Getting to Know My Friend Grief
My friend Grief is a shape shifter. She’s the sudden rush of a flash flood, the silent owl hunting. She comes out of nowhere and throws me off centre. Today I visited a place where my dog and I often walked. While I’ve been there several times since she died without experiencing any strong emotional reaction, today was different. My friend Grief took over, her intensity around a 6.5 on a 10-point scale.
I observe the thoughts that invited Grief in. I think of the hundreds of times my dog and I walked this route; how she liked to sniff at the corner and check out the willows, how she greeted regulars along the route. Nostalgic thoughts, wishing for the past. Then, spring will soon be here and my dog won’t sink her nose into the musky smells under the receding snow, we won’t be together to watch the trumpeter swans returning or feel the crisp spring wind in our faces. I wilt under the sorrow and yearning for an imagined future, no longer possible.
I practice observing my friend Grief and opening to her. When she pops in unexpectedly, I notice a shuddering in my chest and feel that choked-up gasp in my throat just moments before tears wash my eyes and face. The shutter and gasp are my embodied contractions tied to old stories about grief. I wonder: is the contraction meant to hold the pain in or keep it out? Maybe both.
My body has armoured itself against Grief. Who really wants to feel the deep, sharp pain of loss? And in spite of the progress we’ve made on accepting emotional expression, is it really safe to show strong emotions? It feels risky.
Thankfully, I have safe places to let out my sadness: journaling is second nature to me, and then there’s the handful of people who open themselves to me, allowing me to open to them.
The physical contractions, the shuddering of my chest and the catch in my throat, these attempts of my body to keep the pain in or out are remnants of old stories that tell me to “control” my emotions, that “I should be over it by now.” “She was just a dog.” “Get on with it.” “Keep busy.” Sometimes these stories can serve me, in small bites, but mostly they just prevent me from feeling, acknowledging, accepting, and making friends with Grief.
In my Aikido practice, I get to observe how my body contracts when under threat. I say threat, though in reality no one is truly threatening me. My nervous system still interprets the action of my partner grabbing my wrist as a threat, and I am learning to notice the contraction, then shift my being from contracting under the grab to staying open to it. The sensations of openness allow me to stay connected to my partner, which also means I remain more aware, more creative, more open to the information coming from my partner, and more proactive.
This practice also happens to be good for getting to know my friend Grief: when I shift from contraction to openness, Grief doesn’t hold me, we simple move together. She spreads out through my chest, my throat, sometimes my temples. She takes in my expansion, my openness, and then she goes, leaving me with a gift: the profound experience of deeply feeling what truly matters.
The thought-emotion-physical contraction trio, so quick and intense, has had its moment. New thoughts arrive. My dog loved this trail, she rolled in the snow over there. She was such a great dog. In this moment I experience gratitude for her companionship and love. My breathing flows easily through my throat and chest and into my abdomen. My torso expands and relaxes. I feel open and loved. My friend Grief will be back another day, I’m not sure when, she’ll pick her time. I’ll be open to her gift.
