traffic. Hammering. Your neighbor on his phone.
All that again this year. In light of the pandemic, it feels beyond strange. In cities, unemployed people sit in their cars for hours because they’re out of milk and can’t afford to buy more. While here, on nice days I see men jogging shirtless with dogs on leashes. Young couples pushing baby strollers. We live far from the heart of this crisis; spring makes it more obvious.
I’m shocked by everything that can’t be planned right now. I keep storming around my house saying “Im done! I’m OVER it!” And then I fling open the front door and there it is: Spring. Noise. Pedestrians. Dogs. Cars. People running shirtless. I’m tired of self isolation and social distancing, but I can’t stand the usual. A world that appears unchanged in spite of all that is happening to the human race, well. That’s disturbing too. The re-opening of our town, which began this week, feels like a return to denial and sorrow and pain.
This is because I’m trying to make sense of what cannot be made sense of. This is a moment of immense grief. The loss of life, for one. The loss of safety at work—so many risk their health to do their job. Others have lost their jobs and security. School. A daily routine. Shopping for groceries next to other people. Backyard parties. Travel. Future planning. In short, the world as we knew it.
I try to figure this out and I can’t. This moment is not one that can be figured out. All that can be done is tending. Let this be called a Time of Tending. Plant the garden. Cry. Open the windows. Let in the spring.
Excellent letter, Chris. Though in isolation, it is a joy to let in Spring and all its newness – all its promise – all the happiness. Love, Bobbi
Your thoughts help me understand my desire to keep things as they are. I feel sheltered and protected and leery of getting back to those activities outside (not the shopping) that I thought I missed.
You are in good company, Christy. You’re helping me wrap my mind around the inevitability of change. Change means the grief will soften, the joy will deepen, the pandemic will and must bring a new way of being. The way I feel in one moment will not be the same way I feel in the next. But I’m going to work to make it a moment with a tiny bit more wisdom and clarity.
Your letter strikes at the heart of how helpless we feel over our grief. We have no idea when it will overtake us nor how long it might stay. Grief can feel cathartic and at the same time unwelcome. It is often tinged with regrets.
Steve Earl wrote a song aptly called “Transcendental Blues”, and the feelings of helplessness and the sorrow that transformation brings are artfully embedded in his lyrics and melody. I was reminded of his song when I read your letter today. Similar to grief, this new reality of Covid has required our radical and quick acceptance of our new circumstances. We are collectively grieving the loss of community and connection as many privately grieve the loss of their loved ones. We empathize but we are expected to march on through life in virtual meetings and classrooms while we anxiously wait to see what’s on the other side of this. There are fears that this indeed might be the new reality as we see no clear end in sight.
Meanwhile, the birds sing and Spring is in bloom! We are comforted when we see that there are systems in nature still in place and that they are working. We will eventually adapt and find a way forward. These are decidedly Transcendental times!
Sending light and love your way!