Wintering our Grief
Vol. 7
Winter light, temperatures, and landscapes set the perfect backdrop for grief. The light is dim and the days are shorter, darker, and colder. The trees have dropped their leaves and fields are fallow. A hush settles across the land interrupted only by the cry of the lone hawk, perched high in the treetops. For some, it is a peaceful and cozy time with fires burning and snowflakes falling. For those facing their first winter without their loved one, it can be a sad and lonely time.
It can also be a time of remembering old losses, triggered by seasonal associations. Opening up a box of Christmas ornaments, the first snowfall, the change in the air, or the quality of the light…any sensory association can elicit our grief. The triggers can be surprising in the first year, but as the years proceed, we learn to recognize them.
Our grief is more accessible in times of stillness. With fewer distractions, it finds an opening to walk through and say, “Hello, I’m here". There is no need to run. It is not here to bring you pain. It is simply here to visit, here to hold remembrance fondly. Grief is a reminder of love, an old and weary but wise friend who accepts the dark, nods to the sadness, and bows humbly to the yin and the yang, the light, and the joy.
We have had an unusual amount of snow here in Virginia this winter, with a steady white backdrop. A torn meniscus has limited my mobility, and I am fully “wintering”. I see my friends less often and notice nature more. I hear the wind, the drops of melting icicles hitting the tin roof, the hiss of the cast iron radiators. There are fewer birds visiting the feeders, but a new arrival, a Northern Mockingbird has arrived to entertain us.
Each morning as I open the blinds, and each evening as I close them, I nod to the rising and setting sun. I love the violet hues that hang in the winter air, especially at dusk. In those fleeting moments as the light filters through the windows, it suspends a softness over the rooms. It is a magical moment I enjoy every day.
My injury has afforded me time and presence, but it has also ushered in some unexpected dreams of past losses. Perhaps it comes because of sensory associations. Perhaps it comes now as I am older and entering the winter of my own life. Whatever it is, I find myself thinking of my grandmother and my father, of fond memories, along with my misgivings.
I was a teenager when my grandmother died, two weeks after Christmas. The January roads were hazardous, covered with sleet. At the age of 84, she was in a nursing home, struggling with diabetes and dementia. She had ceased recognizing us and the visits had become unpleasant. Due to bad weather and procrastination, no one in the extended family visited her on Christmas Day or over the next two weeks. How could we have let that happen? Did she know? Did she give up because no one came? Did she die broken-hearted and alone? I have apologized in my whisperings a dozen times.
I hold onto many fond childhood memories of her. As a small child, I felt her love and affection and I choose to believe that love lives on. I forgive myself for being a dumb teenager, preoccupied with teenage things while counting on the adults to follow through. For whatever reason they did not. In some dreams I rescue her. I rescue myself by rescuing her. But it is not the truth. “If only” is a useless regret that does not serve anyone. Remorse is a teacher whose purpose is to inform our future choices and actions to benefit our lives in new ways.
What can I do? I can share my story in hopes that someone else might learn from my mistake, and feel the urge to visit their failing grandmother. I can pray for her soul. I can hold onto the abiding love I feel for her.
My father died five days before Christmas. I was able to say goodbye in person, the week before. I drove up to CT and walked into his hospital room to find him attached to tubes and machines. His first words were, “You look good.” I burst into tears. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, nodded, and said, “I’ve had a good life.” He knew. He had struggled for 20 years with serious health problems and I had practiced saying goodbye countless times, each time thinking it would be my last.
He wasn’t quite ready to go, because he asked me where they put his shoes. He was scheming, plotting his escape. The doctor took my mother and me into a consultation room and said, “Now there are three major organ systems compromised. Do you want to sign a DNR?” I heard and understood, but my mother did not, and could not. She was focused on how to make their home accessible for a wheelchair. Shortly thereafter they moved him from ICU to a medical floor when there was little left that they could do for him. My mother kissed him goodnight and went home, saying she would see him in the morning. She did not. He took his earthly departure in the quiet of the morning light. It was a fitting exit for him, a man of few words, with a gentle footprint on the world. I was deeply saddened but not surprised, and I will forever hold the love that he, in his wordless way, extended to me.
We buried him on a cold and foggy Christmas Eve. The service was beautiful in its bittersweetness, as grief can often be. A gentleness hung over our broken hearts and lent itself to sweet unity.
The years go by and his love remains. With the foundation of love, we can more easily hold the sad and the fond memories in juxtaposition. Love can warm the winter day. Love will shine its light and sparkle through the snow-covered branches of the trees outside my window. The world will turn and the next season will inch forward. Grief will slowly and gradually abate. Spring will inevitably return.
Today, despite strong winds, the temperatures warmed up and there were hints of Spring in the air. It is probably just a tease to be followed by another polar vortex. But it was nice to sense the stirrings. Soon the tulip and daffodil bulbs will push through and the grass will turn green. The songbirds will return, along with the gnats, mosquitos, and stinkbugs! Neighbors will come out and chat across fences, and friends will request my company on walks. With time we find our footing. The sheer act of being alive will undoubtedly entice us into wonder once again. But not yet. It is still January after all. There is still time for rest and repair, time to putter, dawdle, and piddle about, time to eat our soups and stews, read good books, and trust in the natural resilience of our bodies.
Step outside and fill your lungs with a deep breath of the crisp winter air, and adjust your eyes to see the beauty that surrounds you. Enjoy this moment in some small and simple way. Allow yourself to dream about the possibilities of something new, whether it be big, or small. You still have some living left to do. There is yet some magnificence to behold. Trust that joy will sneak up upon you once again.