Tuesday, September 25, 2007 at 2:02am
Saying goodbye to saying goodbye
Column: Writing Down Your Soul
We all say goodbye. In different ways, perhaps, but we all say goodbye.
If you were Jewish, you would sit Shiva and then you would say Kaddish every day for 11 months. If you were Muslim, you would bury your dead within 24 hours and then pray for 40 days. On the 40th day you would hold a ceremony to mark the end of mourning. If you were Hindu, you would carry the body counterclockwise three times around the funeral pyre and the closest relative would light the fire. When the fire died, you would release the ashes into a river. After a mourning period of 10 to 13 days, you would hold a ceremonial dinner and give money to the poor. If you were Greek Orthodox, you would mourn for 40 days. If you were Buddhist, you would pray for 49 days.
If you lived in the Middle East, you would cry out with pain, slap your face and rend your clothes. If you were a woman in early America, you would wear black for a year, and if you were a man you would wear a black armband. If you were a Cherokee son, you would carry your father's body on your back up into a tree and tie it there.
These are just a few of the thousands of clearly articulated spiritual and cultural rituals for saying goodbye. Each is unique and beautiful in its own way. But they all have one thing in common: They end. Some in just a few days, some after a year, but they all end. You are not supposed to mourn forever. It isn't healthy.
Today my mourning comes to an end. We buried my mother 11 weeks ago, and although there is no official mourning period in my spiritually and culturally diverse family, I am declaring it over — at least for me. Effective today, I have completed my mourning cycle. I feel good about this. There are no loose ends or untapped gifts. I am at peace.
But lots of people aren't. Lots of people never feel that "closure" that you always read about in the paper after a tragedy. Until I experienced a death, I never understood what that meant. Until you're in the pain, in the loss, in the emptiness, you have no idea what "closure" means. But everyone needs it. That's why cultures developed all those rituals and mourning periods. But closure doesn't come just because you said the prayers or went through the motions. Closure isn't a hall pass you get at the end of a set time period. Closure, I've discovered, is a feeling, a knowing, a sprinkling of peace that settles slowly and softly into your skin. It isn't anything anyone else can give you. It isn't bequeathed by ornately clothed priests or rabbis or imams or shamans. It isn't a magic potion. It doesn't happen automatically because you said some prayers or showed up at the right events. And it isn't something you can buy. Costly rituals are no guarantee of closure.
You can only find it.
How do you find it? Do the mourning. Do the work that your culture or your heart dictates. How do you do that? Pay attention. Linda in "Death of a Salesman" said it perfectly: "Willie Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall in his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person." (Act 1)
Attention must be paid. That's easy. Anyone can do that. Focus on the person who has died, and pay attention to who they were. Notice what they did. Remember what they wanted. Tell their stories. And as you speak, listen. Listen to the story behind their story. Listen to the sound of their soul. Why were they here? What did they do? And specifically, what did they do for you? I don't mean in the form of things paid for or things given, I mean how did their presence, their wisdom, their foibles and their woes mold you? How did their existence influence your existence? Perhaps they were a paragon of humanity and created a life to emulate. Maybe, but not likely. For most of us, the people in our lives are paradoxes. The blessings are always there, but they may not be well-groomed roses ready for the plucking. They are more likely to be wildflowers hidden among the weeds or seed fallen on the walkway. But the blessings are still there.
That's what my family and I did to mourn Laurene. We paid attention. We listened to the odd but precious things she said in her last months about going "over the river" and "up, up, up." We observed and honored the complete shift in her personality that dementia allowed her to experience. We prayed with her, her way. We talked about her and told her stories. We called together the tribe for a good Irish Catholic funeral. We buried her in sun and song.
And I wrote about her. I wrote about her every week for 11 weeks. In the course of writing, I discovered just how many gifts my mother had given me. Not a rose or two but a garden full! It took me a lifetime, however, to figure this out. At 15 or 25 or 35 or even 55, I would have told you that Laurene's gifts to me were mostly brambles. I would have stated rather vehemently that I am who I am because I choose not to be Laurene. It was only when I slowed down and paid attention to her, that I realized just how rich her legacy is.
For this I am grateful to the rituals around her wake and funeral. And I am particularly grateful that I took a nice, long period of mourning and in that time, I paid attention to Laurene. I thought about her every day. I prayed for her each morning and each night. I wrote about her in my journal. I talked about her with my siblings and friends. And, as a result of these columns, I talked to complete strangers about her!
Now, I am finished. Laurene is at rest and I am at peace. I am ready to say goodbye to saying goodbye to her. But I trust I will never say goodbye to what I learned:
Mourning is a good and holy and necessary process.
Every soul deserves attention.
Everyone is a blessing in our lives; it just sometimes takes a little digging to figure out how.
Goodbye is a natural part of the cycle of life; the new cannot come until the old passes.
As this goodbye season ends, I close the door softly and walk away, knowing I have mourned and mourned well. Now I turn my face into the wind of my hellos.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
If you were Jewish, you would sit Shiva and then you would say Kaddish every day for 11 months. If you were Muslim, you would bury your dead within 24 hours and then pray for 40 days. On the 40th day you would hold a ceremony to mark the end of mourning. If you were Hindu, you would carry the body counterclockwise three times around the funeral pyre and the closest relative would light the fire. When the fire died, you would release the ashes into a river. After a mourning period of 10 to 13 days, you would hold a ceremonial dinner and give money to the poor. If you were Greek Orthodox, you would mourn for 40 days. If you were Buddhist, you would pray for 49 days.
If you lived in the Middle East, you would cry out with pain, slap your face and rend your clothes. If you were a woman in early America, you would wear black for a year, and if you were a man you would wear a black armband. If you were a Cherokee son, you would carry your father's body on your back up into a tree and tie it there.
These are just a few of the thousands of clearly articulated spiritual and cultural rituals for saying goodbye. Each is unique and beautiful in its own way. But they all have one thing in common: They end. Some in just a few days, some after a year, but they all end. You are not supposed to mourn forever. It isn't healthy.
Today my mourning comes to an end. We buried my mother 11 weeks ago, and although there is no official mourning period in my spiritually and culturally diverse family, I am declaring it over — at least for me. Effective today, I have completed my mourning cycle. I feel good about this. There are no loose ends or untapped gifts. I am at peace.
But lots of people aren't. Lots of people never feel that "closure" that you always read about in the paper after a tragedy. Until I experienced a death, I never understood what that meant. Until you're in the pain, in the loss, in the emptiness, you have no idea what "closure" means. But everyone needs it. That's why cultures developed all those rituals and mourning periods. But closure doesn't come just because you said the prayers or went through the motions. Closure isn't a hall pass you get at the end of a set time period. Closure, I've discovered, is a feeling, a knowing, a sprinkling of peace that settles slowly and softly into your skin. It isn't anything anyone else can give you. It isn't bequeathed by ornately clothed priests or rabbis or imams or shamans. It isn't a magic potion. It doesn't happen automatically because you said some prayers or showed up at the right events. And it isn't something you can buy. Costly rituals are no guarantee of closure.
You can only find it.
How do you find it? Do the mourning. Do the work that your culture or your heart dictates. How do you do that? Pay attention. Linda in "Death of a Salesman" said it perfectly: "Willie Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall in his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person." (Act 1)
Attention must be paid. That's easy. Anyone can do that. Focus on the person who has died, and pay attention to who they were. Notice what they did. Remember what they wanted. Tell their stories. And as you speak, listen. Listen to the story behind their story. Listen to the sound of their soul. Why were they here? What did they do? And specifically, what did they do for you? I don't mean in the form of things paid for or things given, I mean how did their presence, their wisdom, their foibles and their woes mold you? How did their existence influence your existence? Perhaps they were a paragon of humanity and created a life to emulate. Maybe, but not likely. For most of us, the people in our lives are paradoxes. The blessings are always there, but they may not be well-groomed roses ready for the plucking. They are more likely to be wildflowers hidden among the weeds or seed fallen on the walkway. But the blessings are still there.
That's what my family and I did to mourn Laurene. We paid attention. We listened to the odd but precious things she said in her last months about going "over the river" and "up, up, up." We observed and honored the complete shift in her personality that dementia allowed her to experience. We prayed with her, her way. We talked about her and told her stories. We called together the tribe for a good Irish Catholic funeral. We buried her in sun and song.
And I wrote about her. I wrote about her every week for 11 weeks. In the course of writing, I discovered just how many gifts my mother had given me. Not a rose or two but a garden full! It took me a lifetime, however, to figure this out. At 15 or 25 or 35 or even 55, I would have told you that Laurene's gifts to me were mostly brambles. I would have stated rather vehemently that I am who I am because I choose not to be Laurene. It was only when I slowed down and paid attention to her, that I realized just how rich her legacy is.
For this I am grateful to the rituals around her wake and funeral. And I am particularly grateful that I took a nice, long period of mourning and in that time, I paid attention to Laurene. I thought about her every day. I prayed for her each morning and each night. I wrote about her in my journal. I talked about her with my siblings and friends. And, as a result of these columns, I talked to complete strangers about her!
Now, I am finished. Laurene is at rest and I am at peace. I am ready to say goodbye to saying goodbye to her. But I trust I will never say goodbye to what I learned:
Mourning is a good and holy and necessary process.
Every soul deserves attention.
Everyone is a blessing in our lives; it just sometimes takes a little digging to figure out how.
Goodbye is a natural part of the cycle of life; the new cannot come until the old passes.
As this goodbye season ends, I close the door softly and walk away, knowing I have mourned and mourned well. Now I turn my face into the wind of my hellos.
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.