Grieving

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“Less than friendly” is always for a reason.

I’m letting you in today. Sunshine is not my only love language.

I lost four friends between November and May. Two very close and two that had once been. History. Meaning-making. Three were beloved chosen members of my family. Two had lived with me under the same roof. Tears well up as I acknowledge this.

Grief is a bedfellow to love. Some days, I think I know a better ending for each and every one of them. Some days, I want to rewrite history so they are with me still. But my arms are “too short to box with God.”*

I’m glad for that. I’m weepy, crabby, tired, and ultimately glad I’m not at the helm of this ship to err so egregiously. Because most days, I find that the universe is arranged to evolve towards good and love all on its own. When I remember that life expands beyond these bodies we live in, beyond these lines we read and write, I can accept all.

I camped at Breitenbush Hot Springs. I meant to accomplish a lot of things there and grieving was one. Somehow I forgot, but my body did not. On the first night, I sat in the silent pool for half an hour as the sun set. Stars pricked their pale light into a mantle of darkness. Nighthawks, black on black, dove and soared. I breathed deeply and exhaled with the forest, the sound of my breath lost to the roaring river below.

Hauling myself out of the water, my teeth began to hurt. Every tooth socket throbbed with pain. Long soaks and rhythmic breathing have never opened that door before. I wondered if I felt the pain of the forest. When had the Lionshead burn happened? Many of the trees around me stood scorched as high as thirty feet. Could I be feeling their grief?

The next day, I verified that the anniversary of that fire stood six weeks out. Why then, had such pain stretched to fill my belly, my limbs, my heart? At breakfast in the lodge, I felt less than friendly as I moved down the buffet line, reserving my energy. I had no desire to connect, no willingness to allow myself to be seen. I did not want to tend to or hear others. I wanted to cocoon. I wanted rest.

I returned to my tent, curled up in a ball, and cried. Deep guttural sobbing wracked my body until the waves receded and left me empty.

Then I remembered. I had come, in part, to grieve. My loss is significant—a small forest fire in my community, in my heart. How amusing that I looked beyond me as I tried to understand what happened within.

The next day, a new friend shared that they too had been grieving unexpectedly. We appreciated together that this part of life isn’t often spoken of, especially in beautiful places during what appeared to be “vacation.” Why would we grieve in nature’s abundance?

How could we not? Grief often resonates with abundance and with wonder. In grieving, we celebrate, however sadly, that we still stand. We might also celebrate a love we cherish and have to some degree lost. I celebrate four.

As bewildering and deeply uncomfortable as I experience grief to be, I feel it as a part of joy. And that’s what I’m about. Grief, in its purest form, is love—love of self, love of others, and love of life.

I may not be smiling here, but I’m all in.

When has grief taken you by surprise? Did you find some comfort after letting it through?

*From James Weldon Johnson’s poem, “Prodigal Son”