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Grief is inherently isolating.
A friend is going through it right now, and is frustrated at all of the I'm here if you need to talk, because grief takes away all the words. What is there even to say?
What everyone wants to say is I'm here; I've been there. But when you're going through it, it sure as hell doesn't feel like anyone else is here.
I can't say this to that friend, because everything except (maybe including) I'm here is the wrong thing until it's not, so I guess I'll tell you: The Buddhist parable of the mustard seed.
A woman lost her only son, and desperate in her grief, came to the Buddha asking for him to be returned to her. The Buddha agreed, if she could bring back a mustard seed from a household that hadn't known death. She went door to door, begging for help, until she realized there was no family that hadn't lost someone.
In the proper Buddhist telling, she has an epiphany about impermanence and the nature of reality, the first step towards enlightenment. You know, the official point of the story from the religion's point of view.
What many people get from the story, though, is the reminder that we're not alone in our grief. She hears it over and over until she actually hears it; it's community that pulls her out of her isolation, by wanting to help her with her grief, but only being able to share theirs with her.
This is the second birthday that my older sister isn't here to share with us. Soon, it'll be my second birthday without waking up to a call from her singing happy birthday at me. I still can't find words to talk about this. (Admittedly, the world being a dumpster fire isn't helping.) But I'm still here, and I know you've been here, too.
A friend is going through it right now, and is frustrated at all of the I'm here if you need to talk, because grief takes away all the words. What is there even to say?
What everyone wants to say is I'm here; I've been there. But when you're going through it, it sure as hell doesn't feel like anyone else is here.
I can't say this to that friend, because everything except (maybe including) I'm here is the wrong thing until it's not, so I guess I'll tell you: The Buddhist parable of the mustard seed.
A woman lost her only son, and desperate in her grief, came to the Buddha asking for him to be returned to her. The Buddha agreed, if she could bring back a mustard seed from a household that hadn't known death. She went door to door, begging for help, until she realized there was no family that hadn't lost someone.
In the proper Buddhist telling, she has an epiphany about impermanence and the nature of reality, the first step towards enlightenment. You know, the official point of the story from the religion's point of view.
What many people get from the story, though, is the reminder that we're not alone in our grief. She hears it over and over until she actually hears it; it's community that pulls her out of her isolation, by wanting to help her with her grief, but only being able to share theirs with her.
This is the second birthday that my older sister isn't here to share with us. Soon, it'll be my second birthday without waking up to a call from her singing happy birthday at me. I still can't find words to talk about this. (Admittedly, the world being a dumpster fire isn't helping.) But I'm still here, and I know you've been here, too.