“Not a destination, not a one and done proposition, not something you fix, recover from, or get over, grief and loss are part of the human story, and we all experience various types of them. The details of our particular losses are part of our personal experience and need to be acknowledged and mourned in an appropriate way.” ~ Kathy Swaar, Fine Lines, Walking the Labyrinth of Grief and Loss
Just before my mother mother died five years ago today, she said, “Honey, don’t grieve for me too long.” Ever the obedient daughter, I wanted to honor her request, but simply could not.
The truth is, I will grieve for my mother until the day I take my last breath.
And that’s fine with me.
Before I reached a certain age and began experiencing a string of losses, I accepted the notion that grief was something you “got over.” You felt badly for a while, but eventually the memories would fade, you could put them away and get on with your life.
Nope. Grief is a lifelong experience. It’s a roller coaster ride, a gut punch when you least expect it and a fond remembrance when you most need it. Grief taunts you and tests you.
But is also teaches you.
“Being present to our grief is excruciating - and excruciatingly hard work,” writes Kathy Swaar in her enlightening new book Fine Lines, Walking the Labyrinth of Grief. “But it is in bearing witness, in experiencing and being present to what is happening to us and in us, that the way opens for insight, understanding, and healing to come, bit by bit, piece by piece, step by step.”
I wish we had a word other than “grief” for this process of settling the pain of loss into your spirit, a word for this process of making peace with loss and learning to abide with it. The word grief is so harsh and unrelenting. What I’ve learned through grief is not quantifiable, but I feel the immensity of it. I have a newfound appreciation for every moment of life and every minute I spend with the people I love most. I have a deeper understanding of the ways my mother’s deep and abiding love made me the person that I am today - and some of those revelations were painful. I have a newfound sense of inner strength as I learn to care for myself in ways she once cared for me.
Underlying all of this is still a sense of missing her gentle, loving presence in my daily life, wanting to tell her things that happen, wishing for her wise counsel, aching to hear her laugh as her grandson tell stories about his work and life, to see her blue eyes sparkle while she listens to her great-grandson play the piano or watches our little dog Lacey playing in the yard.
In the throes of my earliest devastating grief, I turned to books (as I usually do) for insight and solace. Fine Lines would have been a valuable asset at that time, but not surprisingly it’s just as valuable today. While then it might have been purely instructive, now it’s wonderfully validating. And even though Kathy and I have never met in person, when I read her words I knew she had been in the grief trenches with me. Because even though our losses are not “fresh” - more than six years for her and five for me - they are abiding. And though every loss is unique, we all share the experience of integrating loss into our lives.
Five years after my mother’s death, I’d still give anything to have her here with me. But I know life ends, and hers was long and happy. I am beyond grateful for having spent 60 years of mine with her, seeing her nearly every day, having her a part of my daily life and experiences, being able to share every bit of Life In General with her. What a precious gift. And in the graceful, peaceful way she left this earth, she taught me the ulitmate lesson - how to let go with love.