Softening into grief is opening up to life
Reflections on containers of practice ... and where you can find me this fall.
It happens every year before “Carrying Our Grief Together,” the annual community processional offered by Salt Trails, the collective I co-founded in 2021 to offer rituals and gatherings meant to reclaim grief as sacred, natural and deserving of communal care.
At some point in the days before the processional, grief stirs, as a restless energy or slow river wanting a release. Yes, our processional is held every October, the month my dad died and every year for the last 12 years, as October begins, an undercurrent of sorrow slips into my bones. Sometimes it rattles with its insistence, surprisingly potent and raw even after all this time. Sometimes it is a quiet curl of memory, brushing the edges of my awareness, inviting me to pause to acknowledge the ache of absence, love’s bruising touch when it’s tangled up with grief. I have learned with these death anniversaries, and other milestones and special occasions that often the anticipation leading up to the day can be more painful than the day itself. Still, I have to remind myself every season to practice a slower, gentler pace, to make room for stillness and reflection, to let myself be held by nature and the moments of care I know to soothe me.
That our grief processional is in October — and twice has even fallen on the 15th, the date of my dad’s death — has always felt like a gift to me. An offering that keeps me open and pliable, loosening whatever wants to surface during this tender time. And so, as I prepared on Saturday for Sunday’s gathering and felt a wave of anxiety that then gave way to a wave of grief, I knew I had to pause. To let the tears come. The deep, gulping breaths. The shaking. The bright, fulsome spill wanting somewhere to go. Here was that old familiar yearning to have my dad still here rubbing against a fresh layer of breakup grief. I let these big emotions move through me. Then I sat at my altar, feeling into its grounding, supportive presence, grateful to have a space invoking the allies, ancestors and guides on my journey to hold me. I sat until my breathing and my body felt calmer, more regulated, then did some light stretching and drank some water, ready to re-enter the flow of my day. I also felt ready to co-facilitate at the processional. Having made space for my own grief, which is especially vital for any of us who do this work, I could now make space for others’.
This is the beauty of having a grief practice or a tool kit of practices we can turn to. It doesn’t have to be complicated or require long stretches of time. It’s about being in regular relationship with our grief. About keeping it moving. Keeping it fluid. Soft. Warming and working its weight and contours with our devoted attention and care. To cultivate practices that support us in our grief is to also cultivate the capacity to hold and channel this immense energy so it doesn’t become stuck or blocked, threatening always to cripple, drown or otherwise undo us. So that we don’t become stuck or blocked, frozen and rigid with a fixed way of being in the world that over time starts to become our identity. This masked, closed-off version of ourselves that keeps us not only from accessing our grief but from engaging fully with the beauty, joy and connection that’s also available to us.
I saw this so clearly on Sunday, how softening into grief is opening up to life. How to flow with the current of our sorrows is to also become current, grounded in present time instead of the past where so many who are grieving live or in the future, which just as many fear or take wild aim at, hoping to find healing by bypassing all the pain. But the work, and the gifts, of grieving are in the here and now. I don’t use the word “gifts” as a toxic positivity Bandaid, an entreaty to mine our heartache for some blessing or silver lining, but as an invitation to stay open to what might move toward us as we move toward our grief.
On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, we, a group of strangers, made our way around a Philadelphia park, acknowledging the griefs we carried, in words, in tears, in song, in movement, in the wailing that dropped us into a moment of deep and powerful vulnerability. We stood as witness to each other. And we huddled close, circling each other with our hands and arms and shared weeping when the waves rose from the depths.
We gathered in collective practice and care. And in doing so, freed from pretense and posturing, from having to keep it in or keep it together, we tapped into something larger than our grief: the love and compassion that lives within each crack and tear of our quaking, broken hearts.
Someone during our closing circle, among other words of hope and gratitude offered, said they didn’t think it would be possible to feel such love for people they didn’t know. But that is one of grief’s invitations, if we let it in, get close and curious, tend to it with practices that nourish, fortify and restore, with grace for ourselves and with connection and community.
We learn to see each other and ourselves through a gentler, kinder gaze. Come to touch the common ground that names us spectacularly human, pilgrims all on this path of loss. And we can then take the next step forward, moving not toward resolving or getting over our grief, but toward growing ourselves more spacious. Creating room for more love and life to bloom around our wounded places, letting the warmth back in.
Small invitations to support your grief
Here’s a practice I love to help regulate the nervous system.
Take a slow, mindful walk in nature. Notice what your eyes are naturally drawn to: a color, a sound, a tree, a flower, a fallen leaf, an animal or insect, a shape…What is calling to you as you walk? Spend some time in that place, and if possible, holding whatever it is. What message does it have to offer your grief?
Consider what makes you feel good and then try to incorporate at least one moment engaging the senses that way in your day. You may wish to start with these questions:
What do you find visually pleasing?
What sounds soothe you?
What are the yummy tastes you enjoy?
What feels good on your skin, or what kind of touch do you love?
What are the smells that delight you?
What are the thoughts that ease your mind or make you smile?
This poem by Linda Hogan makes me think of the comfort and nurturing we all long for in the storms of life. After you read it, consider what makes you feel held? Is it a particular person, a place, a being from the more-than-human world, a piece of music, a practice? Set a timer for 10 minutes and write, without lifting your, hand from the page, to either of these prompts: “What I want is…” or “I am held by…”
If you haven’t listened to Breathing Wind, the podcast I’ve been co-hosting with Sarah Davis for the last two years, we released a new episode this week reflecting on our recent conversation with grief activist, narrative therapist and author Lisa Keefauver, who recently released the book “Grief is a Sneaky Bitch” (also the name of her podcast). Sarah and I have decided to step down from the podcast, but there are plenty of episodes to listen to filled with insight, wisdom and nourishment to companion your grief journey.
Upcoming spaces of practice and care
An Evening of Singing Our Grief
Join Salt Trails for a night of trusting in song and sound to guide and hold us, as we express our grief out loud... moving it through our hearts and bodies with ritual, singing, and embodied toning and vocalizing.
Register here.
Writing through your grief
“Thank you so much for creating such a warm, tender, caring and empathetic space for navigating, holding and honoring our grief. Your way of facilitating and nurturing this space are a bright spot and salve.” ~ past student
This is my third time returning to Mt. Airy Learning Tree to offer this series…although this time I’ll be working with all new prompts and poems so if you’ve taken this series before, you’re welcome to join me again.
These sessions are built around poems that invite compassion and care for your grief, along with invitations to consider your overall relationship to grief and loss. In each class, we will begin with a grounding exercise and write to specific prompts as a response to the poems I share. Participants will receive all poems prior to each session.
No writing or poetry experience is necessary. Learn more and register here.
Can’t make a four-week series? Join me for this special workshop at the beautiful Solace Farms Day Retreat
In this grief writing workshop, which also combines meditation and ritual, I’ll guide you through writing practices to explore and tend the sorrows you’re carrying, allowing you to meet your own wisdom and compassion within the nourishing container of community. Register here.
Remembering our dead together
I’m looking forward to co-facilitating this special event with Cassandra Bolding, the founder of Black Lotus Holistic Health Collective, in honor of Day of the Dead. Join us to remember our loved ones with ritual, a grief walk, group sharing and performances by Ursula Rucker, Baron Wright, Ether and Nikki Powerhouse. Then stay for Saturday Night Vibes, the biweekly music and open mic offered by Urban Shamans (8pm-12am).
This is wonderful Naila! I am speaking at our hospice gathering Thursday. My father also died in October, on the 6th. It was uncanny how the timing of me writing happened in his anniversary.
Thank you for sharing this annual grief ritual. Our grief support committee is looking for news ways to come together as a collective to process grief. I will mention your practice in our next meeting as an example.
So grateful! 💕💕