“When pain floods the soul; hope comforts with grace and love.” Amy Childers
That time – after the affection of Valentine’s Day and before the beginning spring. In NW Ohio it’s often dark and gloomy, temperatures oscillating from freezing to mid-fifties, causing a myriad of sinus symptoms reaping havoc. Energetically during this time, there’s a longing in the air of desired freedom; yearning to lift the constraints of boredom, the feeling of being trapped inside, and a biological need to bask in the sunshine to cleanse our mind, body, and energy. During this time of depletion, it’s easy to get trapped into old, bleak patterns from unresolved issues, stuck in negative thinking, hold grudges, or maybe adhere to childhood neglects and traumas. This time is also inspiring when the sun shines brightly, birds begin to sing earlier in the morning, and the transitional thaw from winter to spring peeks through the ground with purple crocus dancing in the wind. There’s an ebb and flow to this loss and life cycle.
The impact of loss increases when grief disguises itself, indicating that mourning is necessary. Therefore, the transition into mourning is essential in healing our wounds. We suffer, often covered by smiles and pleasantries to save face – or perhaps protect - then close the door when day kisses evening goodnight with a hue of dark purple across an orangey-pink sky. We briefly see the celestial colors - and yet the vibrance swiftly fades, morphing into threatening storm-filled clouds suffocating the very essence of who we are.
I encourage you to contemplate that hope is both in the joy of the lovely sunrise we call life as well as in the suffering of that violent storm we call loss and death. I am convinced we can’t have one without the other. An inspiring author and concentration camp survivor, Viktor Frankl, in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, so pointedly reminds us that “If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death, human life cannot be complete.” The incredibly inspiring Viktor Frankl was a neurologist and psychiatrist who had suffered great loss; his wife, mother, father, and brother were all sent to concentration camps, tortured before their death in the camps. Frankl was in a total of four different concentration camps himself. Yet, somehow, something so deeply within him, Frankl’s goal in life was finding a connection with self and others; to endure and mourn and live.
Knowing the truth of your fear (or loss or trauma or hardship) and then putting that truth into a healing action through mourning may set you free. The truth of Frankl’s fear was torture and death. He put that fear into the will to survive based on what his meaning in that moment was, such as “How will I survive this camp?” His answer, “I will picture my wife’s loving face.” Then, imagining her smile transformed his attitude to the desire to continue life, thus his action of imagining helped himself and others visualize and balance his loss with life. It was his hope.
The truth is, there is always hope. Allowing room for awareness, self-discovery and personal growth helps foster hope as it bridges that which was, is and will be. Allow difficulties in. Let them swirl in your mind, body and energy like an angry tide eroding the earth’s sculpted shores. Notice how difficulties change and affect you. Can you feel the moon’s gravitational pull as it aligns with the earth and sun, reinforcing each other with great tidal forces? It’s within your body – you are one with nature, so don’t fight it. Allow the difficulty. Bow to your loss. Dance with your uncertainty. Let memory find pain and become your teacher. Simply identifying your emotions and loss doesn’t necessarily mean you’re experiencing them. The pain, the grief, the joy, the confusion – you are not too much. You are the rising of the sun over the ocean exposing all the vast truth. You are the exhale of the moon - worn out and exhausted from lighting your path – or another’s path. Take the time to ebb and flow with the tides. Let your heart empty so your soul may rest. Savor it. Feel it. Mourn it.
Then, there will be a time to say, “amen,” or “and so it is,” or “enough!” That is when you stand up, breathe deeply, smile at loss and move through with life. You’re not saying goodbye to either loss or life. Instead, you are saying, “Oh there you are, sweet, vulnerable life who walks side by side with tragic, vulnerable loss and death – How shall we be today? What shall we conquer in this moment? Who can we help or inspire today? How will we sit and be still today?”
Allow the wind, with her whispers of comfort, sweep you along the sky’s clouds. Look around and notice how the tulips endure, their bulb roots protected deep in the frozen ground, knowing somehow that transformative life and beauty will blossom again, year after year. I used to love the month of October the most – the brilliant colors, the reminder of rest, the nuzzling of coziness in a warm blanket and being rocked to sleep by the lullaby of the birds’ songs of goodbye for the season. But this year, I find myself so eager for spring. Such hope, such promise, knowing how nature endured the harsh realities of life and loss. This year when I survey my gardens to determine who made it through and who departed, I think I shall make it a sacred ceremony. I will dig up their roots and break away the stems and shake off the dirt of that wilted, sad, plant or flower who lays limp on the ground. Instead of cursing the extreme cold temperatures and cruel blast of mother nature, I will smile and say thank you for the beauty you gave me, as I till the lifeless plant back into the earth’s soil, water it with nourishment and nod in agreement with the sunshine to continue life.
Just as the fern in the forest begs for shade against the fiery sun, so to, does the sunflower stretch with grace to find the light, as the shade would stifle her beauty. Deep roots withstand the drought. May you hold onto hope during your days of mourning, rooted in the knowledge that you are not alone in your grief. Peace to you always!
©Amy M. Childers, 2022