Presence in Beauty and Grief

I wrote this in Aug 2020 and never shared it. I do so now because grief and beauty are a part of life, and perhaps you will find some value in my personal story.

Let me back up to the tough part. When my beloved aunt Joanne passed away. It was not fully unexpected, and she had lived a full long life, but the fact remains that now there was another bright spot missing from my life, and my cousins’ lives, and in the lives of all who knew and loved her.

I decided not to attend the funeral in person (it would have been an almost 9 hour drive) and instead attended the service on-line. One of the benefits of this, is that I just blocked an hour off my calendar, and was able to work until 5 minutes before it started. How convenient, I thought! I might not even need to take time off work; I can just work a longer day.

The service was nice but watching alone from my computer with headphones on (so as not to disturb my husband), felt so impersonal. So many of the usual rituals that I associated with a funeral were missing; the visitation, the hugs, the tears, the sharing of stories, and the sharing of food, more tears… This instead was, pleasant, quiet, polite. Not that those are bad things, but something about it was off-putting, almost sterile, like I was watching a documentary about the life and death of someone I didn’t even know, and a very abridged version at that. While I appreciated being able to attend, there was something missing. I did not even cry.

One minute after the 30 minute service abruptly ended, I went back to work, which literally just meant I closed down the funeral home website and opened up the spreadsheet I had been working on before the service. No problem. Or so I thought. I had a hard time concentrating on my work, and there was an errand that I needed to run, to pick up our CSA vegetable share. So, because I had gotten permission to take time off; I decided to put my out of office message on, using my errand as an excuse to get out of the house.

I drove a half hour and was only a few blocks away from the pick-up site when I noticed the road I needed to turn on was blocked off. My brain shut down, and I lost it; I almost crashed into a truck that was trying to let me merge at the same time I was braking. I sped up, crying so hard I could hardly breathe, then I called my husband, who smartly told me to forget about the errand, to pull over when it was safe to do so if I needed to, and that he would pick up the vegetables later. One little obstacle completely shut me down and turned the grief faucet on.

I made it home safely, errand incomplete, face blotchy red, and cried on John. “It’s not about the vegetables,” I explained.

“I know”, he said, rubbing my back as he hugged me.

That is when I realized the harm that had come from shortchanging myself of the rituals I’ve come to appreciate in celebrating the life and passing of loved one. I thought about what it means to set time aside to remember and to grieve, and to be present.

In that moment, it was too late to turn back and join my family in that place, but it was possible for me to give myself space to grieve and find a way to honor that. So I created my own spontaneous little ritual. Joanne had loved gardening, so I sat by myself, pulling weeds outside in the garden and I listened to the birds. I felt closer to her then. and after a bit, felt a small wave of peace pass through me, leaving a soft smile on my tear-stained face.