GRIEF

Hatnim Lee snapped this picture on a foggy Tennessee night during her trip to my wedding in January 2009.  I love it the way I love most of her photographs, but this one strikes a chord right now as an excellent representation of how the world looked recently as I tried to find my way through a difficult time. 

There were some beautiful moments over the holiday season this year, but much of the time was colored by the pallor of fresh grief.  One of my oldest and dearest friends, someone I considered one of my best of the best, died in her sleep the weekend of December 15th.  It was a huge shock to those of us (who are many) that loved her and relied on her strength, wit, and compassion as a source of deep joy and encouragement in our lives.  I know that I am one of many people trying to understand how life is supposed to work with her, or at least be as good and fulfilling as before.

My friend is the third in a series of very wonderful, very young people to meet an early and nearly unexplainable death in my broader circle of acquaintances over the last six month.  So I’ve been thinking about grief a lot since the summer, and the heaviness of how long and arduous a process grieving can be was clear to me over the holidays as I sat with parents, friends and family members of the recently departed and we all tried to do the best we can to remember and reflect on the lives of those we love with honesty, integrity, truth, and grace.  

I’m finding it extremely difficult to understand my friend’s death without her here to help process it.  Not only has she helped me process every life event since I was 12, but I also have so many unanswered questions and concerns.  Besides wanting desperately to know more about the afterlife (which I firmly believe exists), I want to know how she feels about the whole experience, and what she was thinking when she went to sleep on the night she was never to wake again.   What did she say when she met her maker?  Knowing her, it was probably something like:  “Seriously, are you f***ing kidding me?”  The dramatic and mysterious way she exited life would surely make her either die of embarrassment or laugh out loud.  Probably it made her do both.

Selfishly, I want to ask her if I was a good enough friend, if I was there when she needed me, if I listened enough and listened closely, if I cared enough, showed enough concern, or provided enough help when she needed it.   Could I have changed her fate if I’d just been more present, more attentive, or more in-tune with her life?  I’m trying to sort out these questions for myself and realize they are more about my business than hers, and I’m working hard to avoid letting my own insecurity color the way I remember her life and legacy.  She was a person who lived large, was fiercely independent, and had an incredible amount of pride.   She did not like to burden others with her concerns, and did not do so lightly, as she seemed to feel it was her primary call in life to love others, make them laugh, and lift them up.   Because I believe this so firmly, I am choosing to let my own questions and insecurities go, as well as any remnants of anger at not having the opportunity to feel like I could love and support her the way she supported me.   In order to turn my grief into something creative, I’m vowing to be more direct with those people I love moving forward, and to take and relish every opportunity I have to spend with friends when it’s at all possible. 

Finally, I want to share something I heard last spring that touched me deeply.   Oprah (yes, I’m going there) did this amazing segment on the spiritual leader Ram Dass, and during the segment, she interviewed the parents of Rachel Isser, an eleven year old girl who, along with her best friend, was brutally murdered one afternoon after disappearing from a neighborhood park.  In the midst of their gut-wrenching grief, the Issers received this letter from Ram Dass which they keep to this day.  To hear them read it out loud was powerful, as you could still hear the depth of their grief but also the sense that it brought to an otherwise unexplainable and horrendous circumstance.  There was a sense of belief and courage in their choice to embody these words that was incredibly poignant:

Dear Steve and Anita,

Rachel finished her work on earth, and left the stage in a manner that
leaves those of us left behind with a cry of agony in our hearts, as the
fragile thread of our faith is dealt with so violently. Is anyone strong
enough to stay conscious through such teaching as you are receiving?
Probably very few. And even they would only have a whisper of equanimity and
peace amidst the screaming trumpets of their rage, grief, horror and
desolation.

I can't assuage your pain with any words, nor should I. For your pain is
Rachel's legacy to you. Not that she or I would inflict such pain by choice,
but there it is. And it must burn its purifying way to completion. For
something in you dies when you bear the unbearable, and it is only in that
dark night of the soul that you are prepared to see as God sees, and to love
as God loves.

Now is the time to let your grief find expression. No false strength.
Now is the time to sit quietly and speak to Rachel, and thank her for being
with you these few years, and encourage her to go on with whatever her work
is, knowing that you will grow in compassion and wisdom from this experience.
In my heart, I know that you and she will meet again and again, and
recognize the many ways in which you have known each other. And when you
meet you will know, in a flash, what now it is not given to you to know: Why
this had to be the way it was.

Our rational minds can never understand what has happened, but our hearts
– if we can keep them open to God – will find their own intuitive way.
Rachel came through you to do her work on earth, which includes her manner of
death. Now her soul is free, and the love that you can share with her is
invulnerable to the winds of changing time and space. In that deep love,
include me.

In love,

Ram Dass

Though I, like many people, would like to change the nature of my friend’s death, or understand why the hell it had to happen in the first place, I am praying that I can accept her death as part of her life, something that God can and will use creatively.   Her life and legacy continues through her death, and I want to treat it with the same integrity and charisma that she displayed in so many facets of her life.   Like every circumstance in our lives, I am sure there is much to learn from it, but there is no need to blame her, or myself, or God for the events that rounded out her life and her call here on this Earth.  They are now part of her life too, and my love and loyalty to her is strong enough to accept these as they are, doing my level best to let go of regret, blame, and ambiguity in order to embrace and celebrate the person I knew and loved so well.