During the traditional post-service trio of coffee, conversation, and cookies on Sunday, I was approached by one the members of this “Church of Last Resort” - as neighbor Gregory calls it. A talented wood carver, B was married to a lovely alto who sang in the Church Choir. When his wife died late last year, B followed the protocols for grieving. For a few months, he looked ghostly himself - a gossamer phantom. Gradually he has begun to rally… a little.
Easter Sunday, the sermon was about there being no one correct way to interpret the resurrection story. It could be Spring itself and the ever-renewing quality of life. Some might choose to believe the gospel story of Jesus actually rising from the tomb, rolling the rock aside and declaring triumph over death. Perhaps resurrection is the re-do of a relationship gone south, or the welling-up of wanting to live again after being leveled by grief like Wile E. Coyote under a steam-roller.
Maybe it was the sermon and a Happy Easter Hug I shared with genuine delight at table with B, that prompted him to launch into a recounting of a recent road trip with A, another man of the congregation who lost his wife just weeks ago. She too was a powerhouse and beloved member of the church.
The two men, A and B drove down the coast together to hear a musical presentation put on by one of their sons. They spoke unreservedly with one another of their difficulties, triumphs, and futures. I acknowledged that having a portable living room on wheels and miles to travel can be the perfect setting for deep conversation. How wonderful that these two men could share their sadness and shoulder one another’s grief with heart-felt understanding. Perhaps it is true: Joy shared is doubled; sadness shared is halved.
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For a few days, I was in Southern California to support an old friend whose mother died last week, I revisited the idea that there is no one correct way to grieve. Only our own way. Relief and grief are often inter-woven. Celebration of the emancipation of spirit from no-longer-useful flesh makes sense. Gardening in her backyard, with my friend the day after the burial, suited her perfectly. Another friend dealt with multiple loads from the dishwasher. We all just hunkered down and did the work that needed to be done and the interstitial heart-to-hearts were a balm. Clearly, my friend was working alchemy in her emotional body by pounding the earth with fist and foot. She was able to voice her frustration and disappointment owing to her children’s different priorities in the wake of their grandmother’s departure. The family has much work to do. Lawyers will be mitigators and prioritizers.
This other friend of my friend deserves a separate conversation in passing about passing. Her son was killed in 1998. These two bereaved women trauma bonded over the tragic and unimaginable loss of their brave sons. J, my friend since we were three years old, lost her son to a senseless murder in 1999 when he was advocating for the Uwa tribe in Colombia. C’s son had a vision of saving the old-growth redwoods in Humboldt County, California. He was crushed under one of the magnificent trees, which was cut down and seemingly aimed at him and his fellow protestors. The tree cutter employed by MAXXAM Lumber was never brought to trial. Similarly, charges couldn’t stick to Occidental Oil or FARC in Colombia, although both entities were implicated in the kidnap and subsequent murder of J’s indigenous-rights-advocating son and his two companions. A book by Patrick Beach recounts the tale of environmental heroism in A Good Forest for Dying: The Tragic Death of a Young Man on the Front Lines of the Environmental Wars.
The death of my friend's son is touched on in the video about Ram Dass called "Fierce Grace."
Conversing with someone who understands deeply our own gut and heart is a great gift.
In the case of these two women, I can only empathize as if I could know their shared experience of loss. My fervent prayer is that I never do fully understand that level of loss. Selfish? Yes. There are many other conversations about death I can partake in full-heartedly and with intimate knowledge. God and Goddess, please watch over my children and grandchild and all Earth's children going forward that they may thrive for years to come.
May the uprising of Spring put a spring in your step and incline your thoughts toward the miracle of being alive.
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