Two steps forward, one step back. That’s what this grief journey feels like.
The path is still so foggy, it’s easy to take an unexpected turn and find myself confronting a new thicket of wet foliage: vines to climb over, felled trees. But for days at a time I feel like myself–going about my routines, enjoying the company of family and friends, even plunging into activism and edging my way back to writing, On these days, I’m barely able to access what it feels like to be sad and worried. And then suddenly, it all comes tumbling down again. Sometimes, this is in direct reaction to a news story; other times, even more than dealing with pangs of grief from personal loss, I find myself tuned in to the suffering of so many–both here in the U.S. and abroad in war zones and elsewhere, and feel frustration and despair at being too paralyzed to be able to do anything about it. Too paralyzed, in fact, to be able to do much of anything at all.
As “weapons” (i.e. news stories) keep dropping, I imagine I’m not the only one feeling stunned as I try to claw through the rubble of what’s left and assemble some kind of structure and foundation that will hold up in the ongoing storm–a mindset to hang onto that can keep me going. However, in the past few days, a couple of things stood out that felt like beacons guiding me to a more hopeful space.
We were in New York City and I was walking with my mother to the bank through the neighborhood I grew up in, which has always felt oppressive to me despite its vibrancy. The streets are filthy with litter. Unhoused people sleep by the subway stairs and people merely step over them or walk around them. The housing is blocked from the sidewalk with iron gates, and whatever flowers are blooming are encased in tiny concrete-bordered yards. Yet, my mom, who is 91, has found intimacy and support in the neighborhood’s underpinnings. She stops at the taxi stand on the corner to greet and introduce me to one of the drivers, who knows her by name. Then she greets the mail carrier, expressing delight that he’s recovered from his illness and is back on his regular route. And the bank teller warmly smiles at her in recognition when she enters, making me feel like I’m in a smaller close-knit neighborhood, rather than a large impersonal city.
It’s not clear whether everyone who lives here for a long time has a similar experience, or if these small connections are directly related to the way my mom takes on the world. She has said many times that one of the most important tips for a happy life and marriage is to always be kind. And I have witnessed the benefits of that kindness from the number of people ranging from contractors to close friends who’ve told me they love my mother and would do anything for her.
Truly, that’s a good tip–holding on to kindness and making it front and center as my mom continues to do, even as she struggles with her own grief at losing her life partner after 72 years, a grief that is even heavier and more profound than mine.
We also went to buy flowers for the yard–four generations of us: me, my mom, my daughter and son-in-law, and my 2-year-old grandchild. As we meandered through the aisles of colorful blooms, and then loaded them all into my daughter’s station wagon, I thought, this is what we need to do. Somehow, we need to keep things growing. Even if my mother’s yard is small and gated like all the other yards on the block, there’s hope in those flowers. And kindness in sharing their beauty with the people walking by, both those she knows and those she doesn’t.
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