The Soul of Grief

The Soul of Grief

Grief holds the heart hostage, and no matter how contained or clever or the relief we feel when knowing someone’s suffering is over, grief steals. It steals peace and comfort, sanity and time., And who knew the human body could fill up rivers with the tears shed during the agony of loss?

I worked in Geriatrics and with cancer patients on a Hospice team. I knew the stages, witnessed the crossings, and said many goodbyes, but I didn’t know till he left.

Grief isn’t predictable or something we can think away. It has its own operating system that I would have to live through no matter what I knew. Stages, the experts said, can come and go without any logic. Emotions didn't shift like the tides but rather like unexpected storms that blow in, leave debris, and are gone in the blink of an eye.

Grief captured me fiercely and fooled me. I had no idea I could rage like a summer storm or hold an emptiness devoid of light like the dark clouds of a hurricane. I landed here in the inner wastelands, which felt like winter: empty, cold, and alone.

So, I turned to nature. I turned to something that made sense, that carried more promises than I could believe.

That spring, our destination held both purpose and pain. We traveled to radiation and chemo treatments in awe of the mauve-colored mountains, the splendor of new growth bursting on every tree and plant along the highways as if they were giving us a bouquet of hope.

Summer gave us some respite and a chance to enjoy flowers, but eventually, they wilt, and so did he. Plants leave an offering when they die: their seeds, a promise of more or the next. But it’s hard to believe that something new will be born when someone tries not to let something die. Fear and anger are compost if put in the right place, but they create a flimsy barrier that hinders the passage of emotions when they are needed.  

Leaves in autumn seduce us into extolling the beauty of color as if the dreams we had still held much promise. The New England mountains seemed to burst with color transformations, but his pain snuck back in and exploded all over his body. Leaves dance with fall breezes, showing us a graceful letting go, but the pain becomes a trial to endure while expectations wane like a movie nearing its credits. Leaves turn brown, and autumn winds blow them away, leaving a barrenness of limbs and trunks, an unrepentant nakedness devoid of color.

Winter came and brought more death. Both of his parents died that winter, one after the other, placing death right on our doorstep. Denial, though, easily repressed the truth, so it stayed buried under the snow. The Grim Reaper, that Holy Angel that beckons us over the mystical threshold between the living and the dead, lingered nearby.

The wheel of life marches to an impersonal rhythm that governs our lives. The following spring, he was laid to rest, treatments over, pain gone, and what was denied came true. We buried him near the mauve-colored mountains where we began.

Eventually, another spring came. The rivers subsided and carved softer curves on the riverbanks of my heart. However, an ache persisted strong enough to poke at the loneliness of being left behind, along with unfilled possibilities and dreams “if only we had more time.” Exhausted as caretakers often are with unexplained weariness, I had to heal and realize that my pilgrimage into the soul of sorrow began when his sojourn ended.

Grief is like the coyote, a trickster who fools us into thinking that once a loved one’s painful journey brings them to peace, it’s over, and life returns to what it once was. But that’s not true. Death and grief change us, though no one can tell you what that smells like, feels like, or how your heart reacts to it. I couldn’t handle the noises for a while, so I became a recluse.

Heartache is painful, but that pain fosters an inner alchemy, an archetypal mystical force that beckons us ever so subtly into “the more of becoming.” The pain of grief becomes a mirror for me to gaze into, usually in the quiet of the night when crying goes unheard, where doubts and regrets, like the persistent drip of a leaky faucet and all that’s missing, speak the loudest.

Underneath this din lies the soul of things, that elusive part of self that begs to be discovered. Who am I without you? Can I allow myself to change and grow into something more deeply because you have touched my heart? Or would I rather wallow here a bit longer, feel the pain of what you did to me by leaving before I was ready to let you go and our dreams died?

So, I wrote of the confusion and spoke of the insanity I felt at times, though careful to hide it from others. Words on a page gave me some relief and allowed me to express feelings that family and friends place an expiration date on for who wants to be reminded that we all die at one point.

A couple of years later, when I least expected it, an image came to me one evening while I was reading a book cozy and warm in my new home.

I saw myself approaching a broad avenue from a side street. The avenue beckoned with clear, bright light. I carried a black bag in my left hand, partially in the shadows of the building beside me. I paused, unable to move forward or backward. Uncertain yet certain, I carefully placed the bag in the dark shadows at the end of the street, moved forward into the sunshine, and let go.

As if some unseen presence sprinkled a bit of magic in the air, in an instant, I knew I could truly step into the light of a new beginning, knowing I had become friends with the soul of grief.

I had said enough goodbyes that the throbbing ache dissipated, the rivers meandered, and the seasons felt beautiful again.