THE ROCKY SHORES OF GRIEF: ONE YEAR OUT FROM THE NOVA SCOTIA MASSACRE
The mass shooting that occurred in Nova Scotia in April 2020, a swath of blood and fire and anguish, reminded us that death is not always softened by the white coat of medicine or delivered blindly by inanimate forces of nature. Sometimes death comes as a man of peace, as a Joe Black, cloaked in the body of a man wearing a disguise so perfect we let down our defenses and open the door. The police cruiser, the peace officer, the polished black boots; the human herd has no natural defense against such clever camouflage.
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THE REFUGEE CAMP OF GRIEF
I have long considered the freshly bereaved to be akin to those homeless wanderers who find themselves stranded in international refugee camps. We’ve all seen the images on television---hastily erected tent cities in dry windswept fields, filled with thousands of aimless, threadbare souls waiting for release, waiting for a future, hoping for a new home…
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BORN TO GRIEVE
We are born to grieve. It’s in our blood and in our bone. Our ancestors grieved their dead as we grieve ours. The instinct to mourn is as natural and ancient as breathing.
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BREAK YOUR HEART BETTER
Rumi, the Sufi poet and mystic, not only thinks broken hearts are good medicine but he encourages us to break our hearts as often as possible! Or at least until we open up inside.
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TOO MUCH & TOO LITTLE GRIEF
You’re four months out from the death and you haven’t really started crying yet. Each morning it’s getting the kids off to school, then the nosedive into work or gym or whatever keeps you moving forward. Go go go. There’s a gnawing frantic feeling behind it all…
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LOVE IS ETERNAL, BUT ENERGY IS FINITE
This simple idea can really make a difference when we are struggling with grief-related exhaustion and overwhelm. When someone we love is dying, we expend our energy with little concern for ourselves. Even if we are unable to be physically near our dying loved-one, our worried hearts can guzzle tremendous quantities of life force.
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IF YOU'RE FEELING DEAD INSIDE
“I can’t live with me anymore,” says Geraldine, sitting limply in the chair across from me. She grips the purse on her lap as if it was the only thing keeping her from flying off the planet into space. “I’m getting along, except so much of me is missing. I live in the shadow of my husband. A part of me is gone — his life is over, and so is mine.”
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