Tending to Grief and Joy

Life just feels generally overwhelming these days. Though I consciously limit my intake of news, the heat of wildfires, the terror of what is happening in Afghanistan, the spread of the Delta variant and the violence on social media and in the streets of America all creep into my psyche—might I even say, into my very cells. Perhaps that is why the muscles stiffen behind our shoulders, and our legs and chests feel so heavy some days. The science of trauma is teaching us that we carry pain in our bodies, long after the initial pain has ended.

And yet. And yet, when I look out my window, the meadow is stubbornly green and the sun audaciously dances, and a breeze stirs on this impossibly hot day. The earth reminds me that not all is lost; life continues, even as death seeks to destroy.

This weekend my family gathered at a cabin in Pine Creek, where we’ve spent many a summer getaway through the years. The reality of death accompanied each of our lively days. We were gathering on the weekend of what would have been my brother’s 45^th birthday and which also was the 8^th anniversary of his passing. This place was where we had last been all together, two weeks before the accident; the last time I saw him, hugged him, heard his laugh. But somehow this weekend, he was present in the daily visits of a hummingbird, in the memory of his laughter echoing across the creek, in our hike along the trail that we tread on our way to scatter some of his ashes in those mountains he had loved.

I realized something this weekend. My family knows how to grieve; and we do this well. In my family, tears are welcomed; being vulnerable is safe. And no one is left to grieve alone. Rituals of remembering remind us that grieving is sacred work; as Valarie Kaur says, “grief is the price of love.” And so, encircled around a fire on Friday night, we made space for each of us, if we wanted, to read letters we had written to my brother. And since music has healing qualities, we played the song that accompanied a flower ceremony we had organized at his memorial service and recreated that ceremony, ending the evening encircled within one another’s arms.

Grief work, I am quite certain, is what more of us need to be practicing. And there is so much to grieve. When we grieve, we loosen some of that heaviness that we carry around in our bodies. When we grieve, we offer space for our wounds to heal. I am an activist at heart. I have always been moved to participate in the work of justice. And I will continue to do so. But I also feel a call to wound tending, to making space for others to attend to both personal grief and collective wounds. I am learning that the work of justice is hard, long, discouraging work. It is no wonder many activists burn out or give way to cynicism, despair, or numbing. Grief work is the medicine our souls require when the overwhelm sets in. Grieving is what is needed in order to continue the work of justice.

And moreover, grief work opens the door to deeper joy and wonder. I’ve witnessed this so many times. The laughter and lightness that bubbles up after a shared cry. The wonder of being connected to another human being after sharing one’s deepest pain. And this weekend, the silliness and laughter that erupted soon after our tears around the fire. The tenderness we offered ourselves and one another opened our hearts to the strength of love available to each of us.

In speaking about the lack of release and refreshment from this summer that so many of us needed, in her most recent newsletter, Krista Tippet so eloquently reminds us of this truth: “As we are able, we must build practices of accompaniment, of tending refreshment — in equal measure to repairing and building and growing — into life, and life together.” I love this. “Practices of accompaniment.” Accompanying both grief and refreshment. Tending to both wounds and joy. Giving space for pleasure and for rebuilding our world.

This is the work I am trying to show up for right now. This “both/and” work. I am finding joy in the simple act of cutting sunflowers, in walking along the creek behind our house, in the taste of morning coffee and summer ice cream, in going for dinner with friends. And I am also making space for hard emotions that continue to arise. There are tears. There are fears. There is sharing my pain with others.

There is so much to be done. So many causes calling for attention. I intend to continue advocating for human and planetary rights, for equity in our school systems, and to discover my role in creating welcome for the many Afghan refugees coming to our country. But I also intend to pause from that work when the overwhelm sets in and to make space for tending to both grief and joy.

Finally, if you or someone you know is interested in the opportunity to tend to collective grief, I will be facilitating an online program called “Becoming Wound Tenders” in October. There is something powerful when we do grief work together, and I’d love for you to join.