Life is Fragile - Handle with Care: Mindful Living in October

Life is like that, isn’t it…fragile? Sometimes we are surprised by the delicate nature of our hearts, and maybe never more so than when grief enters our lives. Our hearts are precious. Our life is precious. Even our hurt and grief are precious—AND hard.

Our hearts are also strong. If we love deeply, we will grieve deeply. Glennon Doyle Melton shares that “Grief is the souvenir of love.” I recall as a little girl in Ruidoso, NM peeking into a barrel of polished rocks at the souvenir shop. As I ran my little hands through the rocks, I remember having the hardest time choosing which rock was “the one” to take home as a souvenir. Unlike the small stone I eventually chose to remember a happy vacation, grief does NOT feel like a fun souvenir –but rather a painful yet priceless and rich remembrance of a deep love, a cherished friend, a location, or an experience that is no longer with us. If we love deeply, we will grieve deeply.

C.S. Lewis has said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” How does grief feel for you right now? Grief’s forms are as various as those rocks in the souvenir shop.

Do you feel sad that you don’t feel comfortable having a conversation with someone you love due to the political climate? Feel that.

Do you feel confused about what is next for you? Feel that.

Do you feel overwhelmed every time you turn on the news by those who are hurting from fires, floods and hurricanes? Feel that.

Does your work environment, especially of late, generate anxiousness within you? Feel that.

Is your elderly parent experiencing diminishment? Feel that.

Are you struggling with conversations/being around others? Feel that.

Are you concerned about sending your child to school? Feel that.

Are you having trouble sleeping? Feel that.

What other losses are you feeling right now? Feel that.

What have you grieved in the past that still visits you occasionally? Feel that.

Dr. Brené Brown has such a gifted ability to take very difficult topics like shame, vulnerability and courage and put words to them that we can all understand. She identifies three elements of grief: Loss, Feeling Lost and Longing. Looking through the lens of those categories has helped me tremendously when I have been walking through times of grief. It is so helpful to recognize and name the various facets of grief, to break it down into pieces that we can name, understand, then feel and work through.

In recent days I have talked with so many who are walking through various types of grief: someone experiencing grief through the loss of a beloved pet; a parent who is feeling lost from an adult child who is choosing not to communicate; a widow who lost her spouse of 39 years; an active outdoorsman’s loss of mobility due to a surgery; a couple’s fractured relationship due to bottled up anger for multiple years; infidelity; death of a parent; traumatic accidental death of a co-worker; a precious child’s surgery; loneliness; heartbreak from an ended relationship; inability to get pregnant; continual and unrelenting financial struggle; political and cultural heartache; a diagnosis of cancer.

The list is unending, and there is no doubt that whatever grief we might be experiencing, our pain seems more complicated and confusing with all that is going on in our world right now. Maybe we haven’t been able to gather together to grieve and remember as we would have without Covid, for example. Our unexpressed grief can take an emotional and spiritual toll on us all.

Even if we have been able to share our grief of loss of life through a funeral or Celebration of Life service, our culture allows such a short time for mourning. When we were in Nepal, our guide’s Mother passed away. In the midst of deep sadness, we saw a glimpse of beauty in the Hindu practice of dedicating time to grieve. Our guide explained that according to his faith tradition, mourners wear white and do not return to work for 10-30 days so they can be dedicated to mourning and remembering their loved one. He would not be available for most of our planned time together in Nepal, but he had arranged for others who would support us.

Little did I know that I would be facing the death of my Dad the week after we got home. I tried to learn from our guide and incorporate his practice of allowing myself time to grieve. As we were entering the initial shutdown phase of the pandemic, I realized I had plenty of time to grieve. But could I allow myself to feel the grief? In addition, it felt so complicated to mourn the loss of my Dad along with all the grief that was going on in our world. Writing down my experiences of heartbreak and grief was so helpful in giving words to and understanding my grief. I journaled, took walks in nature honoring Dad, and spent time “being with” the hurt of a loss felt deeply. Grief was an invitation to connect to my heart, breathe deeply, and pay deep attention to how things were unfolding in front of me.

We know that grief is a part of life, and that it will visit us from time to time. We also recognize that the way we experience and express our grief is personal and unique. We all grieve differently, and will need various types of support and encouragement along the way.

The question I would invite all of us to ponder is, “Can we be present with our grief?” How might we choose to be present with our grief? Why would we want to be intentionally present with our grief? It may not be easy, but when we are intentional about naming and experiencing our feelings of sorrow and loss, we are able to identify various aspects of the landscape within our heart that need tender care. This practice is a kind of exquisite risk and vulnerability – a kind of exquisite love.

I love this Swedish proverb, "Shared joy is a double joy. Shared sorrow is half a sorrow." I find such healing when I bow in prayer and share my heart or when I can be open and vulnerable and share my hurt with others. What a privilege to accompany another in the grief journey. What an honor to have someone walk with us through the difficult times…to help us hold on when we are feeling scared and devastated and overwhelmed in our loss. Accompaniment is a wonderful gift when our hearts are hurting, and we have someone to bear witness as we navigate the pain within.

May our hearts bend towards hope and may we scavenge our worlds for joy as we tenderly and carefully tend to our precious hearts. Life is Fragile - Handle with Care.

Roger, my husband, has written an incredibly touching and heartfelt poem. May you find wisdom in his beautiful words.

Bye Dad,
Bye Mom
by Roger Jones

My brother calls and says,
“You should probably
catch the next flight back.”
My dad’s ever declining health
is fading. He’s losing his will to live.
Doctors try to sustain him.
As a last pleasure,
he requests a Coke and they advise him
to refrain, fearing adverse consequences.
He responds, verbatim,
“I’m already dead.”
He’s then transferred to hospice,
for an undetermined
stay, maybe months.
We’re settling in there and my brother
remarks something softly,
and I ask him to repeat. Tears emerging, he says,
“We’re losing him.”
Dad’s breaths are shallow and fading
I speak in his ear and say to the prospect of him leaving,
“Go to God, Dad.”
Within minutes, he’s left.
Feeling the crush of grief, I sob and sob.
My sister, brother, and I hug and tell each other
how much we love him, Mom, and each other.
A few days later, at the funeral home,
Dad lies awaiting his final destination.
His body cold and stiff and modeled.
I look to him, reflect, and offer,
“Bye, Dad.”

A few years later, my brother calls and says,
“You should probably
catch the next flight back.”
My mom has experienced a massive stroke–
and it doesn’t look good.
It wasn’t good.
The doctor says she has no brain activity and
that it’s “the most impressive stroke
I’ve seen” (Yes, those very words).
My siblings and our spouses confer
and conclude Mom wouldn’t want this.
Grief returns and swells within me,
painful and unrelenting.
The doctor ceases Mom’s ventilator and her
heart continues to beat an astounding 20 minutes.
I say to myself,
“She is a strong woman.”
I say to her,
“Bye, Mom.”

Several years have passed.
In the backyard, I now reflect on
my departed parents.
In a moment of fantasy,
I imagine them walking in
to visit us and my Dad voices,
“Hey, Rog!”
And I feel the pit of grief in
my gut and the press of it in my heart.
This mythical moment
and the attendant grief pass.
I grab a ball and pitch it in the yard,
our faithful lab lopes to capture it,
and proudly returns, dropping it
at my feet and looking up to me.
We retreat to the house
through the back door,
and carry on.

Throughout the month of October, I will share reflections relating to the many facets of grief and images of rivers with you on Facebook and Instagram. Nature is such a healing sanctuary for our hurting hearts and is richly portrayed in the beauty of water and rivers. May you find inspiration in the daily reflections. May we take time to ponder what is hurting within our hearts.

If you are not on social media, you can download a PDF with the images and thoughts about grief below.