Note: The following is written in part as response to my father’s passing: in the book ‘The Wild Edge of Sorrow’ Weller describes 5 gates to Grief; the loss of someone/something loved, those places within that have not known love, the losses of the world around us, the loss of unrealised realities and Ancestral grief. We are all open to experiencing grief, whatever its form, but of course this is written from my personal experience of loss.
“Attachment is the root of all suffering” is one of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism: because of Anitya (impermanence, the ever-changing nature of the world) and our attachment to something that is not constant we experience suffering in the form of loss. We are by nature loving and social creatures, we form attachments and bond strongly with people: and the nature of this world means that these relationships are temporary.
I met with a good friend last week, loyal and understanding – and with the rare skill of being able to listen. We went for a walk and he asked about how I was, just a general query and easily shrugged off, but that open ear beckoned to me. I ended up on a monologue talking about the loss of my father, my grief, the constant weight and occasional deep bouts of sadness. I talked about the practical need for getting on with things, moving forward even though it feels like I am limping. And he listened, without interrupting or trying to give advice, just let me form my thoughts into words and let them spill out.
“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”
– William Shakespeare
Afterwards I found I kept circling back to the conversation in my mind, adding to it, editing it, eventually writing down notes on what I said (and hadn’t). I recognised that what I wrote was still very much evolving, dependent on my mood, my work and the conversations I had. Still in the process of healing, moving from wound to scar. I realised that by sharing these things I was able to better define them – why I was so sad at the loss, what I missed, what I needed and could not have – creating a more tangible sense of what I was grieving rather than the constantly transmutable sense of ‘grief’ that waxes and wanes.
This does not resolve grief nor can I replace my father with other people to fulfil these roles, but it gives me a clearer understanding of why I grieve, what I grieve for: and through this I can share with others why I feel like this, talk to those who knew him about what I have lost, what they may have lost by his absence. It better defines the edge of the hole that is left behind.
Reading on Jungian psychology I remember a concept that I wrote down as “Whatever we put into the shadows does not sit idly, waiting to be redeemed: It grows feral.” Grief can be a very damaging thing if left unaddressed. The sense of loss can last forever, but as a culture we often lack the ability to go through the actions of grief. Worse still we can try to move on from grief without grieving – rejecting grief, trying to ignore the wound that hurts us. Jung said “Embrace your grief, for there your soul will grow.” But we have lost much of the ritual of grieving (particularly for those of us who do not have a connection to a specific faith). A funeral is often a punctuation mark in the process of grieving, certainly not an end to it, and alone insufficient as a stand-alone act of grieving. It is through addressing grief and actively grieving that we can re-inhabit those parts of us that we feel we have lost.
While Yoga is not the answer for everything it is certainly a large part of who I am, and through using the ritual of Yoga, meditation, and contemplation I find I have been able to better steer my path through the process of grieving. And that process may last my lifetime, but I know that I better understand what I grieve and why, and how I can grieve to better reconcile my sense of loss.
Yoga Workshop: Grief, Loss and Acceptance
13/11/21 10.00-13.00
Jesmond
Bespoke Workshop, maximum 8 people. Cost: £55
Workshop description and outline.
Speech for my Father’s funeral.