storms

 

Building muscle memory in your heart

Grief is a process as unique as each individual who loses someone. There will always be a need for patience. It takes time to assimilate death. The loss is too final, too immense. The emotions are like powerful waves that must be weathered.  Don't rely on outward appearances. People swallow down loss in a variety of ways. It can be those who feel that the most, show it less. Often those with the most regrets and guilt are the ones throwing themselves into the grave whereas the quietness of a long time carer can mask an ocean of heart stopping grief. Don't tell them stuff like “it's for the best”, “he had his day”, “You couldn't have done more”, “I am shocked by what happened”. We either turn to verbal diarrhoea at such times or find it impossible to say anything and avoid the bereaved like lepers from an alien zone.  Find a better and more moderate path.

When Mandela was in prison and received the shocking news that his son had been killed in a car accident, he lay on his back in his prison bunk felled by the news. His close friend came and sat beside the bed, saying nothing but holding his hand through the long dark hours. Knowing that nothing can be done to fix what has happened, one realises words will not suffice. Where there is love you must offer your presence and find ways to let that love show. In the most barren and stark conditions that seed of love must be sown and shown. Expect anger, pain and blame. Weather the storm. Those emotions are better out than in. Bare your share in respect to those who have lost so much and in honour of those who have passed on. Such tests assail the very soul. Find whatever nobility you can muster to hold the breech between what the bereaved cannot bear and what they must. Give yourself time to master such skills. Summoning the courage to step up when every part of you wants to run is vital. Whatever strength you find will build muscle memory in your own heart. Don't avoid it. Death comes to us all. Prepare yourself to be worthy of a good death. Both your own and those you lose along the way. 

PS I like this poem, below, by Maya Angelou on the topic.

When I Think Of Death

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.
I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.
I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.
Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.
I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'