Wise Words

Lately, I find myself having a hard time hurdling challenges - the daily things, the big and small stuffs, the unyielding sadness. Sometimes they can be so relentless, they add to the weight of my grief. And I'm left wondering, "Why is this happening to me?"

Really, there are times that I just want to throw in the towel. Close the doors and windows of my heart, call it a day and just wait for the inevitable.

But then, I happened to read Dr. Joanne Cacciatore's blog and found an interesting entry. On that post, she mentioned the Lindbergh kidnapping (if you're not familiar with it, here's a link about it on wikipedia). She shared an excerpt of a book that the baby's grieving mother, Anne, wrote. And it was as if I've been struck by a tuning fork. Anne's words were eerily familiar. They vibrated and resonated, zeroing in on my own feelings of grief.

Anyway, I copied the excerpt from Dr. Joanne's blog (which I hope she won't mind) and pasted it below so I can share it with you.

Contrary to the general assumption, the first days of grief are not the worst. The immediate reaction is usually shock and numbing disbelief. One has undergone an amputation. After shock comes acute early grief which is a kind of "condensed presence" -- almost a form of possession. One still feels the lost limb down to the nerve endings. It is as if the intensity of grief fused the distance between you and the dead. Or perhaps, in reality, part of one dies. Like Orpheus, one tries to follow the dead on the beginning of their journey. But one cannot, like Orpheus, go all the way, and after a long journey one comes back. If one is lucky, one is reborn. Some people die and are reborn many times in their lives. For others the ground is too barren and the time too short for rebirth. Part of the process is the growth of a new relationship with the dead, that "véritable ami mort*" Saint-Exupéry speaks of. Like all gestation, it is a slow dark wordless process. While it is taking place one is painfully vulnerable. One must guard and protect the new life growing within-- like a child.
 
One must grieve, and one must go through periods of numbness that are harder to bear than grief. One must refuse the easy escapes offered by habit and human tradition. The first and most common offerings of family and friends are always distractions ("Take her out", "Get her away" , "Change the scene", "Bring in people to cheer her up", "Don't let her sit and mourn" ). On the other hand, there is the temptation to self-pity or glorification of grief. "I will instruct my sorrows to be proud," Constance cries in a magnificent speech in Shakespeare's King John. Despite her words, there is not aristocracy of grief. Grief is a great leveler. There is no highroad out.
 
Courage is a first step, but simply to bear the blow bravely is not enough. Stoicism is courageous, but it is only a halfway house on the long road. It is a shield, permissible for a short time only. In the end, one has to discard shields and remain open and vulnerable. Otherwise, scar tissue will seal off the wound and no growth will follow. To grow, to be reborn, one must remain vulnerable--open to love but also hideously open to the possibility of more suffering.

--"Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead" as written by Anne Morrow Lindbergh in 1932

Reading her words reminds me that if I want to grow from this grief, to learn from it, to integrate it, and to move forward with it, I must remain open and vulnerable. I must be willing to experience everything with it - from the good, the not-so-good, the bad, and yes, even the hideously bad. It's a very, very scary thought. It's never easy to go defenseless, especially after you lost a precious child.

So I'm scared sh*tless. The day my son died was the time I lost hope. I felt wretched and dark. It closed my very soul. But it wasn't a complete loss. There's still a tiny sliver left and I fight constantly to hold onto it. Even if I feel like I'm grasping a mere thread. I know it sounds so futile and desperate, right?

But I have always believed in the wisdom of this Anais Nin quote, "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." I think it's going to be more difficult being close, guarded and in fear all the time. It pushes one on the edge of giving up and losing hope completely.

So I resolve to 'blossom' in honor of Kai's memory. I will definitely fail and falter at times. But I'll continue to confront the harsh winds of this life rather than wither away, unopened.