Hello Grief
An alter with a photo of a mother, daffodils, candles and a pot with chocolate
Earlier last week I felt the familiar tapping of grief at my door. Somehow I feel it in my body before my mind can logically make sense of what it is. I was walking in my garden and my body felt crunchy, that’s the only word I can find to describe it. As if I’d put on tight-fitting clothes that were too small for me. I could feel it running down my back. I know that none of these words may make sense but I want to convey how much of it was in my body, it was a felt sensation. It was all coming through my body. Familiar, unsettling and it was here, wanting to be seen, wanting to heard. As I continued walking, I realised that it was the familiar sensations of grief. That once again grief had come to meet me.
Even after all these years there’s still an automatic resistance and uncomfortability initially when grief comes. I wonder if this is a necessary part of the process? I could feel myself trying to push it away, or at least wanting to make it wrong. Just writing these words I feel sad that I would ever want to make my precious and sacred grief wrong. But in a society that doesn’t speak about grief, doesn’t dare to utter the words of death, or dying, that turns away, I think it’s understandable.
Even once I’d recognised it as grief, the uncomfortability stayed with me. Even in speaking it to my dear friends and my mentor. My mentor said something beautiful to me, he spoke of the goodness in my grief, the goodness in the ache and affection for my Mum. I love this, the goodness of grief. I believe in the goodness of grief, in the beauty of grief and sometimes it’s painful too. Always “and”, never one thing or another. I think that’s what we need to hold in our grief, the complexity, the ambiguity.
Especially as Mother’s Day approaches. These days are strange aren’t they? Some would say part of the cabalist culture that we live in (and there are many days like this) and part of me wants to celebrate all that it means to be mother, or at least acknowledge it, them, they. I don’t believe “mother” looks a certain way, it’s not just reserved to those who have children, for me it’s more than that. If you feel into the energy of mother, it’s nurturing, it’s holding, it’s soft and sweet. There’s something warm and tender in mother. And it can look many different ways.
I believe that all grief on this day needs to be acknowledged. I believe that the complexity of this day needs to be acknowledged. Grief isn’t just reserved for those of us whose mother’s have died. It’s for those who long to be mothers, those who have lost their beloved babies or children, the one who’s partner has died, or the single mother that has no-one to celebrate her, it’s the partner who’s mother of their children has died, it’s those on their fertility journey, those who have chosen not to be a mother, those who are estranged from their mother or have a complicated or complex relationship, those whose mothers are ill or aging. It’s all the mothers that are experiencing war right now. It’s mother’s and grandmothers and great grandmothers. There are many elements of grief in this day.
Something else my teacher and mentor Francis Weller says - to become a ripening adult in this world is to hold complexity, to hold complexity and ambiguity. Grief, and days like this aren’t one thing or another. We’re not one thing or another. That’s why I say you may not have children but that doesn’t mean you’re not mother. It’s all and it’s everything.
And with that, there’s room for joy here too. You can celebrate. You can celebrate you, you can turn to your ancestors, you can put your hands and feet on Mother Earth and say thank you.
I don’t know what Mother’s Day will bring on Sunday, my grief has softened and I wonder if it’s even grief I feel anymore. I think of my beloved Mum as I write these words and I smile. I think there may be some celebration on Sunday, of her, of me, of my wonderful mother-in-law, of our ancestors that came before us, of family.
I’ll be lighting a candle on Sunday for the grief and the joy. I’d love you to join me in this simple act of ritual if it feels good for you. Send me your pictures, if you share on Instagram or Facebook tag me in. I would love to create an echo of light.
The picture is of the alter we (me and my daughter) created for my Mum when my grief had nowhere to go, when it was crunchy and uncomfortable. Creating ritual and alters I have found to be immensely helpful in my grief and my practice in life (I will talk more about the power of ritual soon).
