I was talking with my neighbor last night in her garage, our hang, as she has dogs who like to sit, and the weather has turned warmer.
We often chat for a few, if not a scheduled sit sesh, if I am popping out to my car, or I am on the porch tarrying away with writing, and she happens to be outside.
Last night, was a night like that, I walked over with my tea. We sat. We were.
I told her how I was writing an article on books, poetry books mostly, on grief for the blog.
She asked me to write a blog for widows who are experiencing grief, and how to process this. How to move on, or forward. Forward, my word not hers, as the phrase Write Your Way Forward, has become central of late.
The conversation opened into more, as good conversations often do. We talked of death, and afterlife, and dreams. Visitations and writing, of course. She told me of how she dreams of her husband. I told her how my mother would visit me so often in dreams, I woud tell her to leave, and how I had a sequences of dreams in which I was reliving my mother’s death, alternative versions.
She told me of her husband’s razor. How her dog knew it was his. How she did not throw it away. Instead, she put it back grooming bag. This is how grief goes. The slow moments. The stillness that brings us to surrender. The quiet pause. The breath caught. The stop of the heart if just for a hairline second.
We had talked about personal items, clothes of the dead a few weeks earlier. My neighbor lost her husband in August. I lost my brother in June. Boxes of my brother’s belongings sat in stacked in my garage for months, until I could move them.
Each time I walked past I shuddered. A canvas photo, large, maybe 3ft x 2ft, of my brother with our cousin, both smiling, on top of a mountain, snowboarding trip, goggles and all, was at the top of the boxes. I had to cover it up. I could not look at my brother’s face. Still, now, 10 months later, it is hard to look at photos, when I happen upon them.
This is an early death, in the scheme of things, of those dead, and dying, and gone. For the both of us; the grief is new.
I told her how I’ve had many deaths, so much grief, that I am a professional. We spoke of loss, as if it was still knew, yet– so foreign.
I told her I had not processed her husband’s death yet. Nor, was I done processing my brother’s, when she asked of my awareness energetically. I am quite shy when it comes to discussing this with some, though not with those who come for sessions.
I say, I am still human, but aware, and in my daily life, I try to convey more humaness, than reveal my energetic awareness.
Her husband was sensitive, too. A beauty of a soul, and being.
Today, like so many other years with this date, I realize it is my ex-husband’s death date. I realize later in the morning, after clearing out some items in the attic and searching for clothes that fit, as my new grief has brought me down 35 lbs, and the seasons are changing. After laundry, and breakfast, and putting on size 4 jeans, where last year at this time I was a 12, and heading to the office, I realize the date.
I message his mother on Facebook, tell her I am thinking of her, praying for all of us.
For many years, I could not communicate with his mother.
We were both so young when he passed. He was 22, and I was 23. We were kids really. And we had a kid together.
My ex-husband died by suicide. Like many years on this date, the memory or recall floats in and out, of this is the day he died.
I think now of poems I have written for him, about him, and the ways we process grief, and life, and all of the living through writing. I think to write more, how there are not enough of them. How the excavation is not complete.
Earlier I was working on the original grief blog I had mentioned to my neighbor. I thought to reread some of them, C.S. Lewis “A Grief Observed”, “The Wild Edge Of Sorrow” more, and found a book by a woman whose father died by suicide.
I paused there, too, to render a moment of how difficult a grief this is. How I probably, too, have more grieving to do, despite it being 19 years since his passing. How my son might want to read this book, and other books of this kind, as it was his father who had died by suicide, when he was just a young boy.
I teach writing to heal for many reasons. I started writing at 9. By the time, my ex passed I had been writing nearly 13 years. I had my hand at the written word, and had writing, poetry, and journaling my side for over a decade.
Since then, my mother has passed, my brother, friends, more family. Before then, my childhood friend, my grandmother, more. Some by natural causes, one by train, overdoses, cancer, seizures. Many young. My age at the time.
So, much grief surrounds me.
Amongst the ruins is writing. When the breath goes out—— write. When the memory arrives—- write. When the nervous system quivers—- write. On death dates—- write. On anniversaries—- write. On birthdays of the dead —- write.
When you feel like crying—— write.
When you need to hear your own voice—— write.
While this might not be the blog post my neighbor is looking for, I will tend to this fire, and continue to pause, write blogs on what grief is. How we can become surrounded by it, move through it, how to write on death, and what lays behind the veil and more.
There is so much more to say here. So much more I have learned about death, dying, God, the afterlife, and our spiritual evolution before my ex died, til now.
I continue on this journey as an energy healer, understanding more and more the ways in which energy cannot be created; nor destroyed— yet transformed. So, too, is it with the living once they pass. They change form. They are here. They exist. Just not in a way we can understand sometimes, nor in a way we want to believe other times.
One of the reasons I have become what I have become , and stayed course on this journey, was James; his death. All the unhealed trauma he carried in his heart. The young man lost at 22 years old, by his own hand.
His death was a true existential crisis, and in his death I was carried by poetry and writing. It was also the entrance of the first spiritual awakening, where my gifts opened more, but at the time I shut it down. I was young, a single mother, in school full time, and working. I said no to God, then. Told him I was too busy to take this on; that is to become who I am, or what I have become.
I did say yes to writing though.
I attended a poetry reading the night I learned of his passing, and the next day went to a writing workshop at with the Barnstones at Monmouth University.
Less than 24 hours into learning of his passing I was writing an Alphabet poem. It began.. “ A long rode we winded…”
My journal or even random pieces of paper— helped me breathe again, as the grief was so heavy in my body, I would keel over, at the time. Literally, waves of grief would knock my body down and over. I had to hold onto chairs, furniture, anything somewhat sturdy, not to fall.
While I may shift today to go deeper into my own healing, and writing —- as it is the anniversary, and in honor of his death, his healing, and my own—- I will write, meditate, pray, and be with this grief enduring.
I will leave you with these tips for now, until I return back to share more practices for you.
- Create a grief journal — or buy one.
When my brother died I bought a journal dedicated to writing about his and his death. I would walk the woods each morning, and both before and after I walked I would write.
2. Write a letter to your loved one.
This keeps the current, and connection alive, and allows not only a creative outlet for your expression, but energetically becomes a communication. This also allows you to say what you need to say. Get create with it. Be poetic. Riff, and rant. There are no wrong answers here.
3) Create time and space to be with your grief and your journal.
This is essential. Let greiving and writing be a ritual. Claim space. Even if there are not words, yet. Be in the space of grief, and love.
4) Read poems on grief, death, and dying.
5) Pray for your dead. Prayers are heard, held and received.
6) Go slow. Allow memories to arrive, and place them in your journal.
7) Love yourself, love harder & more.
8) Write an Alphabet poem.
Each line of this poem starts with the next letter of the alaphabet.
I will return back to this, and incude more thoughts, and processes for you, dear reader, soon.
If you have topics you would like me to write on let me know. Post in the comments below.
In the meantime here is a poem.
"the Uses Of Sorrow"
by Mary Oliver
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I once loved gave me
a box full of darkness
It took me years for me to understand
that this, too, was a gift.
