The Gift of Grief
The quiet stillness of the morning beckons me in.
As I sit and notice the pure golden rays playing through each pane of glass, and the soft rhythmic rise and fall of my chest I remember what it feels like to belong.
The deep rooted sensation of peace has been with me since last weekend when I attended a grief ritual in Durham, North Carolina. The stage was set on the three year anniversary of another cross country road trip that I took with my best friend and soul sister, Sophia. Back then I was looking for freedom; This time around I experienced it.
We started our pilgrimage following the flat lands down south, watching the slight change in foliage as we welcomed in new flora and fauna. I was peripherally aware of these non-human beings, but mostly caught up in my own jumble of thoughts, emotions, and expectations. Too wrapped in my own beautiful neurosis to share my story and worries with the trees I was passing at lighting speed just outside the window.
And then we arrived.
With very little context on what the next two days would look like, I walked through the doors of a quaint retreat center nestled on the edge of the forest and braced myself for the worst. Heart fluttering with anticipation as fear pounded through my chest and a million questions raced through my mind- What even is a grief ritual? Was I really going to cry in front of this group of 30 strangers? Could I?
My spirit felt immediately at ease when I encountered one of the facilitators. He walked slowly and intentionally, as if he were feeling the roots intertwined beneath the floorboards with every step. A man in his eighth decade of life, that moved with the lightness and curiosity of an uncorrupted child. His eyes wide and dewy with wonder, and his soul radiating far beyond his physical form- Lawrence Cole. His lightness was matched and balanced by the intensity of his co-host- Ahlay Blakely. She is a powerhouse of a woman. Filled with songs that are sourced directly from the dark depths of the soil, and unapologetically an advocate for all that is good and true.
In their presence I felt safe.
As I opened my awareness and took in the other participants I would be sitting in circle with, I noticed the slight edge of discomfort as we all existed in the liminal space of the baggage we were carrying with us into the moment, and who we would be when we could finally put some of it down.
We started to “cook” the grief. This meant sharing in different concentric circles about who we were, and what we were holding. The energy of the group was dialed into a degree of deep presence and compassion I had never previously experienced. We listened to each other's stories, and hung on every word, hoping to hold some of the weight just by hearing with an open heart.
The heartbreak in the room was palpable, as people began to slowly fall apart. Every time I opened my mouth to share, my voice was shaky, and I had to search for a breath that reached deeper than my throat. I was absolutely terrified to be seen in the messiness of my life. I began to realize a theme that was running through my story was a deep desire to trust, but a somatic inability to get there. My body was stuck in flight for flight, and even though I understood I was safe in my partnership, and safe in my life I was not experiencing the safety in the deep layers of my being.
The story I was carrying into the retreat was one of abandonment and rejection from a young age. It was filled with the heartbreaking pain of addiction that is slowly killing my sister. And with the debilitating depression of the women in my lineage who never quite understood how to support each other. It was filled with the ache of watching trees cut down all around as the animals are slowly killed and the rivers are poisoned. I felt isolated and cut off from every group of friends and community I had collected over the years, incapable of the feeling of belonging. My womb was holding the pain of so many “no’s” that got caught in my throat. I was angry. Fucking angry at it all. As the layers of grief began to reveal themselves to me, I realized that I was devastated for a world and a life much beyond my own.
And so as a village we moved into the ritual. Held by the water, our ancestors, the heartbeat of the drum and each other, we began to grieve. We wailed and screamed and raged. Throwing our bodies on the altar of grief and letting our souls be cleansed.
I had never experienced such a profound release. I heard a voice that extended back generations, wailing and shaking in despair and realized that it was coming from my own body. I was witnessed by my village in all of the rawness and ugliness that make me so beautifully human. I knew I was supported and was able to relax the part of me that was never truly able to accept it. And so I let go. I went into the well that I had plugged up so many times before. I let the grief pour out of my sweat and tears and screams. I let myself be seen. And from the profoundness of this vulnerability, I finally belonged. Slowly soul washing the poison that we have been carrying for generations.
There came a moment when I needed to be held by a man. Little Kati was lost and looking for a dad who had never been there. And so from the village he appeared. An older gentleman named Michael-the same as my father. He held me and sang to me as I wept. I wept for all the times I felt hurt by a man. For all the times I closed off from my loving partner. For all the times I was let down or disappointed. For all the times. And he held me and rocked me and did not let go until I was ready to be released, as a woman in tact. My body finally received the experience of trust that it had always been craving.
The profound experience of being held, and holding others in such an honest way has changed me. The ecstatic aliveness has seeped into every moment of my life. I can finally feel my body. I notice the plants pushing their way up through every little crack of pavement. I see the beauty carved into the face of every human I pass in the grocery store. I hear their pent up wails and the depth of their story, and I love them. I treasure every rise and fall of my partner's chest, and the perfection of my puppy's eyes.
I am so grateful for my grief, and the gift of feeling it has brought to me. May we all grieve together and meet each other in profound belonging. Celebrating our existence through storytelling, singing, dancing, and silence. As we remember what it feels like to truly be home on a planet that is alive and bursting with feeling. Holding the pain of what has been done together, so we can move forward hand in hand. Finally forgiving ourselves. Finally finding the freedom that has been here all along.
