A survivor friend once wrote to me about feeling “half-hearted” as she moved through her days a few years after her son’s suicide. I knew what she meant: the listless hours, the guilt or regret, the sense of detachment from purpose and pleasure. But I believe that over time, attending to and expressing our grief can ultimately allow us to revitalize our hearts.
My son’s
suicide in 2013 wrenched open my heart. I’d never felt it to be such a
vulnerable physical organ--bruised, shattered, deflated—as I did in the first
year or two after the suicide. I needed to restore my heart through whatever
healing practices and support I could find. “Let the heart lead the way!” a
yoga teacher urged and I was desperate to follow. My heart is newly attuned to
people who are suffering and more ready to reach out to them. Through
meditation, study, and prayer, I’ve been cultivating compassion and
lovingkindness in a way I might never have done without the trauma of this loss.
And I’m trying to grow a renewed capacity for joy.
You may
know the line from Psalm 126, “Those who sow in tears will reap in joy.” It
inspired a moving heart visualization exercise that I’d like to share with my
fellow survivors or anyone who is grieving. It was taught at an online meditation
session this month by chaplain Sabrina Sojourner, who began by suggesting that we bring in
our grief and give it our attention like one of the guests in Rumi’s guesthouse. Then she had us picture the heart
as a pocket, see what we find within it, and ask what that object has to teach
us. (You may want to try the exercise with the steps listed at the end of this
post before reading on.)
This practice was revelatory for me. I envisioned a dark
cave with a deep red velvet pocket covered by a curtain. I reached in past the curtain
to grasp a large heart-shaped stone like the one I keep by a photo of Noah in
our home shrine. Why is a stone in the pocket of my heart, I wondered? Is it
because I hardened my heart towards Noah when we were estranged and I couldn’t
face or understand the full extent of his suffering? Is it that I still can’t
quite penetrate to the heart of my failure to reach him in his darkest time—or
to self-forgiveness? Maybe all that, I thought. But this object also reminds me
that my love for Noah is as solid and enduring as a stone. And that my grief
for him still lodges in the innermost part of my heart. I thought of the many
times since Noah’s death that I’ve found or been given heart-shaped stones. When I hold this cool, cream-colored,
delicately veined stone in my palm and rub it against my heart, it soothes me. This
outward symbol of love in touch with my own reconstructed heart.
To my fellow survivors: What does your heart pocket look like and what might you find inside? I encourage you to try the visualization when you have a quiet moment. (I’ve listed the steps as I recall them; you might want to first audio record them for yourself with pauses between each one):
- Find a comfortable seated position
and begin a series of long deep breaths.
- Sit in calm silence for a while.
Settle into the stillness.
- Now imagine that your heart is a
deep pocket.
- Reach your hand into your heart.
What is the first thing you find there?
- Visualize taking the object out of
your heart and holding it in your hand. How does it feel?
- What is this thing trying to teach
you?
- Sit with that lesson for a while.
- Then slowly return the object to
your heart and let it fill your body.
- Put your dominant hand on your heart
and give it a little massage. Then take your other hand and cover the hand that
is already resting on your heart.
Thank you for this, since I lost my beautiful boy Gareth to his mental illness in March this year I have read many, many of your posts and frequently return to them for solace. So many unanswered questions, so much learned, so much knowledge I wish I had sooner. I spent 7 years trying to help Gareth climb out of the abyss, he had better times and i hoped he would emerge again as he was once. I understand better his difficulties and complexities now but we can never truly understand or know what is in the hearts and minds of even our own children. I read your thoughts in those early months in respect of how we as mothers are surely meant to provide our children with that resilience and we feel we have failed. I live in the UK my youngest son is married to an amazing girl from Oakland and her family are amazing. I will continue to turn to your beautiful posts for comfort, solace and one day I may stop searching for answers. Blessings to you Roslyn
ReplyDeleteDear Roselyn,
DeleteUnfortunately I know exactly what you mean by "we feel we have failed". May your son Gareth rest in the loving hands of God, together with Susan's Noah and my son David (March 20, 1998- May 15, 2018. I wish you every happiness and the ability to bless life.
Hi Roslyn, My condolences for the loss of your beloved Gareth. I know what you mean about all that knowledge you wish you'd had sooner -- also knowledge about how to manage their illness that we wish our kids had had or accepted. I'm glad if the blog is bringing you some light and comfort. All the best to you as you move through your grief.
DeleteIn shared sorrow, Susan
My dearest long -distance friend Susan,
ReplyDeleteThank you for this. The results of this practice were the following: The "pocket" contained a vast amount of useless clutter, broken stuff, old furniture, and the item I pulled out was a tiny, rusty and smashed children's bicycle. The bicycle was a verdict against me about the inexorable loss of childhood of my kids, of my clueless youth, of all the oportunities I might have to be a better mother. It also was a most welcome stab of painful tenderness for the little, sweet boy that used to be, that we thought will always be.
Aw bless you Vassiliki I too thought of my sweet beautiful gentle boy. I think we remember all the times where we feel we failed rather than all those times we put ourselves last on the list. Roslyn
DeleteHi Vassiliki, What a tender image to find the tiny child's bicycle in your heart after pulling out all the useless clutter and being reminded of your regrets. I hear your regrets and I understand. But what I see in your story is the sweetness of play and the innocence of childhood that lies at the heart of things when you remember David. I wonder what you might find in this exercise if you do it again in a few months? Don't be too hard on yourself!
ReplyDeleteMe agapi, Zoe/Susan