THE GIFT OF GRIEF.
In the not-so-wonderful world of grief, there exists a fine line. It’s an invisible divide that separates the shallow waters near the shore from the deep ocean. It’s where the bottom drops off, the cold, rough seas begin, and the dangerous currents live. Most of us cross it without realizing we’ve journeyed from safe, shallow waters into deep, hazardous currents.
Picture yourself standing on the beach at the ocean. You step into the waves, feel the cold water smacking against your shins, and you begin to physically and mentally adjust to the temperature and feel of the water. You step farther in, feeling the water slap your belly, your chest, rising to your shoulders. The water is cold, but not unbearable because the sun has warmed the shallow water near the shore. This shallow region near the beach represents "good grief" - grief in its natural, healthy state.
The water itself represents the feelings we have when we are grieving. They are always changing, being pulled by the moon, pushed by the wind, moved by the currents. Grieving is a part of loving. And like the depth of the water, it has different levels. Grief happens when things we love and need are removed from our lives making us sad, angry, lonely, and fearful. Things die, break, are taken from us, or get lost – things like people, hopes and dreams, cars, pregnancies, homes, jobs, even favorite items like your grandmother’s ring or your favorite sweater.
Losing a loved one causes the most intense kind of grief, and that puts us right into the ocean. Sometimes we’re warned in advance that we’re going into the grief-waters. We have a little time to put our bathing suits on, to make sure there’s a lifeguard present, and to have our towel, fins, goggles, and sunscreen ready. Other times life gives us a strong push out of nowhere, and we’re shoved from behind into the cold, dark water wearing our clothes, shoes, cell phones, and all.
Now, imagine a riptide grabbing you by the legs. You feel it gently tugging at first, but the pull gets stronger taking your legs out from under you forcibly. You intuitively understand that you could easily drown, and you enter fight-or-flight mode. As you struggle to keep your head above water, you look back to the shore and notice you’ve been pulled 25 feet from the place where you first stepped in! But wait... you suddenly remember you’re in shallow water. You stretch your legs beneath you and reach for the sand. As your feet take root and your legs straighten causing your body to rise, you’re instantly able to withstand the violent current. Grief is a strong riptide, but if you’re in shallow water, you can resist it. The forceful water left you cold, exhausted and soaked to the skin, but you survive. Now that you’re standing, you can clearly see your original tracks on the beach, the place where you started, and you can work your way back to shore.
If the rip current hits us without our feet firmly planted, it can easily drag us to deep water before we realize it. We start swimming with no point of reference, panicked and afraid. We find ourselves flailing in the deep, our feet desperately reaching for the bottom but not feeling it, waves dragging us under. This is what self-pity and "wallowing" does. These deep, cold waters are where waves and currents of emotion turn deadly. Self-pity and wallowing drown us quickly, and we will likely sink without a rescue effort.
So, how do we know when we’ve moved from grief to self-pity, from the safe shallow to the dangerous deep? Where is that fine line that separates the two?
The fine line is within each of us, and only those who are self-aware can detect it.
Grief happens naturally if we don’t resist it. When we’re standing in that shallow water, we feel it, experience it, embrace it, but it doesn’t wash us away. Self-pity, however, is something we allow and indulge that eventually controls us. It pulls at our heartstrings and whispers, “LIFE IS NOT FAIR. You don’t deserve this. Everyone else’s life is easier than yours. You’re stuck. You're a victim.” Before we can stop ourselves, the healthy sadness, anger, and fear we feel with “good grief” turn to bitterness, despair, and resentment. We move from self-aware-sadness to self-centered-bitterness.
Healthy grief, or “good grief” falls in the self-compassion category.
SELF-COMPASSION:
- Empathy toward self and others
- Our hearts are expanded and compassionate
- Acknowledgment of my pain and suffering but it doesn’t define me
- Still moving forward, even with pauses and setbacks
- Element of vulnerability
- Allowing feelings to flow freely, not forcing or denying feelings
Self-pity or “wallowing” falls in the self-destruction category.
SELF DESTRUCTION:
- The pain I feel becomes my identity. I move from “I have pain” to “I am my pain.”
- Our hearts are contracted by comparison to others and their situations.
- Feeling stuck with no options
- Element of control, escape, and self-protection from pain
- Forcing or denying feelings, not allowing them to flow freely
Okay, so what does healthy, “good grief” look like? It’s messy, unpredictable, and even a little chaotic. Every day - even every hour - can be different during seasons of pain. We often don’t know how to make room for it as we’re trying to carry on with our “normal” lives. Nothing feels normal when you’re grieving. There’s no right or wrong way to do it. But if you can sit with your own grief or sit with a friend in his or her trouble, the wondrous gift is that it passes like a rainstorm… it’s like the contractions before birth… on the other side of the tremendous pain is a deep joy – a profound, lasting sense of being held by the earth or by some great force of love. That’s part of the gift of grief.
There is no positive outcome to self-pity or wallowing. The lie is that the grief will kill you. It WON’T. Believe it or not, it's a gift. Feel the pain. It hurts. Notice how and where your body is expressing itself. Sit with it some more. Invite grief to be your companion, not the enemy you’re running from. Breathe, be mindful, be present, be loving to yourself and others. Be a friend to yourself when a friend is not available.
Most importantly, plan time and space for it. Free your schedule. Grief may show up at the worst times and surprise you, but if you start to give emotions the space they need, they have the freedom to rise and to clear.
What you’ll notice if you can sit with anger, sadness, or fear (all parts of grief), is that it grows and becomes almost unbearable, and then it passes… like a thunderstorm… and, in its place, the gift of strength and joy expands. The release is a relief for your body, your soul and your mind.
Someone once said, “Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.” Today, as I watch my sweet Bill suffer another day with painful, terminal cancer, I have a choice. I can grieve, or I can wallow. I can acknowledge and feel my pain, or I can command it to sit in the corner and obey me. I can have an expanding, compassionate heart, or one that is closed-off and protected from both love and pain.
Everyone who truly loves will eventually experience grief.
That's because grief is part of love. Both are part of the same gift.
Today I choose love, even if it hurts.
