Grief Skills

One of the skills of grief that Lusa had learned was to hold on tight to the last moments between sleep and waking. Sometimes, then, in the early morning, taking care not to open her eyes or rouse her mind through its warm drowse to the surface where pain broke clear and cold, she found she could choose her dreams. She could call a memory and patiently follow it backward into flesh, sound, and sense. It would become her life once again, and she was held and safe, everything undecided, everything still new. - Barbara Kingsolver in "Prodigal Summer."

Day 188. I never dreamed I would be writing these particular blogs. A lot can happen in a year. A lot that I never saw coming. Sort of like when I began reading this novel with all the powerful words about grief in it, having no idea how soon the words would jump out and apply to me. There are no coincidences in the universe. A cigar is never just a cigar. Even in Cuba.

I heard from my friend Dana today. I am touched by her incredible poise and courage as she responds to the media circus surrounding Tom's death. I cannot imagine being at the hub of such a high profile loss. I cannot imagine comforting a husband who has lost his twin to a violent, senseless death. Her husband left Alaska today to be with his parents and plan for the first of two memorial services. I wish Alaska wasn't so far away. Dana isn't too keen on touchy-feely expressions of sympathy, and I get that. I hope someone is close by to offer the version of support that is right for her. I wish it could be me.

Every time I am on the periphery of a disaster, I feel self-centered in my response. Not my outward response; I am well socialized and a shrink to boot so I know about socially appropriate reactions to people in grief. I'm less certain about my inner experience. I always feel selfish about how consuming grief can be. I do this bizarre ranking order in my head - kind of like the six degrees of separation equation. My grief doesn't feel legitimate if I am separated from the source by more than three degrees. If a client told me this, I would tell them to cut it out. Grief is grief. It IS highly personal, our feelings rarely bother with logic, and all pain associated with loss is legitimate. I can't seem to apply this order of thinking to myself. I've always required a separate set of operating rules for myself. Talk about self-centered.

The strange thing is, there was only one degree of separation with Tom. I knew him. Dana and Tim have been married for close to 25 years, so I've known him on the periphery for quite some time. There are just so many levels to process. My own selfish attachment and thwarted plans to visit him this fall and pick his brain for my benefit. My less selfish outrage over the vicious, random way he was killed. My inevitable feeling of helplessness and futility in directly addressing the conditions surrounding his death. My universal feeling of grief over the loss of a man that brought so much goodness to the world.

Grief is a multi-tongued beast. It lashes at sleeping and eating and thinking clearly. It seeps into every molecule of my body and mind. Nothing feels solid; the outer world hums with an uneasy vibration like the trembling before a big earthquake. Without conscious awareness, it feels like the ground could open up at any time and swallow me whole. Sometimes, I kind of long for that. Not that it would solve much.

My perspective and sensory integration are warped and curvy. It's like when you get off a fast and twisty roller coaster, and your body continues to swirl with the motion even after you've exited the ride. Since completing "Three Cups of Tea," I had no idea how often my mind went to the place of planning a trip to see Tom and thinking about what that visit might catalyze. For now, every time my nerons flow down that entrenched path, they come to a screaming halt at the intersection of remembering that he has died. Then everything goes black. Empty. Suspended. And not the good kind I shoot for in zazen.

I would love to write that my zazen practice is proving to be a source of deep comfort and reassurance. Not so. Not yet. There is nothing comforting or reasurring about the violent death of a selfless, peaceful man at the age of 51. I do feel grateful that Buddhism gives me a mechanism with which to sit in the midst of this painful Reality and experience it for what it is. I don't have to be prematurely brave or philosophical or try to make sense of this nonsensical thing. I can sit quietly on my cushion and weep. Feel the gutwrenching horror of this tragic thing that has happened. Take my time to let it settle.

It will be a long 40 minutes. Probably for many, many days.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc