on grieving

To guide us toward the love we most desire, we must be taken where we could not and would not go on our own. St. John of the Cross, Spanish mystic, 1542 – 1591   

 

© 2008 Peter Daishin Renner 大心

Essay #1: Learning to grieve

Turn inward to make anguish bite more deep. (Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy)

Along with change—whether we choose it or it chooses us—comes the experience of loss. Each loss, in turn, causes us to grieve. Losses occur across the spectrum of our experience: the death of a loved one, illness or accident, end of an intimate relationship, shifts at home or work, crisis of faith or beliefs; the list goes on. “One moment of grief,” says Ezra Bayda, “often taps into layers of unresolved pain … such as fears of separation, abandonment, and insecurity. Grief makes us feel heavy and weary, empty or incomplete, terrified, despairing, or groundless” (At home in muddy water, 2004). 

Darkness within darkness, the gateway to all understanding. (Tao te ching) 

Popular culture tells us to move on, to get over it, and that time heals all wounds. Sharing grief with others can be problematic. At times we can’t bear to talk to anyone as pain expands in the telling and then there are moments when we long for the comfort of being heard. In the presence of our grief, some friends head for the hills while others stand by us. But ultimately we’re on our own—the ground opens and we slip backwards into a chasm. I remember days and nights of disorientation and sadness, marked by chest pain, stomach cramps, sleeplessness, depression, nightmares, weight loss (bonus), and buckets of tears. My jaws hurt so badly that I saw a dentist fearing a cracked molar; my throat ached as if I was being choked; my heart space felt hollow with a steel plate for armour. My Zen teacher called my nightmares “wake-up calls,” but I wasn’t ready for such insight. Every time I thought the worst was over, another wave of darkness sucked me under. I recall standing on the deck of the Mayne Queen as she rounded Helen Point, staring over the gunwales and begging to die. “Why are you doing this to me?” I cried heavenwards, “Why give a gift and then take it away? What is your point?”  

The desert will lead you to your heart, where I will speak. (Hosea 2:14)  

Then one day, about eight weeks into the ordeal, a voice spoke from deep inside. There is a purpose to this suffering, it said, stop trying to figure this out in your head. Sit still. Return to your body, it knows! Observe your breath; an ocean in constant flux. When your mind wanders into the past or future, gently escort attention back to the breath, to this moment … and this … and this. Do this patiently and lovingly. Try not to change the grief or make it go away. Instead, investigate and get to know it. The Buddha taught that spiritual awakening requires confrontation with the inevitable suffering of being human. Suffering arises when what we ‘want’ obscures that which ‘is.’ Losses are not obstacles on the path, they are the path.  

The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. (Joseph Campbell)  

Grieving rarely proceeds in a linear manner; there is no natural or normal order. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross found terminally ill patients reacting to their impending death with shock, denial, anger, bargaining, testing, and acceptance (On grief and grieving, 2005). Immersed in grief, we too shift from feeling stunned, embellishing what was and denying what is, feeling betrayed and abandoned, scheming for ways to end the pain, to (eventually) surrendering to the unknown. The sequencing of stages varies as we combine, skip, and shift between them. People who’ve gone before tell us that grieving takes as long as it takes—weeks, months, perhaps a lifetime. “We are challenged to learn new ways of feeling, behaving, thinking, expecting, and hoping,” writes Tom Attig (How to grieve: relearning the world, 1996). Again and again we’re called to turn and face the pain, to learn not to resist but to dwell in it, and to let ourselves be transformed by it. In the words of David Whyte:  …

Those who will not slip beneath

the still surface on the well of grief

turning downward through its black water

to the place we cannot breathe

will never know the source from which we drink,

the secret water, cold and clear …

(Where many rivers meet, 1990).

 

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Essay #2: Learning from deep within

 

“Loss of a loved person is one of the most intensely painful experience any human being can suffer” writes John Bowlby in his classic survey of loss-related research. And so it is with all personal losses. When that which defines who we are and where we belong falls apart, we collapse into an abyss of disbelief, rage, and sadness. And yet … there is hope and there is recovery. Experience teaches that the self refuses to be destroyed. Sooner or later it turns toward hope, discovers openings, and seeks fresh ways of being. As Leonard Cohen writes: 

 

Ring the bells than still can ring.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.

 In the midst of grieving, it seems implausible that a crack in our emotional bell could be of any benefit. It can take weeks and months for the ego to venture out of dark; there is, after all, an element of safety in grieving. The good news is that we don’t have to choose between dark and light! The Buddha advocated the Middle Way as an alternative to viewing things as either/or. 

It invites us to hold them as dynamic parts of one whole. Love and Anger, Sadness and Joy, Loss and Gain, for instance, are no longer at odds when viewed as part of a bigger picture. We may rail against the person or circumstance which caused our pain; we even turn against ourselves for not having seen it coming, for being stupid, gullible, vulnerable, and even ‘too loving.’ Tempted by the pressure to Get Over It and Move On we may fall back into the dark discouraged by our apparent failure to cope. “The cup is already broken” goes a Zen saying along Leonard Cohen’s lines.

Everything, be it person, thing, or condition, comes with a built-in guarantee of its eventual demise. Every newborn creature is destined to die, mornings grow into night, fruit ripens and rots. Blaming the loved one, our perceived circumstances, or God is a natural if futile attempt to lighten our burden—but it signals that we’re still alive! Our ego resists change, be it good, bad, or otherwise. It puts up a fuss to guard the status quo, refuses to see beyond the loss, and even draws comfort from sadness.

Recovery requires some hard work: ask anyone who ever tried to change any deep-seated habit or point of view. A good measure of self-caring plus one or two kind souls to keep an eye on us are a godsend.  Immersed in my chaotic soup of physical, emotional, and spiritual pain I could neither see nor imagine a return to any form of happiness. But then, mysteriously, something deep inside began to point the way … inner wisdom, ancient knowledge, divine guidance—who knows?

Brought to my knees to face things as they were (not as I had hoped, wished, been promised, or felt entitled to) pointed me towards dawn. I was called— more viscerally than intellectually—to face and embrace that which I feared most. At the same time I was assured that the answer to my tearful prayers resided at the centre of my heart, at a place of not-knowing. “Like a blind man he must lean on dark faith, accept it for his guide and light, and rest on nothing of what he understands, tastes, feels, or imagines,” wrote St. John of the Cross, the 16^th century Spanish mystic who gave us the expression “dark night of the soul” in describing his own odyssey into spiritual wilderness. Now on the road towards awakening I am grateful to whatever pushed me into the abyss.

Last week a friend remarked that “perhaps you needed this experience to stay alive …” Yes, I feel as if I’ve awoken from a dull slumber. Something has definitely shifted within. As I observe myself in the presence of dying patients I feel gentler somehow, less self-conscious and more authentic. Paradoxically, my heart is becoming softer AND stronger.

In closing, this dedication: With all who have ever mourned and wept, let us bow in gratitude to our teachers, parents, loved ones—and especially to those who taught our hearts to break open so deeply. 

 

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Essay #3: Learning to forgive

Losses occur across the spectrum of our experience: the death of a loved one, illness or accident, end of an intimate relationship, shifts at home or work, crisis of faith or beliefs; the list goes on. Each loss, in turn, causes us to grieve. Grief can tap into layers of unresolved pain, separation, abandonment, and insecurity, leading to disorganization, depression, and despair. Eventually—and rarely in a straight time line—we find a way out of the pain. In the process we may turn to external guides (such as God, teacher, guru, friend, therapist, inspirational book, support group) to help ameliorate this bottomless pain. For me, an inner voice directed me towards my innate goodness, a birthright to be whole, an immense capacity to learn and to grow. “Then, from His place of ambush, God leapt out” writes the poet Rilke. 

The classical Hero’s Journey has the protagonist driven by unsettling events, leaving home, encountering demons, finding inner wisdom to face obstacles, and returning home transformed. Examples in the literature include Parsifal and the Holy Grail, the travels of Odysseus, the dragon-slaying of Siegfried, the quest of Siddhartha, and the passion of Jesus. C.G. Jung named it  individuation, this process by which we become “ever more conscious of, and fully open to, all that we are, be it good or bad, so as to become increasingly whole. This is a path that values our individual qualities and potential, along with all our human frailty and fallibility” (Rob Reece, The Wisdom of Imperfection, 2006).  

One of the obstacles, so I found, is that of Blaming—ourselves, others (especially the one we want to hold responsible for causing all this), life in general, even God and the Universe. A close cousin to anger and denial, blaming is an expected and understandable attempt to avoid pain. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross placed it in the middle of the process of coming to terms with terminal illness and bereavement, somewhere between shock & denial and bargaining & acceptance. Unfortunately, blaming rarely brings relief: in fact, it delays healing and burdens us with guilt.

My first such encounter occurred when my father died. We’d been living oceans apart and hearing of his death made me howl in disbelief and anger: How dare you leave me! We were supposed to make up and be friends! What am I to do now, without a mother and a father? You abandoned me (again)! You %$#*@!

During my recent loss of similar magnitude I eventually arrived at blaming as a possible means to making the pain go away. After weeks of protecting the sweet memories, there it was: Hey, this isn’t my fault, someone else caused this mess! Just up and left me, reneged on promises made, broke our covenant. I was truthful and committed, did my best. I don’t deserve this! Always the pained ego: me, me, me.  Fortunately, the slide down that slope was short-lived. I turned to the practice of forgiveness by gently investigating my aching heart. What made me want to blame? What wound sought my attention? What was I afraid of? How could I apply the Buddha’s teachings? “Genuine forgiveness entails experiencing our own pain and then the pain of the person to be forgiven. This experience can help dissolve the illusion of separation between ourselves and others” writes Ezra Bayda (At Home in the Muddy Water, 2003) and offers a three-stage forgiveness practice.  

First stage: the simple acknowledgment of the wish to blame and reluctance to forgive. We do this by bringing non-judging attention to resentment, bitterness, anger, even the wish to bring suffering on the other. We do this to see clearly, not to feel guilty but to see feelings for what they are. “Staying with the physical experience of resistance allows a sense of spaciousness to gradually develop, within which the tight fist of our resentment can be loosened” (Bayda).  

Second stage: bringing awareness to our reactivity, seeing it as separate from the other, as an emotional reaction from within. I remember doing this over and over (and still return to it when the desire to blame arises), holding before me the question “What is this?” Sensations of accumulated anger, of a life filled with losses, my abandonment as an infant, the absence of a healthy family in my childhood, the shame in realizing that I’d caused harm by abandoning others, the fear to never find love again, the sheer grief over loosing something extraordinary. “What is this?” Whatever arises in response, so the Buddha taught, is mere sensation, nothing more than feelings and thoughts. It’s impermanent—it comes and it goes, rises and falls like clouds in the sky.  

Third stage: saying words of forgiveness. Such words, Bayda cautions, are not about condoning the other’s actions, of judging the rightness or wrongness of their actions. Instead “it’s about forgiving the person, not what they did. It means seeing that the action came from the other’s own pain. And the way we do this isn’t by looking for the other’s pain, but by attending to our own.”  As instructed, I sit in a quiet place, facing the other, saying the words:  “I forgive you. I forgive you for whatever you may have done which made me feel pain. I forgive you because I know that what you did you did for your own protection, from your own pain, your own conditioning, based on your own beliefs of what was right and necessary.” Each time I say the words, my heart softens, the wish to blame dissolves. Tears well up and love arises. Love towards self and all beings seeking happiness and relief from suffering. I am filled with gratitude—for being alive, for experiencing pain and joy, for being able to sit here and have this momentary insight. As Rumi says:  

Out of gratitude you gave away
some possessions and some vanity.
Now give away everything—
Become gratitude itself, become gratitude itself. ™