The Landscape
of Grief
Traversing
the landscape of grief is challenging work. I landed here 15 years ago when I
stopped running away from my past.
I'm a
full-time resident now. I can't escape even though I try fairly
consistently.
Grief work
doesn't scare me as much as it used to. I've learned from experience that it
won't kill me. And yet, when faced with exploring it, I always want to run to a
social event, to shop, to get something to eat or go rent a DVD.
In my
coaching session with my coach this morning, I promised that I would stay home
this weekend and allow time for grief. I will light a candle and write. If I
didn't remember the value of grieving, it would be all but impossible to do it.
My body remembers the relief of a good cry.
In writing,
I discover what's tugging at me at this time. In the 12 Step Recovery Work I'm
doing, I'm relinquishing some old roles that no longer serve me. Martyr, Savior,
Victim, and Seductress, to name a few.
Like a skin
I've outgrown, I attempt to shake off these behaviors, but they keep sticking to
me. These behaviors have defined me for so long and without them, there's a
void. Who am I then?
Sometimes
there is nothing scarier than a void. I grasp at old behaviors and then feel
remorseful because I've chosen the well-worn path again instead of being willing
to sit with the discomfort of not knowing what to do.
I witnessed
my mother's sacrifices on a daily basis. I thought she was heroic. Often, I'd
find her down in the basement drinking a cold cup of coffee and eating a Hostess
Twinkie. I wonder if she had to swallow those treats in order to keep her
resentments down.
A friend who
volunteers for Hospice says that people who have unfinished business have a very
difficult time when they are dying. Mom certainly did. She hung on to life to
the very end even when her body was so broken and worn out. She was challenged
by the surrender process, as most of us are.
I learned to
be a martyr by witnessing my mom. At Sunday dinner she'd eat the parts of the
chicken nobody else wanted. The piece with hardly any meat on it, the wings and
all the organ pieces were Mom's pieces. She'd give the biggest piece of white
meat to her oldest son. The rest of us would get the legs and thighs.
When I was a
child my father was the only one in the family who ate butter and cream on his
oatmeal. The rest of us ate oleo and put skim milk on our oatmeal. My father was
French and entitled to special privileges. After all, he was the
breadwinner.
What skin
are you wearing that you've outgrown? What is the universe nudging you to
change?
Death of a
Young Neighbor