Gratitude is not only about awareness of what we
have but about the acts of receiving and giving. All of us who've lost loved
ones exchanged many gifts with them over the years; we carry their legacy with
us. We’ve received comfort from others on our grief journey. And in spite
of bereavement, or because of it, we’ve managed to give to others.
I learned a Kundalini yoga gratitude practice today that
symbolically balances giving and receiving. If you'd like to try it: Sit cross-legged on the floor or in a chair in a quiet space. Take a
few deep breaths in and out through your nose. Turn your palms up and bring
them together in front of your heart in a cupped shape with the little fingers
lined up and touching. Look into your cupped hands as you gradually straighten
your arms out in front of you on the inhale (giving); then bring them slowly
back to your heart on the exhale (receiving). Repeat with the inhale
(arms/hands out) and exhale (arms/hands in) for a few minutes. Pause and feel the effects of the exercise.
The exercise was well-timed for the day before Thanksgiving
when I happened to be thinking of my reaction to hurtful remarks by two relatives at
a family gathering. After my husband said something at the event about losing Noah, a young
father nodded and said it had been a hard year for his family; they’d had
to end a pregnancy for medical reasons. Was he equating the abortion of a fetus
to the loss of a child we’d raised and loved for 21 years? I was incredulous
but silent. “You may not believe this,” another relative said as she launched into
a long story, “but when I heard about Noah’s suicide, I was jealous of you
because at least you know where your child is. Mine has problems and we’re
estranged.” She has no idea what it’s like to know your child is in a box in
the ground and the only place you can “visit” him is the cemetery. But then, I’ve
never had to deal with a series of crises that robbed me of contact
with a living child.
These family members didn’t mean harm. Maybe they were even trying to connect in a sort of confederacy of loss. When
we’re in pain, we can be consumed with the enormity of it and each live in our own
private hell. There is no hierarchy of grief.
Still, I wanted to share the two remarks with my support
group, knowing they’d understand. The facilitator asked if anyone at the event
had shown sensitivity and concern for my husband and me. Yes, my sister-in-law
gave me this precious photo of Noah and me, and a few others asked how we were
managing. Why do I forget the kindness and focus on the slights? Why do I allow
myself to feel like a victim and an outsider again?
Careless remarks remind me that I can
still feel broken, shamed, and isolated by suicide loss, even as I rebuild my life.
They also remind me that if I’m learning anything from all this, it’s to try to bring compassion to
a world of suffering—and to stop long enough to be grateful for the good I’ve
received.
It's getting a little easier to say: I am grateful for the love I gave and received with my child.
May you breathe in blessings this Thanksgiving.
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