Beauty and Grief

Last weekend, I went on some snow-shoeing walks. The landscape was beautiful, though at times also somewhat bleak. The weather in my heart was also variable and included some cloudy spots–what I will summarize as grief or grieving–as well as scattered sun–being touched by beauty and feeling fully enlivened by the fresh cool air touching my skin.

Early on my first walk, I saw a white rabbit–a hare. I wondered if I was witnessing a chameleon effect, that the rabbit had transformed to blend in with the landscape, or that the landscape had drawn out these particular shades in the rabbit. Either way, if this was the case, we know that such a transformation is meant to serve the rabbit well, to aid the rabbit in being safe, preserving and supporting life and health as it seeks out food, water, and living.

I was thinking earlier this week again of some presentations I heard a few years ago at a multicultural counselling conference related to grief at the Ontario Institute for Sutdies in Education, which is part of the University of Toronto. I came away from that conference very moved by some of the presentations, moved by stories of people’s courage and resilience to keep walking despite the grief: grief, which is sometimes a terrible, ripping pain that can feel unbearable, and is at some other times more like a dull but persistent aching that comes deep from one’s bones, deep from the wellspring of loss. At these times, grief encompasses a pulling down. I came away from the conference also with the idea of grief as a kind of companion, one that may accompany us throughout our lives, moving in closer at times, right up with us, and at other times fading from view, like a long-standing friend who calls periodically and comes for visits, though sometimes, if not often, with no advanced-warning or consideration of whether this is a convenient or a good time.

I expect some might react strongly to the idea of grief as a friend. I know I do though not to the exclusion of other reactions, including more conciliatory ones with the reaction depending somewhat on the day, on what is going on inside and out, context. I am reluctant to befriend grief, reluctant to want to befriend it. Yet, it is a companion whether I befriend it or not. It will come unannounced whether I invite it or not. It resides in me as surely as it resides anywhere else. So.

Kathy Hunt wrote:

It is possible that each of us has a functional grieving self, which is permanent, contains a cumulative store of pain and is ready when needed. It is located in a timeless dimension of the constantly changing, fluid self, a self that is not just intrapersonal but [is] also located in the interpersonal, physical, spiritual and cultural domain. (2005)

I believe she wrote this in her doctoral dissertation regarding grieving though I can’t promise this. It was presented by Dr. William West from the School of Education, University of Manchester at the conference in Toronto I mentioned attending in June, 2005.

I remember William West highlighting some concepts that he found particularly interesting: that the grieving self is ready when needed, timeless, permanent, functional, changing. “Do we really need grief?” I remember him saying something like that–though he was not necessarily disagreeing.

I remember another speaker, Ann Poonwassie, from CED Prairie Regional Centre for Focusing and Complex Trauma in Winnipeg, Manitoba. She spoke of the resilience she has witnessed in others as beyond comprehension. She worked with individuals and communities who have been ravished by tragedy and loss, terrible and traumatic events. Paraphrasing here, she commented on her observations of resilience, saying something like: “Do people heal? Sometimes yes, often no, but they find a way to have a good life beside the grief. They build their lives around what matters for them rather than what’s the matter. Yes, they cry. Yes, they never stop grieving, but they have a good life.”

Grief as a companion. Grief as moving in close, ready when needed. Grief as pain. Living with grief right here. Having a meaningful life, a good life beside the grief–note here, not only “besides” but also beside. Creating this, living it one moment and step at a time. Grief as right here beside walking with us, in us, as we walk. One can still have a good life.

And, sometimes you just have to rest, you have to surrender to the grief and cry it out and write it out and embrace what is. And you also may find you need to take it for walks, surround it by beauty, and by love, give it lots and lots of voice and listening and love. Maybe make it a cup of tea. “Here you go, grief. Sip gently. Let this soothe and warm you up.”

Ann Poonwassie also commented (again, in essence, from what I quickly jotted down on a piece of paper listening to her that day, being filled):

You don’t have to help. You just have to support what people need to do for themselves on their own terms–be what they need you to be. And you have to get the word out from what you learn from that.

After the weekend, when I was looking at the photo that has the tail-end of snowshoes in it, I observed how the imprint the snowshoes made looked like leaves. So I walked for some hours that weekend, etching out life, drawn to the walking, needing it, and leaving behind a long trail of leaves.

I believe grief needs beauty and it needs love.

When grief visits, may we find ways to walk with it, to seek out leaf making and beauty and love, and to leave behind a trail of leaves.

On the Chalkboard February 10, 2008

The beauty of a thing is its depth and meaning being revealed. To perceive that beauty, you need an eye for both appearances and for the invisible radiance of a thing. You also need the capacity to be affected.

~Thomas Moore , from Dark Nights of the Soul, (c) 2004, p. 223

Penny Whistle Love

One late afternoon last weekend, I went for a short, meandering walk through the neighbourhood before the sun quietly tucked below the horizon tugging along with it the light of day. Nearing a few blocks before my home, I heard the sweet sound of a wind instrument floating though the air. The source was a man standing on top of a very tall pile of snow playing a cheerful tune on what appeared to be a penny whistle or a recorder while children tobogganed down around him. The backdrop was a gray day and a rather unloved looking municipal lot. It has a large grass field (now covered with snow) and a gravel track that used to be used for horse-racing several years ago. Though somewhat unkempt in appearance, the space is frequented by many including myself to play, run, cross-country ski, take in the sunset, or walk with the dogs.

I wished that afternoon to give this person a thumb’s up, the musical magic maker, to thank him. The music was refreshing, nourishing, beautiful. Shyness took over and I regret that I didn’t say thanks. I wished that the music would go on for a long, long time and that this would be a more frequent site, that people would bring their instruments out into the streets more often and play, offering solace and beauty, celebrating creativity and life. I wished I had the courage to do this more myself.

I would like to say if you are one of the people in your neighbourhood who plays the penny whistle outside, or the guitar, some drums, or the enchanting french horn, thank you so much. Please keep playing. Your offering is a gift.

Snow Days

It has snowed a lot in Kingston over the past week as in many other places. I love the snow. I love how it makes indoor spaces brighter on gray days (and we have had many of those with gray days far outnumbering sunny ones). I love how snow can seem to make everything quieter, especially during those days and times of days when there are already not so many people driving cars around. I love the sound of snow crunching under foot while walking (a phenomenon reserved usually for crisper, colder days). I love snowmen and snow forts, long stretches of pristine fields and forests covered in glistening snow. I love the moon on the snow and colourful mittens that go with snow–especially hand-made ones. I love snow angels and the giddiness that can come alive in snow as commonly witnessed in children and dogs though something that has also been elicited in adults as I have observed, for example, among colleagues at work in the wonder and dazzle in their chatter and expressions after a particularly beautiful falling of snow.

A tip I might offer to anyone who feels the excitement of snow but finds they often hold back from enjoying it: acquire snowpants. Uninsulated or insulated, they are, in my opinion, a *must* for any adult wardrobe where snow is part of the climate. They make being in the snow much more pleasant and fun. They also serve as a gateway to filling the lands with snow angels, as one example. When you have snowpants, it is much easier to follow the impulse to lie down in the snow, start up your wings (quoting Kat Goldman here from her album, sing your song), and enjoy the peacefulness and expanse of sky. When you have snowpants, it is much easier to leave that unmistakable, magical imprint of flying, icon of life and hope for all who may pass by.

That there has been a lot of snow lately means that there has also been a lot of shoveling. After the last large snowfall, I realized as I began to shovel that my body was still physically tired after the previous shoveling adventures. I realized that I was going to have to complete the task a bit at a time with breaks in between, which made me think of that theme of perseverance bit by bit, one small step at a time. I did. Thankfully, it all worked out just fine. I might mention here, however, words from my 80-plus year old neighbour last weekend one evening when she was shoveling her walk in the midst of a LARGE snowfall and I went over to help her. After a few minutes, she essentially indicated that what we had done (what she had done mostly) was enough for today. Tomorrow is another day, she said and I thought, yes. God willing, good luck, and me doing my part–yes indeed.

As I look out my window right now, I see a series of snow ploughs and sanders have parked across the street from my house–tea time, perhaps–and also that there are thousands of white velvet flakes falling from the grand expanse of gray sky, each one completely unique, each one completely its own entity, all coming together to glisten and dazzle the heart, soften the harsh sounds, and brighten the land once again.

Winter tip number two: a snow shovel is a very good investment.

Kind, warm, bright regards,

tracy

Now there is a fire where there once was a spark...

Do you ever find yourself feeling full, alive with much, touched by many things, yet unsure how to capture any of it with words? I have been finding myself in this space off and on lately–full of much, moved and enlivened by much but unsure how to express all that it stirs, what to say.

Here, I might offer my recommendation of a concert that was recorded last February (2006) in honour of Black History Month. You can listen to the concert on-line at CBC Radio Two’s “Concerts on Demand” website–a site, I might add, that appears to be amazing, full of live-recorded music to explore. Click here to get to the show.

As detailed on the website, Alan Neal, the host of CBC’s radio program, Bandwidth, commissioned various musicians to write a piece of music about Canadian Black historical figures including Eligjah McCoy, Mary Anne Shadd, Portia White, Harry Jerome, Dr. Daniel Hill, and Carrie Best. The musicians had less than two weeks to do this and the results are truly impressive with songs and stories that are informative, deeply moving, sad, inspiring, strong. I listened to the concert for the second time last night on the radio, and it stirred that full feeling in me–absolutely powerful and real though leaning toward the intangible. If you have time, I encourage you to listen to the show all the way through. (To do this, click on the tracks in the order that they appear, beginning with the “Introduction” and ending with “That Lonesome Road”. Mac users will need to have downloaded Windows Media Player for Mac or Flip4Mac or some other program that will play windows media files.)

I also wish to draw special attention to Jill Barber’s song, That Lonesome Road. It is a song that moves me. I first heard this song on the radio about a year ago; next, near the end of this past year, 2006; and third, last night, while listening to the repeat broadcast of the February, 2006 Bandwidth concert. When the song was played on Bandwidth near the end of last year, Alan Neal explained that it was the most requested song of the year. I’m not surprised. Do have a listen. When I heard it last night, I stopped what I was doing (preparing some tasty food) and I sat on my little wooden rocking chair near the radio speakers, listening with attention in full.

Now there’s a fire where there once was a spark
And a woman who made her mark
With the strength not to take it,
find the silence and break it
and to lead with her head and her heart

Jill Barber

If you click here, you will find a legible photograph of the lyrics for the song from a blog by a young, Canadian teacher who attended the recording of the show last year and writes a bit about this experience on her blog, Easy on the Butter.

A word that comes to mind to me now (and often) is journey. I am thinking of the journeys people find themselves on and how they navigate these. I am also thinking today of questions related to how to help another feel that the fight is worth it when they are in a low place, how to help inspire another, how to help them connect to that spark within where they may find their strength.

~

So a young girl makes a choice
Hears the sound of her own voice
She makes up her mind, she’s
determined to find
a way to hear it rejoice
Jill Barber

(And a way to find her own voice.)