This is really beautiful. When I saw this in my inbox this morning, I wasn't sure if I would come back to it, if I would sit down to do the meditation, if I would be able to cry-- but I am glad I did (and, I did cry). Knowing you are sad, grieving, hurt is one thing; reaching to that, expressing it, honoring it, is quite another. You have reminded me that setting up a space to process emotions isn't creating an artificial environment-- we're not forcing ourselves to cry, we're just ushering ourselves to a space where we can welcome it. I liked what you said-- "Humanity is made to cry. ... Darkness is not without purpose. Suppose the purpose of the darkness is to shield and protect your solitude."
The questions you posed in the meditation are very compassionate. I noticed myself kind of caught off-guard. Because it felt like I was treating myself as I would a friend, I suppose. It's not just "Think about what hurts" but, "What hurts?" That kind of turning-to-self is not something I do frequently enough.
This summer, I was thinking about similar things to what you have said here about grief and tears, and ended up turning those thoughts into a blogpost on the role and purpose of grief (especially, thinking about grief as distinct from loss, and honoring that). One of my big takeaways in that reflection was recognizing the *corporeal* manifestations of grief (and grace). If we do not let ourselves cry, tremble, and hold ourselves, we are rejecting a critical part of not just our individual but our collective humanity. This weekend was the sixth anniversary of my dad's death. Even after writing that out so recently and knowing the importance of processing through tears, my first reaction had still been to deny myself the space to be sad. But it's good to grieve. And it's a practice. So I did, a bit that day, and now again today. I miss his touch. The feel of his hug.
Thank you for your compassion and space and questions and community-- and showing us how to offer those things to ourselves.
Thank you Marcie. This is beautiful and much needed. I'm sending it to my dad in the hopes that it will help him grieve the loss of my mom.
This is really beautiful. When I saw this in my inbox this morning, I wasn't sure if I would come back to it, if I would sit down to do the meditation, if I would be able to cry-- but I am glad I did (and, I did cry). Knowing you are sad, grieving, hurt is one thing; reaching to that, expressing it, honoring it, is quite another. You have reminded me that setting up a space to process emotions isn't creating an artificial environment-- we're not forcing ourselves to cry, we're just ushering ourselves to a space where we can welcome it. I liked what you said-- "Humanity is made to cry. ... Darkness is not without purpose. Suppose the purpose of the darkness is to shield and protect your solitude."
The questions you posed in the meditation are very compassionate. I noticed myself kind of caught off-guard. Because it felt like I was treating myself as I would a friend, I suppose. It's not just "Think about what hurts" but, "What hurts?" That kind of turning-to-self is not something I do frequently enough.
This summer, I was thinking about similar things to what you have said here about grief and tears, and ended up turning those thoughts into a blogpost on the role and purpose of grief (especially, thinking about grief as distinct from loss, and honoring that). One of my big takeaways in that reflection was recognizing the *corporeal* manifestations of grief (and grace). If we do not let ourselves cry, tremble, and hold ourselves, we are rejecting a critical part of not just our individual but our collective humanity. This weekend was the sixth anniversary of my dad's death. Even after writing that out so recently and knowing the importance of processing through tears, my first reaction had still been to deny myself the space to be sad. But it's good to grieve. And it's a practice. So I did, a bit that day, and now again today. I miss his touch. The feel of his hug.
Thank you for your compassion and space and questions and community-- and showing us how to offer those things to ourselves.
Thank you Marcie. 💜