Something different

I want to talk about something a little different today. I want to talk about grief.

I don’t know about you, but these times feel so hard and heavy. There is so much grief, I don’t think most of us know what to do with it. (Do most of us even see that it’s there?).

I recently took a workshop with Kimberly Ann Johnson. One day she said something that stopped me in my tracks.

If we lived in an intact culture, we would have rituals to process our grief. We would have certain times of year that were devoted to grief and loss. But we don’t.

I’ve thought about this idea so many times since.

I have friends who grew up with the Mexican tradition of making beautiful ofrendas each year for Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), small alters honoring those who are no longer here with us. In Japan, the ancestors return in August, for the O-bon holiday, when family grave markers and alters are tended and there are traditional dances in the street and the spirits are sent off with lanterns that float down the river. I admire the Jewish custom of siting shiva—having a week where friends and family come to spend time together after loss, and a special candle that is burned each year on the anniversary. All these things make space to honor the emotions. All these things bring people together in their hard times.

But most of us don’t have a specific ritual to process grief, and it feels like there is so much grief in these times.

How many of us have even begun to process that the world lost an estimated 30-40 million souls to Covid-19—people who all had family and friends and coworkers and neighbors and where does all that grief go?

There is so much personal loss walking amongst us, and there have been no civic rituals of mourning, there are no public markers of the pandemic, no memorial that can be visited to pay respects. We were in a terrible pandemic that never really ended. One day we were just expected to go back to work like nothing had happened.

Some of us have other things to grieve as well. The loss of feeling safe in our country, in our neighborhood, our faith in government. There are a lot of us in the US dealing with that right now.

[Though, it must be said, this feels like a primarily white person’s grief, because Black, brown and Indigenous people have felt the harsh end of that stick for generations—since the beginning, really.]

Some of us are grieving our planet—as climate change means fires rage, flood waters rise, crops fail, heat or cold of such extremes we are not accustomed to it. And all on a backdrop of disappearing habitat, disappearing ice floes, disappearing animals, disappearing fresh water.

That may not be something on your radar, but it is one of the things that brings grief into my body. It’s a strange sort of anticipatory grief. What will we lose this year? How long do we have? Why are we not more activated by this?

I suspect for some people this will feel like a bummer post to read. I get that.

But I wonder if some of you might feel relief to see someone else talking about it. We are all carrying around hard and heavy things and acting as if we are not. I think that makes it feel harder and heavier; to feel loneliness in that sadness and uncertainty is even worse.

I keep seeking out other people who are talking about this, finding ways through it. At least just acknowledging it. We lost so many people, we’re losing people still, we lost our ability to gather and freedom to roam and many lost financial security and jobs and so much more. We’ve lost our innocence and stood by as children and families were slaughtered in Gaza and on Oct 7^th. And now the world is changing in other scary ways that feel entirely beyond our control. Are we really not even going to talk about it collectively?

I know every time I see the heaviness acknowledged, it makes me feel less alone, it makes the weight easier to carry. We’re all in this together.

One of the people I look toward to make me feel less alone with these heavy things has been Mara June, who is an educator, writer, community herbalist, and death doula. I enjoy reading her newsletter and find it helps me have perspective on navigating these times. In a recent newsletter I was struck by the beauty in this passage:

In times of dissolution, creating spaces for our grief is as important as ever.

Creating space for our joy is as important as ever. 

Our love of this earth is as important as ever.

The crocus blooming is as glorious as ever. 

The care with which we treat ourselves is as important as ever.

How fiercely we love and tenderly we care for one another is as important as ever. 

We still get to choose how we want to be together.

The crocuses are poking up slender purple necks this week in Seattle, braving the changeable weather. It’s a challenge to hold the beauty of early spring flowers with all that is hard and heavy—and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. The world is going through some stuff!

And yet, I know I have to stop and appreciate all the small beautiful moments, and breathe through the hard ones, and do all that I can to help others and take care of myself.

If you’re feeling the same, or similar, I see you. Just wanted to let you know you’re not alone. And if you care to share in the comments, I’d be so happy to hear about it.

We get through this together.

And if things are feeling particularly hard, some of my coping strategies are here, here, and here. And a recent gentle encouraging talk here.

Sending all my best. I hope you are finding your way forward.

—Tara

Here’s something else to enjoy: my books