I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether,
could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—
on the causeOf early hurt,
if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There ’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call “despair”;
There ’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
Emily Dickinson (1830-86)
In his book "Necessary Endings", Psychologist Henry Cloud says, "endings
are a natural part of the universe and your life and business must face
them, stagnate or die. They are an inherent reality... there are
different kinds of endings... learning how to tell one from another will
ensure some successes and prevent many failures and much misery, ending
substantial pain and turmoil that you or your business may now be
encountering... be comfortable and confident in seeing, negotiating and
even celebrating some endings that maybe a door to a future brighter
than you could have imagined."
I
am not a fan of change. Celebrating endings is a new notion for me
because most endings, for me, signify sadness, pain and loss.
In his book Callings, Gregg Levoy says, "Death is a threshold experience, as are callings , and it's not uncommon for people to take stock before proceeding".
The common theme with them both is that for something new to start, something old has to end, or as this case may be... die.
As
i contemplate and prepare for my own funeral for class this week, and
think of my eulogy, i realise a common thread in different areas of my
life right now. I have just petitioned to graduate from my master's
program in four months, so that journery is coming to a close. In my
sculpture class i am working on a sculpture piece in memory of my
mother. And as i curve out her face, i remember her, i speak to her
leading to the longest artmaking project i have ever done. And then the
subject this week in my counselling class is grief: mourning the losses
in my life.
In my counselling class,
my teacher used the Christian story of Moses to create a strong visual
illustration on the subject. She asked us to imagine Moses' mother
weaving the basket that she would hide her son in, to imagine her pain,
her fear, her sorrow and then placing her little baby in that basket and
trusting him to the treacherous, predator-ridden waves of the river
Nile. Imagine her prayers, her grief, her loss. But then on the other
end of the river is Pharoah's daughter who recieves this unexpected
gift, this bundle of joy. The moral of the story? I need to put my
"basket" into the "Nile". I need to open my clenched fists and let go of
the "dying" things i am holding tightly onto, and open them to recieve
the new.
When i see pattern, i know when to take a hint.
It is time to grieve and celebrate the endings and open my arms out to new beginings.
