Grief

I lingered in bed not wanting to awaken from my dreams this morning. Yet, the sounds of the many yellow breasted birds outside my window beckoned me to meet the morning sun. But I lingered anyway and stayed snuggled in Mom’s down comforter she loved so much.

And as I lingered, I allowed the energy that enfolded me to speak to me. I’ve been so tender these last few days, I felt the need to experience something different; something that would take me out of the grief that had consumed me. It called me to take required action. It wanted involvement in the fixing and mending and doing and making things better. It seemed to say a man could easily transition out of that space of hurt-no-more. A man could grunt his way into obscuring the pain!

So this morning I took on the energy of a man.  I put on a pair of man’s trousers. I wanted to feel the experience of the singular thought of wanting to fix things.  I wanted to see if I could transform into the logical steward of this grieving moment. I wanted to take the bull by the horns and create a path filled with decision making plans, to make a to-do list, to structure the next step of the day.

But I quickly removed them. The pants I put on felt too baggy and, at the same time, too constricting.  They felt imposing and stoic.  They  allowed me to retreat into my intellect, into the safety of the doing. The logical mind needing to break through in order to get to the other side of the deep sorrow I felt.

Then I tried on the shirt of vulnerability and it felt too dangerous, too open, too exposed. The tyranny of the moment, the power struggle to course correct the events that led to the sorrow caused me to tear the shirt off. Nothing seemed to fit this fractured soul.

Time needed to be slowed down. The hour needed to be felt and savored, though bittersweet. The unreflective moment to be washed away and vanished.

So I came back to visit my inner sanctuary and traveled to the place that brings me solace - The womb of the mother found in nature. In the mountains of the Sierras I found a spot to reflect, to allow, to be present, to find the balance within of that which I could not control.  

In this secluded mountain top, I was willing to dance naked in the snow. I wanted to reveal all to the God who knows all; the One from whom I cannot hide. I wanted to bathe in my tears and dry my sorrow in the lilies that form the boundaries of my soul.  I was willing to give all to this grief. I was willing to lay exposed and tender giving permission to prayer to heal my bones.  

I sat in silence wrapped in the unknown waiting for God’s invitation into the fire where the heart is broken open into love.  I remembered the power found in letting go, of deep surrender. The deep knowing poured out.  It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t stoic but it was sacred. I listened. I honored. I waited. I climbed the holy mountain. I remembered once again.

Grief has no time structure nor does it have prescribed methodology. It’s neither masculine nor feminine. It has no boundaries nor set rules. It moves at its own speed and time table. It can become an avalanche of self-pity or deep remorse. Or it can be held as holy ground to self-honoring and deep healing.  

I chose the holy ground. A place where grief is transformed and transmuted into the heart of my God who knows all and heals all.  The realm of grace where grief is resurrected into the light of great love. A place I could lean into and fall face down in reverence to all that is. Peace be still.