Letter to friend whose mom has passed
Dearest _______,
Thoughts have ruminated within me from your mum’s transition, on my own grief with (eek!) familiar historical intimacy and yet subjective distance.
Grief feels to me like a container, that boxes me in with feet and hands that are blistered. It is painful to push out from the heaviness and helplessness one feels. I believe the choices in my heart come from fear, from anger, or from an unfeeling hand that controls my fate. I feel there is no clear map for any way forward. I stumble inside this box dumbly with daggers, blows to my spirit, without knowledge of medicine to soothe. The captivation and vulnerability make it easier for others to feed from my own goodness. The taking is all they know, all their consciousness will ever give them for soul light, for their own way forward. How unfair, grossly unfair that only some can feel divine change within.
and what the heck books am I reading right now???? Heavens! My thoughts from reading of Mary's divinity.......so many Maria's that pray for us.
How do I find strength? How to feel like I am light, not heavy? How to feel breezes of free will? How do I feel that my heart just feels? Without the strain of grief?
Could I truly realize that there is spirit around me that sends and gives loving touches in Oh how can I count the many ways?
Oh god, the doubt, the fear of the change that happened.
I love the word anlagen, the primordial, the germ cell, the bud. Inside my own anlagen were layers of self love that sustained, lit the box on fire. The firelight gave me clarity on the many ways love touched me, whether through raindrops on a spider's web, or shape of the stone washed smooth from Lake Huron, or the phone call from my best friend, or the sincerity of a stranger's eyes when thank you was said. Or of course the warmth of a pet's heartbeat. So many, so many ways to feel touched. So many ways to know that we are never alone when we feel at the darkest, the most alone.
I have neglected to watch myself, to cleanse my spirit, to keep others from dirtying my thoughts. I have let myself feel empty. I have exhausted my physical state without concern for renewal. The rough path led to this point of healing inside, as my own healer. As more receptive and appreciative, to the healers in the universe. My ashes are full of memoriter, another word I love, Latin for knowing something by heart. It cannot be unlearned. Life, death, life. Day, night, day.
Because I "know" the zig-zag, tortuous, horrid road of grief, my scar helps to help not only me but others.
There is a ritual of Pesame:Las Manitas, the compassionate hands. It is a gathering to give condolences for those taken apart from pain, love, grief. "The people gather in vigil so as not to leave such a soul alone in travail". Clarissa Pinkola Estes. They put a mantilla or shawl over the statue Maria's face to give her privacy to grieve, Good Friday or on other appropriate days. People come to witness her wounds and thus feel their own. They bring gifts, grandmothers' special pepper recipe, rich chocolate (there is another ritual with raw original chocolate that is unique and so full of grace that I was lucky to be a participant). Their caring ways are seen at her feet in the church. They, most of all, place their hands on her, compassion for her loss of her radiant child, the hands, the life force given to her from many all over the world. They hold vigil patiently for her. The knowledge that her son will be known again with the sunrise gives them a flicker of humble faith that they too can ask for transformation of their loss, pain.
We are all touched by knowing hands in that hellish place of grieving desolation together, in mysterious ways that changes our lives unforgettably.
It is not about the Mary statue or the religious charters of behaviour. It is the sense of the divine mother inside my heart that comforts me, that prays for me/us, that mends, that gives loving light to sorrows. It is knowing that it comes from within but also from others. It is knowing that when we suffer, are lost, bewildered, empty, we can find the light again. For ourselves, for others. Protective, creative, loving, blessing hands are to be found in so many ways.
Your mom gave light to me, ______. I felt it numerous times with her words, her look, her gestures of joy or determination. I didn't know the full extent until I began to write this morning. I am so humbled by her grace. I am so touched with much appreciation for her walk on the earth that intersected with mine.
The colourful ceramic pieces from your mom are now part of my memoriter. Thank you so much for the gift. Colours are my universe, nutritive to my soul.
with cherished respect for your time with my words on grief,
off to make the doughnuts or in other words, do laundry
XO Sandy
