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It’s the other losses that are going to break me
A reality of living with a loss is that it’s not the only thing that gets changed. Everything else around us changes too. We grieve our primary loss, such as the death of our person, job loss, divorce, changes in our health…
These can traumatic enough. But, there are other losses which come also. They are often called secondary losses, and their impact intrudes in areas we had thought were safe.
Letting the “should’ves” go
“You most likely did the best you could at the time with what you knew. Life is complicated. Troubles don’t take a number, and they don’t wait for their turn. They happen while we are busy with our jobs, our commitments, our families… life. It is difficult to focus on only one thing all the time, or to see the whole picture at once. If you are living with regrets and guilt, I invite you to offer yourself the same grace you would invite others to live into.”
Life Now
But, what happens when we can’t see the good things and joy of today because they are clouded over by the anger and pain of our grief? What do we do when we can’t let down our guard and defenses against another shoe dropping and causing more pain?
How do we quit allowing the grief to hollow out our lives?
Home place, shoes, and Elvis
I don’t know how it is for you, but music is a perfect escape for me. Depending on how the day is going, the direction the wind is coming from, and how much coffee I have, Spotify is cued up for jazz fusion, ‘80s hair bands, or classical music. When music is on, there is a release of emotions, tension, and even mild inhibitions (see previous comment about singing and drumming).
Until a song comes on and the memories and the grief, which are never too far away, return.
So what do we do when what has given us joy in the past can’t now?
What do we do when the holiday songs are too joyful, and too painful?
The Wall
I don’t know why I want keep this wall. There is no emotional attachment to it. I never sat on a stool and watched my grandpa work on a tool that needed attention. I never played in the barn as a child. And yet, I don’t want to see it thrown into the dumpster with all of the other usable pieces at the end. It just seems too…important for that.
Hold on until December 22
We still have 38 days until December 21st, the shortest day of the year. Thirty-eight more days of increasing darkness. And, I don’t know how you’re doing, but I may be limping to December 22, when the darkness will start receding.
Yet, my struggle isn’t so much with whether Elizabethtown is on Eastern Time (it is), or whether we need to leave an hour early to catch a flight out of Nashville (I think so?).
My struggle is with the ever encroaching darkness that steals a little bit more of our light every day.
Remembering
I can’t undo the losses each of us have lived through. I can’t bring back those whom each of us are grieving. However, I offer these thoughts, and I pray they provide some comfort.
How are you?
So, what are we supposed to do when we’re not okay? What about when it feels like the world has fallen apart around us, and we aren’t sure how to pick up the pieces? What about when the deathiversary of our person is in a few days and we’re grieving their absence a little extra today? Or when something reminds us of what has been lost and we could really use someone to listen to our story again?
What about those days when you’re just sad?
What are you supposed to say then?
Seeking order in the chaos
To be honest, what usually pushes me outside is the maddening admission that I can’t undo any of our losses. I can’t make any of the consequences we are living with right themselves. I can’t make others understand the grief we still feel. I can’t fix any of it.
Good words to sit with
It might seem odd then, that last week I decided to give meditation a try. Mainly I did it because I realized that my time of meditation is whatever I want it to be. Although basically it’s sit quietly, breathe in, hold, and breathe out. Yup, that very practice which threw me off yoga is what I’m attempting to do again. But this time it’s different.
Grief is something I never asked for
So many times I sat at our kitchen bar and wept as I read words I needed to hear. Words I wish had been spoken over a younger me when my mom died, I moved away from home for the first time, my husband and I had a miscarriage, and so many other losses. I wept knowing it was now my task to walk with others and help make their way a little less painful.