My dad passed away almost ten years ago and I'm still pissed off about it.
Not all the time, and it's now more subtle than it used to be but it’s still there. Sometimes, I find myself envying friends who have their fathers with them. Other times, I see strangers at their grandchildren's soccer games and wonder if they all know how lucky they are. Other times, I'm mad at my father's doctors for not being more perceptive in the last week of his life. Some days, I'm just angry that my father isn't here.
Many times since I lost him, I've had to contend with the sobering realization that life will never be as good as it was when he was here. It can’t be. It will never be that complete. That kind of wholeness can simply not return. Little by little though, that knowledge yields less anger and more gratitude. I’m thankful for the grieving now because it’s a reminder that I have known someone worth missing. Yes, my world now is a less-than version of the one where my father was alive—but that doesn’t mean it still can’t be and still isn’t beautiful and meaningful and punctuated by moments of awe and thankfulness.
There are moments on the grief journey when our hearts feel lighter, even for a while, when we suddenly know that we have regained a bit of ourselves, when a sense of normalcy comes. I call it a clearing in the grief valley: a place we come to where we can see more than just the grief, more than just the darkness, more than merely the absence. It is different for each of us and we find ourselves there on very different timelines but the clearings do come.
Gratitude is a clearing. When we find ourselves being thankful for something we’ve accomplished in the wake of our loss, for an experience we’ve had, for a simple dinner with friends, or perhaps for the person we’ve lost or the road we’ve traveled to get to where we are. That gratitude is a sign of healing.
Hope is a clearing, too. Gratitude is past and present focused, a reverence for what led us to this place in time but hope propels us forward. Hope says that there is goodness still in the windshield and not just the rearview mirror. When we begin to make plans for the future, when we find expectancy about something coming, it’s a sign that our hearts are mending enough to want to keep going.Reclaiming our shared history is a clearing. For a while after losing someone we love the things we once loved together can become triggering. Songs that used to remind us of them, restaurants we loved to go to, shows we used to watch, or places we’d visit or even the place where we live can be too much for us, the associations too strong. But at some point, we realize that these things no longer bring sorrow but peace, and we find that expansive space again.
Feeling joy is a clearing. Sometimes our healing comes when we can laugh again, when our hearts are capable of that kind of lightness, when our sense of humor returns as surprisingly or suddenly as it left. Laughter is a reminder that we have arrived at a place where we are again buoyant enough internally to feel joy despite how heavy our loss has been.
There’s an old saying, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, (though I’ve always preferred: what doesn’t kill me can sure beat the s**t out of me). It’s a way of speaking to the reality that the painful things we go through renovate us in meaningful ways but that renovation can be invasive. You are here because you’ve been through something terrible, something painful or stressful or sad; something that caused you to despair or made you struggle or shook you to your core; something that caused you to think, even for a moment: “I don’t know if I can make it through this.”
This is true for each of us in the people we lose and the injuries we sustain and the attrition we experience and the existential crises: we will not always be in the valley.
We aren’t destined to stay in the darkness for good.
Celebrate the clearings when you reach them and if you’re still waiting, be encouraged.
One is coming.
Where and when have you experienced a grief clearing? Let me know in the comments.
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