Grief, Briefly
What is grief? Why grieve? How to grieve?
My ancestors have less to “say” about grief and are more keen on me actually grieving and being able to provide that space for others. Upon coming into contact with them, it was transmitted that I now do Grief Work. They aren’t too tied up with the notion of certifications– the ancient ones lived in a different paradigm where neither the patriarchy nor colonialism dictated who could or should or would do something vocationally based on a hefty monetary exchange and some graded papers. With feeling grief, supporting grieving, grief walking, grief guiding, unlocking and unblocking grief– we don’t have the luxury to be cautious– though may we never be reckless. The house is on fire and it doesn’t matter if you’re a trained firefighter, if you have some water: offer it up.
Grieving is a learnable skill. It’s not exactly something that can be done alone. When you haven’t grieved a lot, when you haven’t learned how to grieve, it’s scary. Truly. It’s also so worth it and not optional. As a culture obsessed with production under capitalism, we’ve convinced ourselves it’s optional and this is simply not true. You can’t unsubscribe from grief. You can certainly attempt to, but it will make you make time for it eventually. Grief is one of the big, old, wise, mysterious powers that holds together life. You can run, but you can’t hide.
Grief is many things. It’s an efficient way to reorganize and transform: egos, families, and cultures. It’s a threshold to birth, to something new, to something different. It’s dynamic. It’s catalytic. It’s an expander: how much can you hold?
It’s watery for me. After an utterly devastating breakup in my early 20s, I described the feeling of carrying around a giant backpack filled with water. Sometimes I would rage and the water would turn to steam and burn me, and those around me. Sometimes it remained liquidy and would slosh around, constantly throwing me off balance. Sometimes, it would harden into ice and while I was nearly crushed by the sheer weight and density of it, eventually I noticed I was getting stronger with each step.
I now often describe it as a wave coming in, and the actual process of grieving is letting that wave crest. That’s what my experience with it has been: a wave of energy. If you let it crest and pass though, it will do just that. Then you can return to a calm sea with so much more ease that if you try to surf, or swim the other way, or go under it, or around it, or whatever other thing you might do with a wave in this muddied metaphor.
When we grieve, our edges soften. Life becomes richer. Our relationships are more honest and real and nourishing. We’re better friends, neighbors, and lovers. We’re more willing to just be with what's hard, which is a lot these days. It’s a daily practice for me to be emotionally honest in the moment, and remain present with my experience. When I'm actually able to do that, my life is notably better. It can feel risky especially without much positive, integrated experience. Know that it’s always worth the risk to be a bold and loving and vulnerable person. Grieving allows for us to flex instead of shatter. Grieving allows you to feel less pressure and more freedom.
When we grieve, we keep the energy flowing. It doesn’t get stuck. It doesn’t create blocks. It doesn’t have the chance to become dense and create illness in the physical body, or in the mind, heart, or soul.
It’s a fundamental life skill. A key piece of our vitality. It’s in the same toolkit as how to communicate your needs, how to take care of your body with food and exercise, or how to regulate your nervous system. I’ve had a lot of catching up to do, I didn’t get much teaching on these skills growing up.
I couldn’t grieve for nearly three decades. Sure, I’d cry here and there, usually at the most mundane things: a commercial, a little glove on a little hand holding the railing inside an elevator, a gummy worm on the sidewalk. Or I’d rage: at the person riding his bike the wrong way in Central Park (iykyk), venting more than connecting, at Republican politicians and voters, and then just actually the entire government. It wasn’t very effective. If pressed, the only “feelings” I could identify were anxiety and depression.
So, how to do it? Here are a few places to start:
Sit quietly and drop into your body. Take note of what’s there. Sometimes guided meditation can help with this. It can be as simple of a structure as: bringing your attention to your body, your breath, your heart, your belly, and all the way down into your legs and feet. Whatever helps you to feel rooted in your body, and as settled as you can be in your own space, take a few moments to focus there.
If the thought of sitting quietly with your thoughts and feelings is already a barrier to entry, or you’re reading that thinking “I don’t have the slightest clue how to bring my breath into my heart” you can try to unlock grief with a sad song (or 13.) Set a timer for 15 minutes. If the tears come, let them come. Wail. Roll around, scream, thrash about. Then take 5 of the deepest breaths you’ve ever taken in your life: in through the nose and audibly out through the mouth (ahhhhh) Consider taking a shower, or at the very least, changing your clothes. Something to signal the end of the active grieving time.
Connect with other-than-human kin. Go outside, connect with so-called nature. Where is there already abundant love and holding that you’re not really open to? Cry at the roots of a giant tree, cry into the sunflower, go lay on the grass and give all you got to the grass. How can you expand how much support and care is actually available? Does that sound silly? Brillant. When was the last time you did something that made you feel silly? Is there a body of water near you? Go to it. Maybe go in it. Have you ever wailed while floating in an ice cold creek? It’s nearly orgasmic and absolutely cathartic.
A general recipe is:
Sound - crying, sighing, growling, hissing, heavy breathing.
Movement - rolling around, shaking your hands, punching a pillow, splashing in water.
A witness - your well and bright ancestors, dog, best friend, or the pine tree in your backyard.
It’s about keeping the experience within a range you can tolerate, and having a clear ending to the active time of processing. Start with 30 seconds, then maybe a few minutes. The point is to be able to function after, even if you feel more tired or raw than usual. Transitioning out of an intentional grieving ritual can look like lighting a candle when you begin and blowing it out when you’re reached your edge. Washing your hands, washing your face, or even taking a shower. Changing your clothes. Burning herbs (cedar or rosemary, perhaps) to clear the space energetically. Spraying water infused with flowers (rose or lavender are lovely) to energetically reset and clear the space. Clapping your hands three times. Asking someone for a long, hard hug. (Maybe do that last one anyway, even if you haven’t been sobbing for the previous 7 minutes.)
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Be in touch if this is stirring. You can book a 1:1 Good Grief Guided Session. In person Good Grief Gatherings are coming this Fall to Sedona, as well as the return of online Good Grief Gatherings likely in September, so keep your eyes peeled! You can also reach out to hello@ashleywaverley.com to connect about inviting me to facilitate a private grief ritual for your group/community.