"Why?" Because Love

My 3 year old grandson has reached the 'Why?' stage.

“Why do the tomatoes need watering?”

“Because it hasn't rained lately.”

“Why?”

What can I say?

“We need to go to your neighbour and get more eggs from his chickens.”

“Why?”

“Because we've eaten them all.”

“Why?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

Why does his mummy teach yoga? (Because in the aftermath of her brother's death, she ditched the idea of a PhD in the literary and cultural portrayal of drug addiction and went to India to train as a yoga teacher instead.)

Why is Grandad Neil dead? (I have no idea but I'd like to give whoever is responsible a piece of my mind.)

Unanswerable questions

When death happens in our midst, especially when it happens out of time – or rather our expectations of the right time -it can be like a bomb going off. The ensuing devastation is shocking and confusing. How am I supposed to function as a rational human being when my world doesn't make sense any more; when an invitation to dinner has me trembling with anxiety; and when a half hour walk down a leafy path feels more like a half marathon through dark undergrowth?

Why did they have to die? Because it was their time. Why? Unanswerable questions followed by feelings of helplessness or of being out of control or panic or fury or self pity or envy or....

Shame

The other day in a creative practice group I run, we were looking at messy grief, those feelings which aren't given public expression and so sit inside us, eating away at our peace, telling us we are wrong, bad, the only one. Feelings which make us ashamed, as if it weren't shameful enough already to have been so careless as to lose our lover, friend, child, sibling, grandchild or some combination thereof.

I understand why my daughter wanted to research the way an addict is perceived and change the narrative. And I understand why she didn't. I understand why my son found the world so bewildering and hurtful that he turned to heroin just to feel a little safer and softer, only to discover it was an illusion and the reverse was true. I understand why my husband used over the counter narcotics to numb his pain, not only physical but emotional and why, each morning after the night before, the shame of having done so amplified his suffering and kept him silent, hidden. So why, with so much understanding and compassion, do I censor my expression of grief? Shame. Aren't you over that yet? You're behaving like a spoilt brat. On and on – didn't I talk about that last time, for heaven’s sake? No-one wants to hear it. I don’t want to hear it!

A cushion for my head

In the creative practice session, having expressed our difficult feelings as messily as we needed (I stamped and swore and ranted at God), we then asked how Unconditional Love might respond. No fixing or platitudes, no blaming or shaming.

“You can use my soft words as a cushion for your head”, says Hafiz, “for your separation from God is the hardest work in this world.”

What would it look like to bring a cushion for my own head, to love myself not in theory but in practise? I tried it out. It looked like a 10 hour sleep (note to body: Ok bladder, you can manage 10 hours straight, so can you please stop waking me up at 3 or 4 in the morning? Thank you.) I meditated as usual, had a leisurely breakfast of home made granola, fresh raspberries and a just baked, still warm croissant, sitting in the garden. I walked along the river, through the woods, stopping at my tree, breathing, dreaming.

“Do you have any words for me?” I asked the old beech.

“Recover”.

Recovering

Woa… yes, I could do with recovering from years of shocks: “Your son’s in hospital (three times)… a police cell (three times)…trying to jump from a multi story car park (just the once)…dead” type of shocks. “You’re out of a job…homeless…not wanted here...” shocks. The years of shocks that my husband’s leg was broken, wouldn’t heal, might need amputation; that his collapse was due to a brain tumour and it was terminal, the intermittent seizures, (how I hated those, never knowing how much of him would come back afterwards), his death. Yes, recovering seems like good advice.

And so the day unfolded gently. I didn’t do anything different, I just did what I did differently. I loosened the tight bands I keep strapped around my chest, the “only this is allowed” band, the “should be productive” band, the “you’re not matching up” band. No-one cares – this is my life and I get to live it as I choose. I choose to love others, to love the river and trees, my home. Finally, can I remember, that I am here to include myself in the verb of loving? “Why?” Because, I have an inkling, that Love is my answer to all of it.

With my love

Nickie

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What would you like?

My next blog is number 60. I have two questions for you.

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A very big thank you to those of you who generously support this blog with your donations to Buy Me a Coffee. I gift this blog as well as my work at a local hospice and the work I do leading a threshold choir singing for those on the threshold of life, and so I am extremely grateful for any support you offer me. If you would like to donate at any time, you can do so here. Thank you.

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