HAPPY ANNIVERSARY (WHEN GRIEF OVERWHELMS)

There's a kind of human magic that happens

when we think about the years since an event

that opens a little bit of a door in our souls.

Anniversaries are special-

they help us remember where we've been,

think about our progress forward, 

or count our blessings like a dragon on top of treasure.

Some anniversaries are for celebrating

with cake and candles and off-key singing.

Some anniversaries are for reflection,

tears, and regret.

Some are layered with bittersweet-

like the birthday of your family member

who died years ago.  You still celebrate them

and all that they brought to the world

and you mourn the loss of them

at the same time.

The world is having a complicated anniversary right now.

There's a lot of shared grief that is loud and large

and deserves to be honored.

We're all marking time on a calendar

where something SIGNIFICANT

and TERRIBLE occurred

even if we're not all agreed on the specifics of that event.

The changes that have occurred over the past two years

have rocked our collective reality

in ways that will likely be studied and debated

by graduate students and pundits

for decades to come.

While the shape of the new us is unclear

and the reckoning of the impact is still

being tallied, there is no doubt about at least one thing.

We've changed.

Who we were in March 2020 is not

who we are now.

A really lovely cemetary in Chester, Vermont

While we're talkin about anniversaries,

let's be clear with each other about who is at the party.

Whenever there is change,

there is grief.

Grief the worst kind of party guest.

She's rarely listed on the guest list because

no one would intentionally invite her.

And yet, she is the 

required plus one of all kinds of A-list attendees-

like Joy and Love.

They will not show up without her by their side

so if you want them to come to the party,

she's coming too.

More than ever right now,

we are swimming in grief that we don't know how to

process or even see.

The world that we knew is on fire-

and the smoke that is coming from those fires is grief.

With smoke actively pouring from multiple places,

hanging thick in the air,

even people that are far from the conflict

will experience trouble breathing.

You are breathing in grief on every inhale

and breathing it out again on every exhale.

Even if you've stopped watching the news,

stopped socializing with people different than you,

stopped allowing new ideas to actively enter your universe

you're still living in grief because it comes 

along.

It just is.

The Chapel at Dog Mountain 

I found a post that I wrote in late 2019 

that talks about the inevitable dance

of grief and love.

It is helpful I think but probably more 

optimistic than most of us need right now.

What do we do when grief is too much?

When it has blocked out all the light

so we can't even find the balancing joy or love?

What do we do when we get buried by it?

I wish I had a 3 step solution to hand you.

Something nice and tidy to help you

move through and away from the amount of 

overwhelm that is in the world right now.

I wish there was a super secret cure for heartbreak

that would take it all away

and not send you deep into addiction of some form.

Sorry friends.

There is not a cure.

Grief is an inevitable, integral part of being human.

Kate Bowler knows a lot about grief.  

There are only a few things that I know that help 

when the grief is so thick that

it chokes you and none of them are quick or fully effective.

So take these next paragraphs with a grain of salt.

The smoke is still billowing, there are major

fires in the world and we do not yet

know when the fires will be tamped down in our collective life.

Even after the fires are out

it may still feel hard to take

 a deep breath for a while.

Maybe forever.

It never really leaves us-we

just learn to breathe again and see the sunlight

while we walk with the memory.

It's a terrible and beautiful thing how 

resilient we can be.

Eventually.

One thing I know to do with grief

is to sit with it, name it, get to know it.

Make space at the table of my life for it.

This is especially important for new flavors of grief

that seem to show up and need claiming.

Who knew I would grieve seeing people in passing

in a breakroom?

Or the small joy of a friend's new lipstick color?

How about greeting a toddler with a hug?

Petting a stranger's dog?

Singing in groups without anxiety about everyone's

vaccine and health status?

These things are so dumb and inconsequential

and yet I've named them so I can grieve their loss.

I may never get some of them back.

I have heavier things that I've had to name

and make space for in my life these past two years.

How about the grief I have at accepting the systems

that I thought were safe

are in fact dangerous for so many?

Immigration, traffic stops, healthcare, dress codes-

all have built in bias that are gentler to me

than to many others.

Or my naive assumption that we could

all understand and accept basic science?

Or that we had a shared expectation

that journalism included fact checking

and balanced viewpoints?

Even the basic definition of freedom

and justice must be grieved.

When I name it, it becomes more clear

and condensed;

less a bogey man, possibly a mortal.

Naming grief and sharing it (each note on the wall is for a pet who passed away)

Another thing that may help with grief

is to share it with someone else.

This is not a universal prescription though.

It may feel impossible to ever share it.

Not everyone deserves your grief or 

is a safe place to share it.

Don't make the mistake of believing that

finding someone who can share your grief is

like finding a unicorn though.

While, it takes a particular perspective to sit with another

who is carrying heavy loads of grief

there are many special people out there who can do it.

If one of us is a unicorn, we're all capable of being magical.

Let someone help you remember who you are.

Speaking of our collective magic-

It might be helpful for you to help someone else.

Someone who has similar grief to you

or someone who's grief is wildly different than yours.

When it feels like you can't breathe,

you can be sometimes be resuscitated 

by being of service to someone else who is struggling.

Reminding them to take a big breath in

and let it out for a beat longer than they took it in

can soothe your own injury just a tad.

ALL of our hearts are capable of breaking

which means ALL of our hearts are capable 

of holding more than we thought.

Help someone else remember who they are

and you might find a bit of yourself.

Fuel for a symbolic burning

And finally, a thing that is helpful is creating a ritual

to honor the fire that started the change.

A monument?

A parade?

A small token that you wear around your neck

or carry in your pocket?

A day you mark on the calendar?

You get to decide how to memorialize

the change that has occurred.

It's a useful step because it reminds us gently

that this is not the end of the story.

There is a before the thing that happened,

there is time while the thing was happening

and then there is the after.

If there is a ritual where you know

you'll touch back to this place, this feeling,

this loss-then you don't have to actively

carry as much of it with you sometimes.

You might not be there yet.

It's okay to be where you are

and to be mad at everyone who is ready

to start marking at least some of these

changes as past tense when there is still

smoke choking us in the air.

It's ok to be ready to memorialize some parts 

of the change and not others.

It's all ok really.

No.

REALLY.

Wherever you are in this season

I'd like to offer a toast on this anniversary.

Raise your glasses or tip your hat

or bow your head with prayerful hands.

Receive it or don't as you feel called

or send me an angry DM about how out of 

touch with the world I am right now.

My anniversary is ultimately about me

and my perception of how I understand WE.

Here's to two years in a new reality.

May we learn our lessons and need fewer of the 

same kind in the short term.

May we remember what is like to not be able to breathe,

may we witness that everyone is surrounded

by smoke and death and grief

even in the middle of light and birth and joy.

May we be just a little less rigid,

a little more kind,

and able to share what we have without fear.

May we remember that we belong to each other.

Whether we want to or not.

Detail from a tombstone in Chester VT