The Rules of Engaging Grief

It is amazing to me how after a loss the path of recovery leads through a terrain
of silence where you might experience a connection to your interior that was missed
under other circumstances. At the prompting of an upcoming meeting with friends to
discuss grace, I wrote the following poem — the fruit of that terrain of silence.

“Grace Amazing”

Grace is the wind suddenly stirring throughout my heart,
A brilliant dawn climbing over what seemed a bleak landscape
To steal my astonishment and wonder in prayer,
A star necklace that falls in surprise place around my neck.

Grace is a strength unbidden that overwhelms my hesitation,
A stillness that calms the clatter of my mind,
A pause unplanned that brings teaching to my soul,
Compassion hidden up until then within my daily tasks.

Grace is the great joy that shreds pain and suffering,
Companionship of like travelers who in union seek you,
Direction to negotiate the sometimes arduous ascent,
Nourishment to sustain my resolve in parched terrain.

Grace is the water swirl that envelops me in your waves,
Deep laughter that resounds above global turmoil,
Tenderness that touches me amidst dark violence,
Faith that greets your presence daily in my life.

Joyce Kornblatt begins her article, entitled The Sacred Task of Grief, that appeared in
Winter 2006 edition of Parabola (www.parabola.org), with these words: “Grief is a good teacher.
It arrives with loss and remains faithful until we have absorbed its lessons.”

If that line does not reach you, how about this from the same article which I heartedly recommend to you:

“Grief is an invitation to open the twinned gifts of love and death, to take into our hearts at last the
preciousness of each dying moment, the sacredness of each fleeting breath.”

I just returned from a weekend at a Trappist Monastery in the Washington, D.C. area with two close friends.

In the moments of silence — and there were a few — I considered grief’s teaching and wrote this poem to
hint at what I learned and am learning.

“Ice Dance”

The arena is dim
When he arrives,
Laces up his skates,
Moves unsteady to ice.

Freshly mirror swept,
It glistens moist
Under the light of a sole bulb,
Dangling from the rafter.

He circles the rink
In ever expressive patterns –
Hands cautiously held out
To snatch flight or cushion fall.

Conversing with himself
Words and breathing sound
As echo companions
Within an empty cavern.

More confident now,
He glides darkened
Corridors in shadows
Formed on the ice.

His blades cut through
Like once the cut of grief –
Clean, deep, precise,
Serving a now clearer purpose.

The wound still healing,
He fingers the ridgeline
Of his soul and feels
Its tenderness – especially on Mondays.

In the gathering speed
He turns about,
The rush of wind
Upon his back.

He banks left then right
Then back again
Shifting his weight as
His arms catch the breeze.

Music sounds within,
He regrets not his sweep
Alone and lonely
On this deserted ice field.

On cue lights flood above
A warm golden glow,
Dissipating shadow,
Dispelling shiver cold.

This time, arms poised
To fly — he turns to face
Future and smiles conscious of
The mystery of life, death, and life.